immigrant

Living and Loving in Dos Lenguas

mandy — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 08:00:00 +0000

Janet Romero-Leiva is a queer, feminist, Latina visual artist and writer whose work explores immigrant displacement, denied aboriginality, queer and of colour existence, living and loving in dos lenguas, and the continuous intersection of identities that shape who she is and how she moves in this world. Janet immigrated to Canada at the age of seven and has since been trying to find her footing between America of the north and America of the south. She loves smoothies and cartwheeling, and can often be found reading children’s books at the Toronto Women’s Bookstore.

Why did you start writing poetry?

It was by accident; I didn’t really know that is what I was doing, but I started writing because I felt a need to express and somehow release things I was trying to make sense out of—like my queerness, my feminism, my latinidad, and my experience of being an immigrant child.

What is your writing process?

I write a lot when I am trying to sort something out—a thought, a feeling, an experience. Mostly it’s from a feeling of discomfort or confusion. I will usually sit with the feeling for a while before I write about it and will usually write down a line or two so I can revisit it when I feel capable of going back to that discomfort. When I do go back to it, I write about the experience itself, what feelings came up for me and when I have felt this before. Then I edit until I manage to capture the feeling more than the actual experience.

Who are your influences?

Chrystos was the first poet I read that made me think I could write too, so I obviously love her. Also Gloria Anzaldua, Cherrie Moraga, Audre Lorde, Qwo-Li Driskill, and Lee Maracle.

You used to manage the Toronto Women’s Bookstore. What is lacking in the publishing world?

The publishing world is lacking feminists, queers, people of colour, trans people, working class people, folks with (dis)abilities, immigrants, and older people's writing. A big problem is that the majority of people in publishing are not the people on this list, so they don't see a problem with this. It’s not that no one is publishing people of colour, queer people, etc. It’s that the big publishers and bookstores make it very hard for the independents to stay in business. I think another factor is that, because we have not seen ourselves represented in literature, it is hard to imagine that this can change, so part of it is believing that this is possible for us.

What role do you see poetry having in activism?

I equate poetry with activism. We need to hear/know/understand the world from various perspectives, and I think poetry allows us to express and hear things in a way that traditional methods—like speeches and academic writing—do not because it evokes a feeling, and when you leave a talk/conference/march you will forget the words you heard, but the feeling will stay with you.

What advice do you have for young writers, women of colour writers, and queer writers?

Keep on writing, regardless of what people say—good or bad—and continue to write what you need to write. Share your writing. If no one hears what you have to say then it is only you who will benefit from your work, which is great and important as a growing and learning tool, but it is also great for us to hear you, to normalize our reality, and be an influence to others who may not have the words to express the many wonderful and difficult things we live.

Read the full interview at Black Coffee Poet

Written by: Jorge Antonio Vallejos, November 20th 2010

Broken Glass Park

caitlin — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Alina Bronsky

Europa Editions

Broken Glass Park is the tough story of a young girl whose upbringing and current life situation is hard, to say the least. After a former abusive boyfriend murders her mother, Sascha has to take care of her younger siblings with the help of a guardian she doesn’t particularly respect. From her point of view, we’re taken through her grieving, her distrust and hatred of men, her failing schoolwork, and her experience as an immigrant. There is a lot going on in this novel, and sometimes I did wish that it would focus a bit more. Then again, this is also what made it such a fascinating read.

Sascha finds herself in strange situations, and many would probably categorize her as self-destructive. She befriends a newspaper editor who feels bad enough about her mother’s death that he offers to help in any way he can. Suddenly, she’s staying with him and his son, and caught up in her own weird love triangle.

Even though this serves as the main plot, there are other things that happen to her throughout that are also strange and somewhat unbelievable. I don’t want to give too much away, but I will say that some of these are created by her rather than things that simply happen around her. In that way, I understand why some people feel that her character is unsympathetic, but I think they don’t fully appreciate how deeply she is affected by everything going on around her that she doesn’t have control over.

The story is surprisingly violent, and there is one scene in particular where it almost feels gratuitous. But the violence works because it is authentic and symbolizes the turmoil that Sascha is going through. In some ways, the story reminded me a bit of Stieg Larsson’s Millenium series. It is not nearly as violent and doesn't tell the same story, but the female protagonist in both struggles with issues of trust, violence against women, and being an outcast. In that sense, I came away from Broken Glass Park with the same feeling of sympathy and empowerment that I felt after reading The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.

The story may not be completely original, but it still captivated me and held my attention so closely that I read it in a day. As is often the sign of how much I enjoy a book, my biggest complaint was that it was too short. Just as I was hoping that Sascha’s life would take a turn for the better and that she would reclaim it for herself, the book was over. I can only hope that the author revisits this girl’s story so that I can get wrapped up in it all over again.

Written by: frau sally benz, September 28th 2010

Forget Sorrow: An Ancestral Tale

admin — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 16:00:00 +0000

By Belle Yang

W.W. Norton

I jumped at the chance to review Forget Sorrow: An Ancestral Tale, an unconventional graphic memoir from writer/artist Belle Yang. While I am no expert on graphic literature, I did devour Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis series. With this medium, I enjoy (and envy) the way an artist can show emotions through inked illustrations, and use words more sparingly. Further, there is an intimacy created on the page, because the typeface and conversational style evoke a personal journal lying on a nightstand.

Yang is a Chinese-American woman, and her story, in part, tells of the identity struggles she experiences in separating from the Chinese traditions of her immigrant parents. When she travels to Beijing for art school, Yang has a chance to learn cultural history while not being bound to it.

At the outset of her tale, we see the source of Yang’s title: her Chinese name, Xuan, means “Forget Sorrow.” When Yang was thirty years old, she sought shelter from a violent boyfriend by moving back to her parents’ home. While there, she began to give shape to her father’s childhood stories in Japanese-occupied Manchuria, World War II, and Mao’s Great Leap Forward. Yang writes, “I have a voice in America. I won’t waste it.”

The art in Forget Sorrow is tender, powerful, and moving. One ink illustration that stands out is Yang’s nightmare about her abuser, which captures a feeling of stark terror. In contrast, Yang’s illustrations also evoke tenderness between father and daughter, a feeling of comfort for him as he shares painful memories.

Yang’s story demonstrates ways in which strength comes from relationships. Her father’s tales are painful at times. Under communism, family relationships were made subordinate to party affiliation. Important aspects of tradition, such as honoring elders, did not apply if those elders were deemed to be landlords or capitalists. The political side of Yang’s family story makes it very clear that social change should not come at the cost of human life or dignity.

Through telling her family’s story as well as exercising her voice and her artistic vision in Forget Sorrow, Yang found new freedom. As a writer, artist, and woman, she shapes her own future.

Written by: Lisa Rand, August 23rd 2010

Beauty

admin — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Raphael Selbourne

Tindal Street Press

Beauty is the outstanding first novel of British author Raphael Selbourne, winner of the prestigious 2009 Costa First Novel Award (formerly known as the Whitbread Literary Awards). The novel’s plot is seemingly predictable–an illiterate girl runs away from an abusive home where she had been forced to marry a much older mullah (religious man) at the age of fourteen. However, Selbourne’s pen transforms the story into an insightful glimpse into British-style multiculturalism and immigration, from the point of view of a young woman. Beauty Begum’s tragic tale is one of a young immigrant woman doubly alienated by her family and her environment.

Beauty's timely publication in 2009 is worthy of note, given the paranoia and terror surrounding the tragic London bombings in 2005 and the overt racial profiling that has been ongoing in the Western world. Writer and filmmaker Hanif Kureishi (himself a Whitbread prizewinner) had previously focused in on the immigrant experience and depicted the struggles of Muslim immigrant families in Britain in his screenplays for My Beautiful Laundrette and My Son the Fanatic, for example. Selbourne’s novel can be seen as a valuable continuation of these themes.

Although Beauty never directly addresses the reasons and context for the racism it exposes, it presents us with diverse xenophobic scenarios that are all equally deserving of consideration. It also brings to light the very complex circumstances of women immigrants, domestic abuse, and the everyday struggle of women who are caught between lived tradition and modernity. The author, previously a student of Islamic Studies, is clearly knowledgeable about the topic, a fact that counteracts any reservations we might have about the author’s being just another patriarchal gaze on the “subordinate.”

Selbourne’s secondary characters are rich in detail and complexity. From Mark, the gruff bloke who takes Beauty into his dog-infested home, to Peter, the newly single, perverted neighbor who fantasizes about seducing her, all the characters are cleverly constructed. However, Selbourne’s tour de force lies in his depiction of the feminine psyche. Beauty is very much a convincing female character, of the depth and quality that I had previously only encountered in Roddy Doyle’s Paula Spencer from The Woman Who Walked into Doors. The writer’s sensitivity is key to developing a plausible protagonist.

Raphael Selbourne establishes himself in the proud tradition of English-language writers who manage to paint realistic and tender portraits of specific social groups. Having lived in West Midlands teaching English, he captures the much-ridiculed West Midlands accent in his writing in the same way Roddy Doyle captured the Irish brogue in his novels. Selbourne’s Bangladesh-born Beauty speaks a drawl that is perfectly representative of the West Midlands (UK) setting of the novel. Furthermore, the author scatters Bengali terms in the novel, such as Beauty’s interjections, or explanations for her reactions, thoughts, or actions. Admittedly, Beauty is occasionally an exercise in reading; one must decipher, literally, the spoken language that the author has committed to the page. However, do not let this dissuade you from reading this engaging and thoughtful novel.

Written by: Sophie M. Lavoie, June 27th 2010

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

admin — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 03:15:00 +0000

By Jamie Ford

Ballantine Books

Some of the best American literature tells the story of the immigrant experience. Numerous writers have written about the sense of loss both material and psychological that comes with leaving your country and everything that is familiar to start a new life. Many of the characters in these novels never seem completely at home in their new land, but they soldier on for economic reasons, or because they’re committed to making a life in this new world

Equally compelling is the story of first-generation Americans who have one foot in the modern world and one foot in the past. Henry, the protagonist and narrator of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet is first introduced to us as a fifty-six-year old man who has recently lost his wife to cancer after caring for her for seven years. Henry has taken early retirement from his job at Boeing Field to care for his wife, Ethel, and now his life seems empty and purposeless. His college aged son disapproved of his decision to care for his wife at home rather than placing her in a nursing home that would have provided round-the-clock professional care givers and is emotionally distant from him, and Henry seems alone and disconnected in the world.

Henry, who is Chinese American finds himself pulled back into the past when he walks past a large crowd that is gathered at the Panama Hotel in what used to be known as Nihonmachi or Japantown. In the midst of a major renovation of the hotel, the belongings of twenty-seven Japanese families presumably interned during World War II have been discovered in the basement of the hotel. Until this time, Henry has managed to keep the memories of that difficult time at bay, but the discovery of these treasures leads him to begin searching for a rare jazz record that also symbolizes a lost childhood love.

As the novel effortlessly moves between the narrative voices of the older Henry and twelve-year-old Henry who came of age during World War II, we learn what life was like for a young Chinese American boy growing up in Chinatown. Henry’s father is a nationalist who hates the Japanese for their aggressive military incursions into China and is a respected elder member of an association in Chinatown that is actively supporting the war effort in China. Because he wants his son to become fully Americanized, Henry can speak only English at home although his parents can barely understand him. Henry also has to wear a “I am Chinese” button whenever he leaves the house so he won’t be taken for being Japanese. Henry looks Chinese, but thinks like an American, which only leads to a sense of double isolation. He is literally isolated from his parents because they won’t let him converse with them in their native language and he feels isolated at the all Caucasian school where he is “scholarshipping” because the children taunt him for looking different.

Enter Keiko, a Japanese American girl who begins scholarshipping at the school. Henry and Keiko have an almost instant bond. Suddenly, working in the cafeteria and serving meals to his fellow classmates isn’t such a trial. Henry’s parents don’t approve of his friendship with Keiko—in his father’s eyes, Henry is a traitor for befriending the enemy. Henry finds a welcome ally in his friendship with Sheldon, a saxophone player and street performer who Henry gives his lunch to every day on the way to school. In the midst of all of this, all persons of Japanese origin (including American citizens) are evacuated to internment camps and Keiko’s family is eventually relocated to a camp in Idaho.

Once I started reading this book, I found myself pulled into the story and the historical details of these events that are often glossed over in historical accounts. The author writes compassionately about the experiences of Japanese families during this time. His vivid descriptions of Japantown and Chinatown transport the reader back in time to a difficult period in American history. Henry’s lifelong friendship with Sheldon and his love of jazz are a continuous thread in the novel along with Henry’s undying love for Keiko. I especially liked the characters of Sheldon and Mrs. Beatty, the woman who manages the school cafeteria and becomes an unlikely friend to Henry. Does Henry find Keiko after all the years of separation? You’ll have to read the book to find out.

Written by: Gita Tewari, February 5th 2010

La Americana

admin — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 17:34:00 +0000

Directed by Nicholas Bruckman

People's Television

This review will probably be a bit dated, as Nicholas Bruckman’s 2008 documentary appealing for more welcoming U.S. immigration policy has been superseded by our new president’s openly liberal views on the issue. However, La Americana still manages to be refreshing, ambitious, and important, particularly for those who are still skeptical of Obama’s stance or who simply don’t know much about the immigrant experience.

Bruckman makes a valiant effort to de-generalize the issue or, rather, the people it affects most, by focusing on one woman’s journey to the U.S. as an illegal immigrant from Bolivia. Her story is not the one to which we are accustomed: Maria does not come to New York in pursuit of some variation on “The American Dream;” she is only there in the hopes of making enough money to cover medical expenses for her daughter Carla, who was left paralyzed by a bus accident as a young girl. Ironically, Maria’s need to take care of her daughter ends up being somewhat of a detriment to their relationship, as it keeps them apart for several years.

For a film that’s bookended with two liberal quotes on immigration—the first by JFK and the second by Obama himself—La Americana is surprisingly unbiased in its presentation. Though Maria is a special case and certainly doesn’t represent all the illegal immigrants in New York City, let alone this country, her story is told in such an unadulterated manner that I wasn’t left feeling manipulated or like I was being pitched a political ideal.

It only helps that Maria herself is quite relatable and likable; she speaks candidly and without a speck of naïveté, so much so that even in spite of her situation, we never pity her. When she moves back to Bolivia on Carla’s quinceañera, we are finally able to see the awful living conditions her family endures there, but Maria never breathes a word of despair. She says nothing of how poor the available health care is there—we see it for ourselves, as she is forced to carry Carla up flights of stairs to the doctor’s office.

Unfortunately, the money Maria saved up in the States cannot sustain her and Carla for more than several months, and it is with a world of regret that she must move back to the U.S. It is at this point, at the end of the film, that we are reminded of Bruckman’s agenda, but not by Bruckman himself; it is Maria who pushes for change, eloquently expounding on what the term “American” means and what it should mean.

As I watched Maria tearfully explain that all Americans came from immigrants, I was surprised to realize that I’d never been allowed such emotional access to an illegal immigrant before. Bruckman has done something truly revolutionary by concentrating on this woman’s story: he’s personalized a group of people that has typically been pluralized and portrayed as a single mass, a collective “issue.” With the help of his film, perhaps those who still have trouble breaking that convention will at least begin to see illegal immigrants as people rather than a problem.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, August 27th 2009

Underpass

admin — Wed, 11 Jul 2007 23:22:00 +0000

Directed by Rain Breaw

Underpass is a fifteen-minute film about a Cambodian family (survivors of the “Killing Fields”) trying to survive in the USA while also assisting an illegal immigrant, possibly from Mexico. It is about trying to stay sane in a violent world. It is about trying to play by the rules, and still be humane. It is about living with your nightmares.

There is a brilliant colorful thread, which runs throughout this story – the art of the main character, Sann. His art is illegal. He paints pictures under a bridge, hence the title Underpass. What he paints is both beautiful and horrible. He is trying to live with his memories of Cambodia. The resolution, and how the boy comes to terms with his memories of the Cambodian “Killing Fields,” is within his artwork under the bridge! We, the viewers, see the drawings come to life. We see the people killed; blood is spilled. You soon realize that the animation is Sann’s artwork. It is the plot of the film unfolding.

Sann’s mother, who runs a doughnut shop in San Diego, is trying to help an illegal immigrant. The boy wants to turn the illegal immigrant in, but his mother believes “others helped us survive. We should help others…” His mother and sister get along well in the community. There’s a police officer, who comes to the store and talks to the mother. He is also a Cambodian native. He is supportive of the mother, but Sann is hostile towards him.

The conflict within Sann’s psyche is interesting. He is fighting the system (painting his graffiti), and yet combating his memories. Why would he want to turn in the illegal immigrant? Is he afraid of the system here? For someone who lives with the scars of what war and government does, it is a little strange that he would want to turn in this immigrant. However, at one point - and this is depicted in the artwork - Sann finds peace. He regrets that he called the authorities. He tells the immigrant to run. Why Sann makes this impulsive decision is not clear. He begs his mother’s forgiveness, and she does forgive.

My only real problem with this film (besides hating to see bloodshed) is that sometimes the characters mumble. However, that also makes the film more “real.” Real people do not speak clearly! Rain Breaw attended, as she puts it “one of the most diverse schools in the country.” Almost every student in this high school has experienced war and genocide, firsthand. Underpass is loosely based on Breaw’s experience at this high school.

Breaw has produced numerous short films, including the award winning Thermopylae and Archer House. Presently, Breaw and her writing/producing partner, Julie Sifuentes, are working on two feature film projects: Bearing it All and City Heights.

I would recommend Underpass because it is a reminder of what America really is – a melting pot of different cultures. Since the birth of this nation, we have been a nation of immigrants. It’s ironic, don’t you think, considering the present day conservative backlash against immigrants? Watch Underpass for a glimpse of the real USA.

Written by: Patricia Ethelwyn Lang, July 11th 2007

Bento Box in the Heartland

admin — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 19:11:00 +0000

By Linda Furiya

Seal Press

Bento Box in the Heartland is a memoir that uniquely ties in the cultural experiences of protagonist and writer Linda Furiya with the foods of her Japanese heritage. Wedged between each chapter is a recipe of some of her favorite dishes, such as Chinese Home-Style Tofu and Japanese Pot Stickers. Heavily permeated throughout the book are perspicuous references to food and the passion she and her family has for their delicacies, which keep them grounded in their Japanese culture. Thus is the reason that her book is cutely labeled as a food memoir.

As Linda reflects upon the struggles and duality of being raised in a Japanese-American house in a small Indiana community – what she refers to as “Whitebread America” – a number of issues are raised. She challenges the idea of gender roles from an early age as her mother raises her to perform domestic tasks, such as washing dishes after dinner, a chore that her father and brothers are never directed to complete. The inevitable run-ins with racism are also written about, due to belonging to one of the only minority families in her community. Written about are events from people's intolerance and misunderstanding of her parents’ accents a to recounted story about a misogynistic war veteran with no shame in sharing his blatant objectification of Japanese women.

As the pages turn, they alternate from being charmingly sweet to serious with emotion; however, Linda’s voice is carried out fairly casual throughout the book. This memoir is purely to share individual experiences, rather than to tackle and attack systems of oppression and discrimination. The discrimination the author and those close to her encounter are due to subtle, socially permeated racism more so than direct attacks under institutionalized racism and sexism. Written safely and unprovocatively, it is an easy, light read that explores the challenges of being raised in a mélange of two cultures.

Written by: Yujean Park, April 9th 2007