Happy 101st Birthday to Akira Yoshizawa - Origami Grand Master

Thank you to Google for its March 14, 2012 Google Doodle that reminded me of Akira Yoshizawa's 101st birthday. Though I've always enjoyed origami, before today, I never really thought about who inspired its popularity.

Happy birthday, Yoshizawa-san!

Thinking about origami reminded me of a trip my mother, sisters and daughter took to Japan a few years ago.







There, we visited the Hiroshima Peace Memorial.

Of course I'd read the history of Hiroshima. But, even six decades later, the vision of what remains of the damage is startling. My first reaction was to deny to myself that our nation could have been responsible for such destruction. But of course, how could I deny it?

As we walked around the memorial site, a group of Japanese boys approached us, and asked if we would let them walk with us and answer any questions we might have about the memorial. It was a part of a school project they said.

At first, it was difficult to communicate, as they knew little English, and we knew even less Japanese. But as we walked around, I was surprised to find how much we were able to communicate with gestures and expresssions.

We came upon a beautiful memorial called the Children's Peace Monument, also known as Tower of a Thousand Cranes. We read the information and the boys further explained its story.

Sadako Sasaki was two years old when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. Ten years later, she died of leukemia.  During her illness, she folded origami cranes in hopes they would help her recover from her illness. After her death, the Children’s Peace Monument was built. In the years since, thousands upon thousands of visitors from all over the world have  hung origami cranes, each a wish for peace.

Click here for more information on the Children’s Peace Monument  at Hiroshima.

Today, when I found these reminders of origami, I wondered why I hadn't included anything about origami in Broken Dolls. 

I guess that's one good thing about it not being published yet. It's not too late.

Not a Sorry Samurai

For those of you following me on my path to publication--a journey fraught with sharp turns, obstacles to trip over and plenty of crossroads--here's a tale of one of my "creative" marketing attempts.

As a writer--one who is supposed to be creative--I am forever "thinking outside of the box" when it comes to getting word of my writing "out there"--something beyond the usual Facebook and Twitter promotion. So, when my friend and fellow author, M.G. Miller, informed me that George Takei, a former internee of Rohwer, (where my Broken Doll characters, Sachi and Nobu were internees) would be narrating with the Little Rock Symphony, I decided I had to attend. Later, another writer friend, Bud Hanks, sent me an email with additional information about George Takei's appearances in Arkansas.

It seemed the forces were with me. Oops. Wrong movie.

If I could only have the chance to talk to Mr. Takei . . .

I knew my chances were slim, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Once I purchased the tickets to the concert, my question then became, "How can I be gain the attention of George Takei in a bold (my friend, Ruth Weeks, calls me Samurai Jan), yet dignified manner? (I am half-Japanese, after all, and my misbehavior could potentially embarrass not only my mother, but many generations before her.)

• Sit in the front row, flashing the Vulcan salute?
• Wear a Trekkie outfit?
• Paint my face like a geisha?
• Tattoo "I need to talk to you" on my forehead?
• All of the above?

Okay, those were bold ideas, but hardly dignified.

So, I here's what I decided to do:

• Wear my evening jacket, cut from a genuine kimono, purchased in Japan.
• Bring a copy of the Ramblings Yearbook, (1945) from Topaz War Relocation Center, where my mother and her family were internees.
• Bring a synopsis of my book . . . just in case.
• Bring business cards . . . just in case.

Ruth and I sat in the front row, center seats. When the time came, Mr. Takei walked onto the stage, and I turned to Jell-O, almost like when I watched Michael Bolton walked onto the stage many, many years ago.(However, I didn't scream uncontrollably with Mr. Takei. I might have, but that would be undignified.)

Unfortunately, we were sitting so close to the stage that Mr. Takei's placement for his narration was blocked by conductor Philip Mann's pant leg. I strained to move around that pant leg to see Mr. Takei, knowing that if I couldn't see him, he surely couldn't see me. But, too much straining would look . . . well, undignified.

When his beautiful and moving narration was complete, Mr. Takei left the stage. I slumped in my seat, no longer concerned about looking undignified.

Philip Mann and George Takei

Then, the orchestra began to play Beethoven's Symphony No. 9, Ode to Joy. It was as though the sun began to shine again. A full symphony and 400+ voices, all conducted by the passionate movement of conductor, Philip Mann.

For more than an hour I had chills over the beautiful sounds of the orchestra and choir, recalled my days as a flutist and sat on my hands to keep from mimicking the conductor. On the way home, Ruth and I stopped for dinner and talked about everything under the sun.

In the end, the glow of Mr. Takei's Japanese dignity, melted my boldness like the sun melts the snow. But my path to publication is also lined with many flowers, and yesterday was one of them.


How could I be a sorry Samurai?

Stories to Honor Black History Month

In honor of Black History Month, I am offering two of my short stories on Smashwords for free. These are stories that were inspired by two characters in my book, Broken Dolls: Sachiko Kimura, a young Japanese-American internee, and Jubie Lee Franklin, a black girl who lives in the town near the internment camp.

Xs and Os

In this Pushcart nominated story, Jubie meets Sachi, and they find though their skin color is different, they have something in common.


Click here to go to Smashwords for free download.

The Red Kimono

Life is pretty dull at the internment camp in Rohwer, Arkansas, and two girls couldn't be more different than Sachi and Jubie. That is, until something magical happens. 


Click here to go to Smashwords for free download.




I hope you will enjoy the stories of Jubie and Sachi. I've had many "conversations" with these two young girls, and their friendship demonstrates what could be lost if we judge a person by the color of her skin.

Secret Saturday - 2/4/12: "Closet Secrets"

Well, I'm a day late with my new feature, "Secret Saturday," because the Internet Squirrels quit running at the farm yesterday. But, now that I'm back in the virtual world again, here we go:

I love secrets. I love to hear them, and love to tell them . . . to the right people. I see secrets as tidibits, juicy morsels of information that bring us closer to each other.

So, I decided to start a new feature, "Secret Saturday," where we can all share a little secret. It doesn't have to be a big secret, just anything we might not already know--about you, about history, about the world. Share a secret from your childhood, if that feels safer. Or a secret recipe. Or, what the heck . . . give us a whopper.

In Broken Dolls, when my character, Sachiko, finally reveals who she "really is," she writes this haiku:

A porcelain mask

Once broken, but now removed

My true face revealed

We can all remove our masks, even in tiny ways. It can be fun, but it can also be freeing. Share something with us . . . anything. And feel free to share a link to your own website or blog, too.

By the way, did you know that on average, a woman can only keep a secret for 32 minutes? Read about it on the Huffington Post. Click here.

THIS WEEK'S SECRET:

When I was a young teenager, I had a secret place where I went to write things that I didn't want anybody else to know. But today, I'll take you with me, back to my house on Coolidge Street in California . . . to my bedroom . . . into my closet. There, behind my hanging clothes, I would write on the wall. Yes, the wall, where I wasn't supposed to write, which made my secret place all the more delightful, all the more mine.

Of course, as a young teen girl, most of what I wrote was who I had a crush on:

J.M.

+

R.R.

But I also wrote down my dreams, wishes and other things I thought people would think silly if they knew. I wished my parents would not argue. I wished we didn't have to move to Japan. (That wish came true, but now I wish we had moved there -- an experience lost.)

I wrote down my anger about things I couldn't outwardly be angry about, like every time I wanted to scream at my mom for grounding me.

After I'd written what I held inside, I moved the clothes back in place, and my closet held my secrets safe. When it was time for me to leave home, I took a big, pink eraser, shoved the hanging clothes aside, and erased what I'd shared in my secret world.

I don't know if anyone ever knew about that tiny place where I spilled my heart, but I suspect not. I was a typical teenager with sisters and a brother, and that information was too valuable not to use as ammunition against me in sibling battles. None of my co-combatants ever used it against me. So, either they never found it, or they had bigger hearts than I gave them credit for.

Telling Tuesdays 1/31/12--"She felt sick."

Welcome to Telling Tuesday, a day reminiscent of those in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought for show and tell. This weekly feature was inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander. Feel free to use the prompt, or the photo (if a photo is shown.) Of course, if you have a completely different "telling" prompt, you can "show" us that, too.


As always, I invite you to leave a link to your website or blog with your comments.

THIS WEEK'S PROMPT:
The other day, for some unknown reason, I began to feel sick to my stomach shortly after eating lunch. Thus, my prompt for this week. To "show" feeling sick, I've used an excerpt from Broken Dolls. At this point, I'm not sure if I'll use in the final draft of the book or not.

She felt sick.

Sumiko clutched her stomach and knew she must be an awful shade of green. She’d had morning sickness before boarding the ship, but comparing that to the queasiness she'd felt since the Korea-maru left Yokohama was like comparing waves on a shore to a tsunami.  Whether she was standing or sitting, awake or asleep, the room rolled left and right, up and down. There was no way to escape it. And how could she possibly hover at the edge of retching once again? Surely by now, her stomach was completely empty.

Chopsticks trembled in her hand as she forced herself to take another bite of rice. She could not risk losing the child growing inside her, the only part of Taro she would ever have.

Morrill's Monday Morning Mashup - 1/30/12

MASH-UP

A creative combination

or mixing of content

from different sources.

For me, the past week has been full of writerly challenges. First, after a series of editing back-and-forths with my editor for Broken Dolls, I'd begun to have some concerns that the Japanese culture and the "little girl' nature of my character, Sachi Kimura, were being taken from the story. It was a tough decision, fraught with indecisiveness and fears that my editor had a world more of experience than I, and that I was giving up. But finally, by mutual decision, we ended our editorial relationship and wished each other the best.


Of course, that leaves me with the question, "What now?"


Second, because I had been so devoted to the editing process, I had decided not to enter any of the contests for the Oklahoma Writers' Federation 2012 Story Weaver's Conference this year. But, after the events referenced in my first paragraph, I decided--five days before the deadline--that I would pull together some stories and send them in. Good thing I work well under pressure.


Here are a couple of articles I found that helped me along the way this week:

C.S. Lakin

Once again, Jane Friedman to the rescue. If you haven't yet begun to follow her blog in one of the ways given in last week's mashup, you're missing out. I found useful information on the editing process in two posts this week. On JaneFriedman.com, Jane's guest blogger, C.S. Lakin, posts the article, "Four Ways to Find the Right Editor." Ms. Lakin's article provides good information, as well as links to other helpful sites. But it was in something she said about "fit," that brought me some comfort:

"Sometimes the fit just isn't right."

http://janefriedman.com/2012/01/30/4-ways-to-find-the-right-freelance-editor/

Jane Friedman

One of the links that Ms. Lakin refers the reader back to is Jane's article "Should You Hire a Professional Editor?" This post lists three elements that explain why hiring a professional editor sometimes leaves her feeling "less confident about an author's work."

http://writerunboxed.com/2010/03/19/should-you-hire-a-professional-editor/

Kristin Nador

For those of us who are challenged with keeping up our blogs, Kristin Nador has an excellent series called "Sharpen Your Blogging Habits." From finding your audience to amplifying your blogging voice, she gives step-by-step ideas on one of the best ways to build your social network.

http://kristinnador.wordpress.com/2012/01/23/sharpen-your-blogging-habits-golden-rule/

QUOTE OF THE WEEK:


You must meet the outer world
With your inner world or
Existence will crush you.


      -- Mark Nepo

Morrill's Monday Morning Mashup - 1/16/12

MASH-UP

A creative combination

or mixing of content

from different sources.

In recognition of Martin Luther King Day, I reread the text of his famous August 28, 1963 "I Have a Dream" speech that he gave in Washington D.C.:

Perhaps the most publicized line from his speech, and the one I remember best, is:

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

Beautiful, yes, but when I read the entire text, I was awed by the breadth of Dr. King's wisdom, and particularly, how much of it still applies today:

"We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. They have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone."

# # #

Thank goodness for our dreams. As a writer, I'll admit, I sometimes daydream about my book, Broken Dolls, being made into a movie one day. (Click here to read a post on that daydream.)

So, though I had planned to post BookRiot's blog article on "Why Books Make the Best Movies" before the broadcast of The Golden Globe Awards, it is all the more appropriate now, because The Descendants, a movie based on a book by Kaui Hart Hemmings, won Best Picture.

Ms. Hemming's story (as told in the Garrett on the Road blog) is the stuff of dreams. But, I have to say, I was disappointed as I listened to the producers and directors accepting their awards last night, because Ms. Hemming's recognition as the author was only an afterthought, and barely captured before the award winners were cut off.

Where would all of them be had it not been for the story Kaui Hart Hemmings created?

# # #

Every Tuesday, I have a feature called "Telling Tuesday," where I give a "telling" prompt, and ask my blog readers to "show" the scene, to use all five senses to "put us in the scene."

The article "Showing vs. Telling - When Telling is Okay," (J.A. Bennett's blog) suggests that "showing isn't perfect 100% of the time," and gives several examples. The article (and its comments) is a good reminder not to go overboard with "showing."

  http://www.j-a-bennett.blogspot.com/2012/01/showing-vs-telling-when-telling-is-okay.html

# # #

And on the same subject of "overdoing it," this brief post, "Something Should Remain Unsaid," on the Advice to Writers blog, reminded me of a critique I once received, when a wise-beyond-his-years young man told me, "Trust your reader. You don't need to tell him everything." As a hands-on-Type-A-control-freak writer, I understand that my natural inclination is to guide my reader through each line of my story, to tell him what he should be thinking and feeling. After that comment, I realized I need to "let go and trust" in my writing.

It's something I could probably stand to do in my real life, too.

Telling Tuesdays 12/20/11

Telling Tuesday. Reminiscent of the days in school when I used to look forward to seeing what everyone brought for Show and Tell and inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."


It's one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I give a "telling" prompt, then invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.


12/20/11
Last week I drove by my old house in Tulsa. My old home. I lived in that house for 25 years - raised my two children in it. Because it is around the corner from my parents' house, I see it each week when I go back to Tulsa to visit them. That house became a part of me, and when I left it for the last time . . . well, here's this week's telling prompt:

Her mind filled with memories as she shut the door.

Following is an excerpt from Broken Dolls. In this scene, Sachi and her family prepare to leave for the internment camp, taking with them only what they could carry. I began the scene with a haiku I wrote, based on how I felt when I left my house in Tulsa:

My house is empty

But memories will remain

Echoes in my heart.

It was almost time to go. Sachi listened to Mama’s heels tapping on the floor as she rushed around the house for a final check before they’d leave for good.

Tap, tap, tap, tap. Silence.

What did Mama think about as she walked into the kitchen? The living room? The bedrooms?

Tap, tap, tap, tap. Silence.

Sachi did her own wandering, drifting from empty room to empty room, trying to gather memories to hold. Each footstep echoed on the hardwood floor, and she too stopped walking to remember: Getting mad at Taro because he kept winning at jacks. Watching Papa build a fire in the fireplace. Even practicing her dreaded dance lessons in front of the mirror was a good memory now.

The government might be able to limit the number of suitcases they could carry, but they couldn’t make her leave her memories behind.

The hollow echoes swallowed her. She paced around her bedroom, running her hands along the pink walls. Step, step, step, step – like the heartbeat of her home. When they left, the heartbeat would stop.

Mama called from the hallway. “It is time to go.”

Time to go? Time to go? Her heart ached. She didn’t want to leave her room. Her house.

Mama called again. “Did you hear me? It’s time to go.”

Nobu peeked into her bedroom. “Come on, Sach. It’ll be okay,” he said, leading her out.

When Mama closed the door behind them, Sachi squeezed her eyes and thought of all the times she’d heard that door shut before. The fall mornings when she left for school. The evenings when Papa arrived home from work. The afternoons she returned from playing and Mama told her not to slam the door.

Mama wouldn’t have to worry anymore. She’d never slam it again.

Your turn! I can't wait to experience your character's memories of a home.

Telling Tuesdays 12/6/11

Telling Tuesday. Reminiscent of those days in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought to show and inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."

It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

This week's prompt came to mind when I watched the first snowflakes of the season fall yesterday morning:

It was snowing.


I'll go first. This is an excerpt from my manuscript, Broken Dolls. In this scene, on the anniversary of her father's death, 10-year old Sachi has been running from something all day, trying to keep a thought from coming to consciousness. Here's part of that scene:

She started to run, as if she could escape the thought. But it was too strong this time. There was nothing to drive it away. It burst into her mind, full force. She stopped. Breathless.

If you hadn’t begged Papa to take you to the park that day, he might still be alive.

Tears burned her eyes. It was her fault. She covered her face with her hands, hoping darkness would hide her from the bitter realization. It didn’t. There was no escape from the flood of emotion. The dam had burst.

Mama had warned them—told them it wasn’t a good idea to go to the park that day. Papa had probably agreed, but he took Sachi anyway.

It was her fault.

If she hadn’t dragged Papa there, those boys wouldn’t have found him. And if Mama and Nobu blamed those boys, surely they blamed her, too. It all happened because of her. Her fault.

 I’m sorry, Papa.

Something cold tingled on her hands, trickled down her collar. She took her hands from her face and opened her eyes.

White flakes drifted all around her. Landed on her eyelashes. Her nose. Her tongue.

Falling, falling.

Softly.

Gracefully.

Unbelievably quiet.

     Snow! Her first snow.


Your turn! I'm watching and waiting to experience your snow scene.

Unhyphenated Patriots

While in Los Angeles last week, I visited the Japanese American National Museum, something I've wanted to do since beginning to write Broken Dolls.

Japanese American National Museum

Before going inside, we walked around taking pictures. Thankfully, we noticed a sign that said "Go For Broke," with an arrow pointing away from the museum. Knowing my Uncle Yoshio served in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, (Uncle Yoshio's Honor) I wanted to see the memorial. So we turned in the direction of the arrow and headed about a block away, toward a large, black semi-circle monument.

Uncle Yoshio

On the front of that monument, the first thing I read was what President Truman said to the Japanese-American veterans upon their return from war:

"You not only fought the enemy--you fought prejudice and won."

The curved back of the monument is covered with over 16,000 Japanese-Americans who served in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, the 100th Infantry Battalion and the lesser-known Military Intelligence Service.

As I searched through the names for my uncle's, a Japanese man approached me and asked if he could help. He gave us a brief history of the monument and pointed me in the direction of a computer that would help me locate Uncle Yoshio's name.



Then, I found it.

I stared at his name, Yoshio Sasaki, thinking about what it must have been like to fight for a country that had "relocated" his family (my mother included) to internment camps surrounded by barbed wire.

Following is an excerpt from an article in the November 2, 2011 edition of the San Francisco Chronicle:

While undergoing training, Susumu Ito would visit his parents and two sisters 200 miles away at the Rohwer Internment Camp in Arkansas. Despite the injustice of being forced to relocate from Stockton, Calif., Ito said, his parents took great pride in their son fighting for the U.S. military. However, he ignored his mother's request in her weekly letters to avoid hazardous duty. He said he wanted to be on the front lines, as did his peers. The motto of the 442nd was "go for broke."

After reflecting at the site of the monument, we went into the Japanese American National Museum. There, I came upon a barrack that had been relocated to the museum. I stared through gaps and knotholes in the boards that left little privacy for the families that had lived in the tiny, primitive spaces. I imagined my mother as an eight-year old, peeking through those spaces as she searched for any source of entertainment. Then, I imagined her mother scolding her, trying to explain that each family deserved privacy.

As we walked around looking at fascinating memorabilia, an elderly Japanese man approached us. He introduced himself as Frank Omatsu, and asked if we'd be interested in hearing more about the displays.

Mr. Omatsu told us he had been in the Military Intelligence Service and had served in Burma, translating and interrogating. His family had been interned in Arkansas, where my character, Sachi, and her family were interned. (Click here for a blog on Rohwer, Arkansas.) I had not heard of the Military Intelligence Service before then, and was fascinated by his story. I imagined what it must have been like to interrogate "the enemy" while his family at home was considered "the enemy."

Mr. Omatsu told me other things I had not known before: that the 442nd rescued the Lost Battalion, suffering over 1,000 casualties (200+ dead, 800+ injured) to rescue 216 men trapped behind German lines; that attachments to the 442nd liberated several of the concentration camps near Dachau; that over 300 Nisei (second generation) women served in the Women's Army Corp.

How lucky we were to be approached by this proud and humble man who so generously shared the history of this time with us. I have done much research in writing Broken Dolls, but reading words does not compare to hearing stories in the voices of those who experienced history.

Mr. Frank Omatsu

Yesterday, November 2, 2011, Congress held a Congressional Gold Medal Ceremony to honor the Japanese American veterans of World War II. At last, the men who fought not only the enemy, but prejudice, have been honored.

C-SPAN video of the Congressional Gold Medal Ceremony

How Rambo Helped Me Find My Groove

Though my annual trek to Eureka Springs is always filled with learning and laughter, I wondered if I should skip this year's Ozark Writers Conference. We are leaving for Thailand tomorrow and items on my Things-To-Do-Before-I-Leave list keep popping up like dandelions in springtime.

But the keynote speaker was David Morrell, creator of Rambo, as well as dozens of other bestsellers, and I am always drawn to successful authors who are willing to share their experiences and knowledge with fledgling writers. Still, after attending countless conferences and listening to many authors—and with my Things-To-Do-Before-I-Leave list looking like a field of yellow weeds—I wondered if I'd learn anything new.

Fortunately, I decided to attend and keep an open mind. You see, Mr. Morrell and Rambo gave me an "aha moment."

He told us about his history--about his abusive stepfather and his resulting troubled youth. He described his fascination with the 1960's television series, Route 66 and how it led to his interest in writing, which ultimately inspired him to contact co-creator and screenwriter for the series, Stirling Sillliphant. Mr. Silliphant replied, establishing a path that would lead David Morrell to become the writer and man he is today.

So what was my "aha moment?" The theme of Mr. Morrell's discussion was to pay attention to our daydreams. He told us that in those daydreams, we would see the theme that would open up our writing. Mr. Morrell talked about his fear, even despising, of his stepfather, and described some of his daydreams and fantasies that reflected those emotions. As he spoke, I stared out the window and began to daydream about my daydreams, wondering what about their central theme.

Then, it hit me. The "aha moment."

Of course, because of its very nature, I hesitate to say, worried that one will think it silly or dumb, or simply too plain. But it's the truth, and that is a part of what hit me. My daydreams, as well as almost everything I write, has the theme of wanting to be understood, and once understood, accepted. We all need to break out of the cocoon--what others expect us to be--to free ourselves to become who we truly are.

I wrote a haiku as the opening to my short story, "The Butterfly's Song," which won 2nd Place for the Showcase Award at this year's conference.

A caterpillar

Crept along her timid path

Until she grew wings

"The Butterfly's Song" is a short story taken from my novel, Broken Dolls, in which each of my three characters, Sachi, Nobu and Terrence, deal with the back and forth struggle of being understood and accepted. Two will find success in that truth, and one will not.

Sometimes, the shell of my cocoon is so thick and stringy, it chokes my writing. But upon hearing the courage in David Morrell's presentation, I realized if I withhold my truth, whether in my life or my writing, then any misundertanding of who I am is only my fault.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of thanking David Morrell. Funny, before this weekend, I would never have dreamed I'd have any reason to thank Rambo. But I do.

I would love to hear from any other conference attendees who may have had an "aha moment." Or, if you didn't attend the conference, what is the single thread that weaves through your daydreams?

The Color of a Voice

Can an author write a point of view voice that is not hers? I used to think so, but the more I write and the more think about it, I wonder.

If a point of view cannot be written with the introspection and intonation of a different culture, does that mean the character should not be written at all by someone outside of that culture? Is there nothing to be gained by the thoughts expressed, even if they fall short?

Broken Dolls and Broken Dreams are both multicultural historical novels. The main characters are Japanese-American and African-American. So I first asked myself these questions when my critique group told me that my Black character did not sound Black. I struggled mightily with Terrence, a Black teenager in 1940's California. Not only did I need to develop a Black voice, I also needed to sound like a teenage boy. How does one outside of a culture develop a voice that is realistic, yet not offensive to those within the culture? It was a challenge, and only time will tell if I met that challenge.

I pondered the question further after the release of the movie, The Help, when I read that many in the Black community were not satisfied with how a White woman, Kathryn Stockett, wrote the Black maids. When I posted my blog, The Help-A Multicultural Perspective, and read the posts of my Black guests, I saw several different perspectives of that era and of what it is like to be Black--perspectives that had never entered my mind before.

That made me think about how a Caucasian author would write the point of view of a Japanese-American. I thought about philosophies of the Japanese--gaman, shikata ga nai--philosophies that a Caucasian may not know or understand. Still, Arthur Golden, a Caucasian male, was successful with Memoirs of a Geisha.

Writing outside of one's culture is the best way to learn about other cultures, if done thoughtfully and with research. But does that mean the character can be written effectively? Though a writer in all likelihood cannot perfectly create a character outside of her culture, is that reason enough not to write the story? Personally, I believe it is better to learn and understand even a little, than not to try at all.

The Help: A Multicultural Perspective

"Be curious, not judgemental."

I open this blog with the above quote from Walt Whitman, because it was out of my curiosity that this post was born.

Several days ago, I happened upon a discussion of The Help on Facebook. The status of my friend was simple: The Help: I'm pissed. That began an enlightening conversation between several people on Facebook.

At first, I'll admit I was very hesitant to add my own comments, because I did not want to offend anyone with the fact that I enjoyed the movie and felt it had some benefit to showing viewers a piece of history. But I decided to add my comment, and I am happy I did, as I have made some new friends, but more importantly, have seen their perspectives.

I was intrigued because in various discussions on television and radio, I'd heard that some in the Black community were not happy about The Help, and I wanted to know why that was.

Also, Broken Dolls, deals with the theme of prejudice during the Japanese-American internment. In my book, prejudice threatens to destroy Nobu (Japanese-American) and his friend, Terrence (African-American). Yet, it is friendship that changes the lives of Sachi (Japanese-American) and her friend, Jubie (African-American).

I'll admit, I originally read The Help to try to get "the voice" of a Black person, after being told by some in my writing critique group that my Black character didn't sound Black. But I became engrossed in the book beyond the "sound" of the voices - I was drawn into each character.

I watched the movie and felt even more sorrow for that era, when Black people were treated with such disrespect. That women could trust their children to the care of women they couldn't even share their bathrooms with--so sad.

Yet, it wasn't until I read the Facebook posts that I realized I had no real concept of just how sad that history is. Honestly, I have never really had an open discussion with anyone in the Black community about what kinds of prejudice they or their families have experienced. I've only read about it in history books. To hear what prejudice is like from people I know was a real eye-opener.

In The Help, I also watched the destructive power of peer pressure in the actions of Hilly and her friends. At the end of the movie, I saw in the eyes of Elizabeth Leefolt that she knew what she had done was wrong, yet she couldn't bring herself to stand up against her friends. In many ways, we've come a long way, but in the way that peer pressure makes us to do things we know are wrong, we still have a long way to go.

So, though this is a long blog entry, I believe it is an important one. I hope you will read each person's perspective, and I hope you will feel free to leave your comments.

Thank you, Donna, Cyndie, GPhillipD, Edward and Michele for your open and honest discussions of your perspective.

Donna

Donna grew up a military dependent. She lived the majority of her formative years on or around military installations from Texas to New Hampshire, and in Spain and Italy where two younger sisters were born. Her family relocated to California where she attended high school and received a BA in Business at St. Mary's College, Moraga Campus. Currently, Donna is pursuing a Masters in Legal Studies from Kaplan University. She is the mother of a 23 year old son who attends South Carolina State University's Masters in Engineering program, is married and resides in Charleston, SC.


Donna's Perspective:
Before viewing the movie, I was full of anticipation fueled by my sisters and niece who raved so much about the book. When the opportunity arose to see the movie, I initially watched with no "real" feelings one way or another. As a matter of fact I was more amused by the script than anything. I guess subconsciously, I was picking up on subtleties, but primarily, I just thought, yes, they probably did ignore a lot of what was being said until they got together and laughed at their employers behind their back.

It wasn't until the bus scene where a weary Aibileen and friend were told to get off the bus because “some nigger" had gotten killed that I suddenly became emotionally upset. That nigger turned out to be Medgar Evers. A respected figure from the 1960's Civil Rights Movement, not just ole Bubba from down the street. It hurt me to think that all Black people were and are cast into the same pot, indistinguishable from a slave to an educated War Veteran who had fought valiantly for the United States, only to be executed by a White Supremist.

I cried.

I cried, not because I was sad, rather because I was mad…Pissed is the better word. I’m pissed off because of all the hate filled attacks on churches, homes and businesses and on people who through no fault of their own look, or think, or worship differently but who know and accept that life is not ours to take or hinder, rather understand vengeance belongs to God. I cried for all the mothers whose sons and husbands were murdered, children and wives raped, for the verbal and physical abuses Black people have had to endure for the sake of having a job, being able to go to school, shop in a store, or simply walk on a street.

I remain upset enough to cry because sometime after seeing the movie, I remembered a scene from my own life. I often say I have not been exposed to such overt racism during my lifetime, but I remembered being in second grade living in Amarillo, Texas where my father was stationed in the United States Air Force. I had befriended a little white girl who had come to my all black Parochial School to act in a Play. Our friendship was instant and she asked if I could come over one Saturday to play in her Doll House. A real Doll House. Are you kidding? I begged my mother who agreed and the little girl’s mother picked me up. We had played for several hours and were only interrupted by her Maid who came to gather her for lunch. As I tried to follow behind, I was told, “Oh, not you honey, you have to eat out here”. I was confused…but I ate my lunch and waited for my “friend” to come back to play. I don’t recall if I ever mentioned this to my mother back then but I do know it wasn’t until I was an adult those memories came back and I asked my mother how she could have subjected me to such treatment. I don’t know if she truly didn’t recall the incident, thought it privilege that I had been invited to a rich white person’s home, or was embarrassed that the event took place at all.

At present I am trying to read the book. Good as everyone says it is I am struggling to pick it back up after having read just a few chapters. I’ll get through it I’m sure, but the history is getting in my way. I can’t take it as fiction, embellished or not.

Cyndie

Cyndie has over 18 years of experience in the NGO sector in the United States, Australia, Thailand, and now India. Her expertise lies in program development and marketing, communications, public relations and graphic design. This toward helping NGO’s find their voice and expression in a challenging and ever-changing socio-political and economic climate for nonprofits, both large and small. Visit Cyndie at her blogs: www.cyntaxcoatings.com/himumbai 
www.foundation.cyntaxgroup.com/
 www.yc3.org/

Cyndie's Perspective:
I recently saw the film 'The Help' at the suggestion of a friend who read the book, which I did not. On the surface, I thought it was a thoroughly enjoyable film, perfectly cast, and in whose subject matter I have taken a keen interest throughout most of my adult life in my pursuit to somehow, in my own small way, influence the collective consciousness on issues of social justice and human rights.

Aside from the authenticity of the characters and the (IMHO) superb acting, the film affected me on two levels. First, I was reminded of my one and only experience of having 'hired help' in our young family during our father's service at Hamilton Air Force Base in Bermuda in '61, '62, and '63. For some reason, I remember more about my life during this brief period than almost any other time in my childhood and I can honestly say I attribute this to the joy brought to our lives by our maid Cinda. I didn't know much about her life outside of her time spent at our home, but remember her to be such a source of lovingkindness and laughter in what was an otherwise unstable home life, with my mother left to her own devices to raise her four young daughters, my father gone much of the time hunting hurricanes and conducting other weather reconnaissance missions for the U.S. Air Force. I remember looking forward to the days she came to our house, knowing that for those hours she was with us, we would be showered with her attention and affection, and I still recall being left with a feeling of loss at her leaving us at the end of her work day.

There was a purity to Cinda that even at my young age I could sense - she was bound by her duty to all of us, seemingly completely accepting of and fulfilled by her simple lot in life. She showed up to work always with a smile on her face and a willingness to dispense with unconditional love for me and my sisters. Her smile and laughter were contagious and I recall being drawn to that life-giving energy that was absent from our household when she was not there. I saw this as an innate characteristic in all of the 'maids' in the film - their pure love for the children seemed not a mask they wore to fulfill their job description, rather a truly felt emotion for the children as though they were their own. Throughout the film, the joy and presence in these women's faces toward the children brought home the visceral feeling of that same love I felt from Cinda.

Second, the film made me reflect on my recent and ongoing experience of life in India, with the remnants of the caste system there still leaving its ugly mark on many aspects of society, for both locals and foreigners. While the caste system was formerly outlawed just after the time of Partition and liberation from the British in 1947, and its demise adopted by the Constitution of India in 1950, there are still many aspects of Indian life that have not shed the affects of this long-held belief system. This social phenomenon touched me profoundly vis-a-vis my relationship with our driver and his family. Initially an employee of my husband's company, Sitaram originally hails from the low-caste Hindu Konkani region in Southern Maharashtra. He has spent the better part of his career working in simple jobs as a driver or office clerk, subjected to the wrath of high-caste businessmen. I was appalled on countless occasions at the way the lower caste people are treated by their bosses. Sparing you the distasteful details, suffice it to say that despite caste having been outlawed over fifty years ago, a much harsher version of Jim Crow is still very much alive and well in India.

My husband and I were invited to spend the evening with Sitaram and his family on the eve of Diwali, one of India's most celebrated festivals. When our employer found out we had gone to his house, sat on his floor and ate his food, he asked 'How could you stoop so low as to share a meal with these people'. I will share here a post from the journal I kept during my first year in India:

I am still trying to come to grips with why this experience (dinner at Sitaram's for Diwali) has so profoundly touched me. Upon seeing more of their very simple (and speaking only materialistically, poverty-stricken) lives, I am awestruck by Sitaram, who shows up every morning, on time, with clean pressed clothes, a smile on his face, and in whom I have complete faith and trust and absolutely no doubt in my mind he would do anything and everything to take care of and protect us. He takes a total of three buses over an hour and a half to get to our house in the morning, then proceeds to do his job dutifully and with a smile on his face, never expressing any anger or impatience toward the IMPOSSIBLE Mumbai traffic. At the end of the day, he drops us off then takes another three buses and often 2 hours to get home – working sometimes an over 14-hour day, six days a week – for a mere Rs. 8,000 per month paid by Hayden’s employer. That’s less than $175.

P.S. Much like Cinda in Bermuda as a child, Sitaram and his family provided me with a sense of peace, comfort and belonging which is rare within my own family. I am happy to say that he is no longer 'my driver' rather he and his family have become my friends and in a way, my family in India.


So, Sitaram and Cinda are two people in my life whose character, honesty and sense of duty have validated my belief that human decency and worth is not defined by one's color, financial standing, education, job ranking or amassed fortune. Just as these two individuals have inspired me in my life, I believe the characters in the book/film 'The Help' in their own small way have altered history. In their courage to step forward and speak their (anecdotal) truth, they joined the ranks of my heroes Gandhi, Evers, Edelman, King and others who have fearlessly and unceasingly championed the causes of social justice and human rights. Fearing the repercussions of their actions, and believing it impossible that their efforts alone could possibly affect any sort of change, these brave women took the risk to share their story and in doing so opened our eyes and thus ever-so-slightly shifted the collective consciousness.

 

GPhillipD

GPhillipD is from Fairfield, CA and currently resides in Austin, TX with his wife, Cheryl.  He attended San Francisco State University, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering and the National Technological University in Colorado, graduating with a Master of Science in Computer and Electrical Engineering.  He has enjoyed a 25 year career as a microprocessor designer in the semiconductor industry and has been a part of design teams for everything from anti-locking brake systems, desktop and laptop computers, mp3 players and cells phones. Reading and blogging on various topics is a welcome reprieve from his profession as an engineer. Visit GPhillipD's blog at www.politicsandothermusings.blogspot.com.

GPhillipD's Perspective:
The Help: A Reenactment of Black and White Stereotypes

I spent many summers from 1965 through 1970 in Biloxi, MS and I witnessed and experienced Jim Crow racism in its rawest form. Mississippi during the ‘60s consisted of two entirely different social realities and the movie brought back memories of my childhood.  My father’s family lived across the railroad tracks which, in Mississippi during the ‘60s was a common reference to the black community.  Funny thing was that my cousins and I had the opposite perspective. Crossing the tracks meant we were going to the white part of town and we were not allowed to meander across the tracks without adult supervision.  I understand now, without having to watch a movie, that in Mississippi during the ‘60s it was an accident of birth that a person was destined by social decree anyway, to be “The Help” or destined to be a socialite and employer of “The Help”.   A scene in the movie that makes mention of Mississippi’s determinate social structure was when Cicely Tyson’s character said to Emma Stone’s character; about her mother… “She didn’t choose her life, her life chose her”.  For me that one scene summed up life’s circumstance in Mississippi during the ‘60s.

In my view the movie itself is not about “The Help” as much as it is about the superficial relationships and goings on of the so called white social elite and specifically white women in the Jim Crow south. There was some degree of lamentation provided that gave us a sample of the callousness in which “The Help” was treated and  if one watched carefully it was quite obvious that “The Help” was depicted as described in Ralph Ellison’s novel The Invisible Man. The movie supported the reality that the employers treated “The Help” like ornaments in the back drop and similar to pets they expected them to fetch and serve quietly.  In the end, the movie provides a rather myopic perspective on the social invisibility of “The Help” and instead gives a macro view on the frivolous endeavors of a few socially elite white women. The movie seems to feign that “The Help” would have no substantive meaning to their life if they were not somehow being caretakers of white households.   The movie should make one consider the illogic of someone that can despise an individual while at the same time entrusting them with the care of their children. But then again, the racist mentality has never been rooted in logic.

I can’t emphatically say that the movie is a flop. The actresses executed their roles with compelling prose and stereotypes are on full display for black and white characters.  I believe the movie missed in a rather major way by not having a single significant black male character other than the invisible and assumed black male whose presence was associated with abuse, abandonment, and profanity. It’s a stretch to consider that the absence of a significant black male character in the movie was meant to further the notion of the social invisibility of black folk in Mississippi during the ’60s…but I suppose it’s conceivable.

On a 4 star scale, I give the movie 3 stars for its entertainment value and 2 stars for its inaccurate depiction of the social realties in Mississippi during the ‘60s. It’s not a total waste of two hours but far from an accurate depiction of the ugliness of the Jim Crow era.  Overall “The Help” serves up a few slices of humble pie.

Edward

At age twelve, impressed by the work of A. Conan Doyle, Edward decided to write stories. He knew this undertaking would require preparation, but underestimated the fifty years before he realized his ambition. Meanwhile, he supported himself by other endeavors. Among the side excursions was a stint at the University of Arkansas, where he began his association with the Ozarks. He left with a master's degree in psychology to work on radios for NASA, then to Georgia, where he taught psychology for two years before completeing a Ph.D. Now, he considers himself at "happily ever after," and is glad to be writing stories at last.

Edward's Perspective:
I put off going to see "The Help" for some time because I thought it might be painful to watch, and indeed it was. I expect many of us who grew up white in the south in that era have regrets they didn't speak out against the injustices. Holocaust scholars talk about the "banality of evil." If it's going on all around us, it
seems normal, just the way things are.


I thought it was a good movie, but fell somewhat short of being a great movie. Seemed like the film was sold (or bought) to be more than it actually was. The latter part touched upon civil rights, the murder of Medgar Evers, etc., but more as a peripheral issue than a central theme. The film was apparently intended to be light and funny, but was too grim to quite bring that off. However, that the movie generated such interest suggests there's an audience for serious treatments of race matters.

Michele

Michele began writing professionally in 2005. She's a health writer contributing articles to Livestrong.com and ehow.com.  She’s also the Atlanta Alternative Health Examiner for Examiner.com. She has hosted and written for her BlogTalkRadio.com talk show, Frankly Speaking and contributed to blogs and websites such as Entrepreneurial Woman Network.  She was also featured in "USA Today." A former nurse, Michele holds a B.A. in health services administration from Saint Mary's College of California and an MBA from University of Phoenix. She also studied nutrition and Oriental medicine. Currently, she is pursuing a doctorate in naturopathic medicine. For more info, visit her website at www.my-ni.com.

Michele's Perspective:
Interestingly, I experienced a similar situation to Donna's when I was a kid. I was in the first grade and our school at the time was very integrated -- mostly emigrants (India, Brazil, Russia, Asia, etc.). My friend at the time was Sophia. She was white (Russian). We were best friends (as best of friends 1st graders can be). I sometimes walked her home since she lived so close to the school. I lived a little further away and caught public transportation home. Anyway, for the first time, she invited me in her house and we had a really great time until her parents came home. When her mother saw me in her house, she went berserk. She began yelling at me to get out of her house. Now, I thought she was yelling at me to get out because Sophia didn't get permission to have company -- until... she turned to Sophia and yelled, "I told you no niggers are allowed in my house." Her mother grabbed me by the arm and physically put me out the house. At 6 years old, I shrugged it off. I didn't understand what had happened. I felt bad. My feelings were hurt. But it wasn't until I was a little older (at 13) that I understood Sophia's mother's behavior and why Sophia subsequently severed our friendship (stopped speaking to me and sitting next to me). By 13, I had experienced other similar incidents. However, when I was 13, I was in the 9th grade and at an all white school in Georgia. It was hell for me but there was one white girl who befriended me. Then one day, we couldn't be friends anymore. I always wondered why she never invited me into her home but then my father finally explained it to me. Then I understood. Then I became angry. Then I began to question everything.

People make it seem like Black people are just whining or overreacting. But until our critics have walked in our shoes, they will never know what we've had to endure as a race. My mother and father had to sit in the back of the bus, eat in separate restaurants, get educated in separate schools, use separate restrooms and water fountains. Did you hear that? My Parents. I am the first generation to be protected by the civil rights laws of 1964. The first. And still, I had the experiences I just shared. My grandparent had it worst than my parents, and my parents had it much worse that I, and my son will certainly have it better than I did. With each generation, I am hopeful that we will find equal footing as a race -- the human race.

So, I finally watched the movie yesterday. I found it to be an enjoyable movie. Lighthearted and funny at points. It certainly doesn't depict the true hardships of blacks, but it gives an entertaining story about a few lively characters.

Addendum:
I re-read what I wrote and realized that I brushed over my perspective about the movie. Sometimes, some emotions are just too difficult to translate into words. For example, when I watched Schindler's List, Roots, Mississippi Burning and other similar movies -- I'd walk away too angry for words because of the inhumanity and violence against a race or group of people. I recently watched the movie The Hurricane, about the boxer -- and I was infuriated by the injustice he suffered.

There were points in The Help where I became quite angry -- when Abileen's son was killed, when Evers was murdered, when Hilly was blocking opportunities for each of her maids and those of her minions. The unfairness can be fought but the inbred ignorance about an entire race of people, i.e., can't use the same toilet because blacks have more pervasive diseases, is a bit harder to ameliorate. That kind of indoctrination perpetuated from generation to generation. The legal rights of blacks were nonexistent. One only had to be accused to be arrested -- no proof was necessary. These were the "realities" that the movie lightly touched which caused me to become upset -- not at the movie but about the realities for my parents, grandparents and their parents and their ancestors. For a black person, just lightly touching the subject can reopen the wound -- because the wound has never truly been healed. Sure, we've poured a little peroxide in it and patched it with bandaids; we've even tried to staple and stitch the wound at times, but the wound just keeps getting infected generation after generation.

Now, with a Black President, some claim we have "arrived" and the first-aid kit has been put away. No more salve or bandaids or disinfectants -- it is expected that the wound has healed. Yet, I still read of our elected President being referred to as Tar Baby and photoshopped to look like a monkey. So, while I enjoyed the movie, The Help, for it's much deserved entertainment value, it only scratches the surface of Blacks' true reality during that era -- and that's okay. The author wanted a story about "maids" not about the wider social injustices and the civil rights movement. So in that vain, I found the movie quite entertaining.

Thank you again, Donna, Cyndie, GPhillipD, Edward and Michele!