Recently Naomi Hirahara and I, fully vaccinated, met up at a local soda fountain. In between discussion of pandemic tragedies and the bright spot of MariNaomi’s stop AAPI hate mural, the first AAPI public artwork in the San Gabriel Valley, we found we were co-contributors to the upcoming Akashic Noir South Central edited by Gary Phillips. We chatted about her stunningly prolific life as a writer, and her groundbreaking novel, Clark and Division. Set in 1944 Chicago, her latest novel tackles Japanese American life post incarceration in US concentration camps. This interview has been condensed for clarity and space.
Désirée Zamorano: I always want to know, when an author writes a book, why this book?
Naomi Hirahara: I’d been trying to write a book from a Nisei’s point of view. They’re very elusive to me. In some ways I am a Nisei, in the sense that my mother’s from Japan. But she’s a post-war immigrant. When I worked at the Rafu Shimpo, usually on our front page there’d be stories about Nisei men. We needed to get female voices. Every time we tried to do a special feature involving Nisei women—for example,
When I was editor I had this idea for Valentine’s Day. Let’s do this special edition about couples who met at camp, from the female point of view. I sent my reporter to do that. Inevitably the women would call back and say, please eliminate that, edit this. There was a lot of self-censorship. I thought it was so interesting, and I could see my mother doing that, too.
What were they protecting?
I think for women in our community, especially of a certain age, their existence is determined so much by their female friendships, and if they are perceived as saying something wrong or uncouth, then they would go through the whole gossip hurricane. They were fearful.
You, on the other hand, are so open.
I wasn’t raised by a Nisei woman. In some ways, being raised be a Japanese woman I think we tend to have more of an openness. The Nisei had to evoke a sense of patriotism, being all-American. Kind of the whole model minority myth—they had to lift that up to survive. I’ve always wanted to break through that veneer.
Such on oppressive stereotype.
You can also see it in the photos released by the government, the War Relocation Authority, the people in camp, or coming out of camp, they’re always smiling. Their hair’s perfect. I know they’re human beings, so it couldn’t have been like that, really? So that was my big search.
I did a short story called the “Chirashi Covenant,” edited by Megan Abbott, from this Nisei woman in the 1950s looking back to the 1940s. It was this typical noir, femme fatale piece where the lead character ends up killing her white lover whom she suspects killed her husband.
Did he kill him?
Probably.
So she’s justified?
Yes, she is justified. She chops him up with a fishing knife and puts him in a suit case, and drops the suitcase in the bay of San Pedro.
So gruesome, Naomi!
I know, I know! It was a lot of fun. Some people liked that, but that never flew in the Japanese community. Then I tried to build on that by doing this other novel, The Beauties of 1942, about these beauty queens, that smiling in January then going off to camp later. It just didn’t fly.
Aki, the protagonist of Clark and Division, is getting beneath the veneer, she’s very much who she is, despite risking embarrassment. She puts herself out there.
Why Chicago? Why historical?
The historical actually makes sense. I wonder why I didn’t do one earlier. In my nonfiction life I’ve been doing all these books for organizations so we have the names and details down on paper, mysteries are my fictional world. Finally I merged these two lives together. I think one reason why Chicago is the nonfiction book Life After Manzanar that I did with my friend Helen Lindquist. When we were looking where people went from Manzanar, Chicago was the top destination, especially for the ones released early.
How did someone get released early? I didn’t know about that.
If you met certain requirements, like being Nisei—you’re American and you led a stellar life. In the beginning the average age of Japanese Americans settling in Chicago was mid-20s. They were single, they were without their parents—
They were gonna have a party.
Exactly! Because they’re human.
After 1946 juvenile delinquency reports were very concerning. There were reports of babies being born out of wedlock; abortions (illegal at the time, of course). There was a stick-up man—and a “sexual maniac”—who had raped several women. I had never seen those stories told, particularly the rapist, through gossip or anything. I’m assuming he was never apprehended.
You say you didn’t hear those particular stories being told; of course there’s such shame attached to that—
Yes!
I was shocked, in your novel, how abruptly abortion came up, and I guess, how matter-of-fact it was. There was no euphemism, there was a strange lack of tension in Aki discussing it.
Actually my editor pressed me on that. Which made me reflect, am I missing something? I questioned some people about it. I interviewed a younger Japanese American woman who has done zines on abortion. She’s from a religious background. She said it was really more the shame aspect, that other people might know about it. It was never really religious based. I think what may be related to it may be the Japanese sensibility is different towards it, than the Christian aspect.
I certainly wasn’t arguing with it, I was simply surprised! I think you show that perspective when Aki’s mother says, “We will never discuss this again.”
I also put out a call on Facebook for Nisei abortions, and people messaged me and told me stories about their elders who had had abortions. It was happening.
I was interested in the choice you made to make her a not very committed Buddhist.
Most Japanese Americans are Buddhist. Aki is more areligious, it was her parents that were Buddhist. But she had gone to a Glendale Church; she was exposed to both.
I love the part in your novel, because it reminded me of my own visit to Manzanar, that Buddhist were housed alongside Protestant, alongside Catholic. And you mentioned the line of latrines, army style, which was so disturbing to warehouse people this way.
Of course, when I read the book, the entire concept of discussing post-internment life is political. It is the socio-political aspect. Do you encounter people who haven’t heard of Manzanar, do you feel people are still jolted by Manzanar?
I think two things. In other parts of the US there’s not much knowledge. I think we’re in California so it’s really different. Another thing that’s interesting is that younger Japanese Americans really thirst to know what happened to their great grandfather or grandmother. I think that’s the place that I take up in terms of the literature about this. From my work as an editor and journalist I knew people, I interviewed people. I’ve been interviewing people and reading their oral histories and having relationships and friendships since the 1980s. Younger folks know this is part of their legacy. They’re not going to have the opportunity to know these people personally. Yet they can read the oral histories and create their own work. They’re going to write beautiful stories and explore different aspects of this experience.
That’s why, too, I wanted to do a straightforward story. In historical fiction sometimes people are too wedded to every little detail—sometimes you can take liberties.
There haven’t been that many books like this, being interned, moving from LA to Chicago—there’s a novel Nisei Daughter, by Monica Sone, that talks a little bit about this—but mine is a mystery with a tragic event, which forces the fact of the trauma of incarceration to be something to be wrestled with immediately. Other people who were too busy trying to survive could avoid facing what had just happened. Not for the characters in my novel.
That’s the strength of the mystery genre, the forced confrontation of things we’d rather ignore. It’s like the pandemic—you talk to some people, you know, it wasn’t that bad. They got closer to their family, which is legitimate and happened—other people, something happened. People got Covid, people died, someone committed suicide. The people who went through the latter had to wrestle with the trauma of what we’ve been going through, right here, right now. The other people, we might be wrestling with what it all means to us later.
You said you didn’t want to be caught up in historical details. I remember being so in love with one of the Arkady novels by Martin Cruz Smith that I wrote him a fan letter, fascinated by his detailing of a culture so different from our own. He wrote back, “As a writer you know how much I had to leave out.” I loved that. What couldn’t find a space in your book?
I’m telling a story of a middle-class family, and Rose is a patriot. I hint at it in the book, there was actually a lot of tension between those seen as accommodationists and the people who were more rebellious. Draft resisters were sent to prison. That’s the story I’m not telling.
And you’re already starting a follow up. I look forward to what’s coming next.
Scary!
Switching to craft, you’ve had a pretty long writing career-
Yeah!
And it’s been prolific and prodigious. What, in addition to perseverance, do you think your strength as a writer has been?
In the beginning, with my first Mas Arai book, which took me fifteen years, somebody had asked me, “Will you self-publish this?” and I said, yeah, if I have to. I think the commitment to story is a strength. Not being so enamored with the idea that I have to be a famous writer. I think if you get too caught up in that, it’s going to take you to a bad place. (laughs) It’s hard, sometimes you don’t get the deals, you don’t get the recognition. I think those things can’t be counted on anyway. I am proud of the first one, The Summer of the Big Bachi, that I hung in there with it. An older male protagonist? Written by a younger female? Of course that was the era where you couldn’t do research online.
It’s funny because I get insecure just like everyone else, but I think this belief in yourself is so important. I love Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird—she said something like, nobody is really going to care about your story except you. I think all of us we want that agent to get that stamp of approval, that one “we’re good” People might, especially if you’re doing well, compliment you, but really nobody cares (laughs). You have to be your own cheerleader. That’s a good lesson. In terms of writers, there’s probably like only three writers that everybody knows.
You need to be balanced. Don’t believe all the criticism, but don’t believe all the hype either.
That’s very Four Agreements—don’t take things personally, the good or the bad. And it also sounds like advice to younger writers.
Younger writers should know that writing is a balancing act. It’s really important to be involved in organizations, but also be jealous of your creative time, don’t let that suck you in, which is difficult. There’s so much pressure for everyone to be involved in social media. I think it’s harder now than when I started out to be really committed to your work! There are too many distractions, and it really can harm your work. That discipline is not easy.
You’re a tremendous literary citizen. I remember you bringing a group together in 2014, and that was one of many.
Some of that is just my personality! I took one of those personality tests and I like connection. I like connecting people—it’s part of who I am, I really get joy. It’s like being a chemist: I’m going to get this person and this person together.
As you reflect on your own writing career, how have you grown?
I would say commitment to story. I’m embracing story a lot more. I have a knack for it. I get so much satisfaction when things organically snap into place. Before I would be more apologetic in terms of our genre. The embrace of the mystery genre is recent! When I was starting out it wasn’t so celebrated. Now it’s much more honored.
As it should be! It’s entertaining!
Now I’m trying to find ways-—and I’ve written so many mysteries—to avoid the tropes.
It’s easy to revisit those tropes, especially if you’ve written amateur sleuth, and I’m trying to avoid that.
How do you feel the publishing industry has changed during your career?
Consolidation. It’s all consolidation. Writers have to be so nimble. I follow a lot of podcasts regarding self-publishing. People who self-publish are constantly analyzing trends and ways to market online. Books are sold online more than ever. You can’t necessarily predict, but I think it’s important to know what creative ways people are doing to outreach.
When you say consolidation do you think there are fewer opportunities for diverse voices, do you think that’s changed in anyway? Is it another marketing ploy?
Certainly with everything that’s happened with our country in the past year, with the murder of George Floyd, there’s been an awakening and a reckoning. People are more curious about Black stores. In a weird way with all this anti-Asian violence people are taking a second look at Asian American stories right now. But who knows how long it’s going to last. I have no idea. I will say our readership is much more diverse because our population is. The publishing industry is finally realizing demographics are changing.
Who are you reading that you’re loving?
I love SA Cosby’s work, and he has a new book coming out. Just his voice! Chester Himes has been such a huge influence for me, and reading something like Sean’s work has been inspirational.
Any final thoughts, Naomi?
In terms of young writers, you need an agent, and you need a manager. I’m self-managed (laughs). You need to have a vision for the next steps. Things may not come to fruition as you imagine, but the next five years, what do you hope for? In some ways you have to be strategic.
I’m really big into doing book journaling. A journal about your creative work, the progress of your books, whatever projects that you’re thinking of doing—they’re like tiles, and as time goes on they settle in the place that they need to. In some ways I was probably imaging writing this book years earlier—and at last this tile has settled where it belongs.
