Amy Uyematsu

August 22, 2016

“I Wish I’d Seen My Nisei Father Dance” by Amy UyematsuPosted by

Amy Uyematsu

I WISH I’D SEEN MY NISEI FATHER DANCE

Before the war nisei were so much cooler
than we sansei kids give them credit—
after all they could listen to Meiji-farmer folk songs
and siblings practicing violin and shamisen
while finger-snapping to Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman,
and Old Blue Eyes on the radio.

Dad swears the girls were prettier in his day—
he drove a tan convertible, thanks to a father
who got rich selling flowers in the ’30s,
with extra pocket money that got him
into trouble with poorer yogore,
his Boyle Heights friends protecting him.

I’ve been told my father was popular
among the girls—not for his looks,
but because he could really dance—
the swing, fox trot, a mean jitterbug.
Was he ever called a “jive-bomber”
or “cloud-walker” for his nimble feet?

Dad was going to school in Chicago
when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor
and within 24 hours, the FBI
was escorting him
from the college dormitory
to a train back to California.

Lucky for him, he didn’t stay long
in Manzanar with his family.
He worked potato farms in Idaho,
got into college in Lincoln, Nebraska,
met my 19-year-old mom, prettier
than any girl he’d ever danced with.

And after the war nothing could
stop the nisei from still having their dances—
not new babies and bills, neighborhoods
that wouldn’t let them move in. I’ve seen
the photos, Dad and Mom all decked out
in wide lapel suit and full-skirted dress.

—from Rattle #52, Summer 2016
Tribute to Angelenos

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Amy Uyematsu: “My grandparents settled in Los Angeles between 1910 and 1920, and I was a post-World War II baby boomer—so I’ve seen this city go through many transformations. One thing that hasn’t changed is the Pasadena Freeway, with its small, curving lanes and beautiful mountain backdrop. When I was a high school senior, I got to drive that freeway from Sierra Madre to downtown L.A. for Saturday night dances with several hundred sansei (3rd-generation Japanese Americans). You could say I learned how to drive on that freeway.”

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June 3, 2016

“Zumba Gold at 9 AM” by Amy UyematsuPosted by

Amy Uyematsu

ZUMBA GOLD AT 9 AM

We are a throng of older women—yes, we are silver- and white-haired, or in my case, color-enhanced reddish brown, some with new knees and hips, others sporting flashy neon wristbands to tally how many steps, all of us ready to rumble in our rubber-soled shoes. Our teacher Yvonne used to weigh 300 pounds. Now she zumbas and runs, sports a modified Mohawk, sparkly bracelets stacked from wrist to forearm, and pink, lime, or lavender tank tops and sweats. Her constant command: “Smile! This is spoze to be fun!” And it is, though a few in the crowd just don’t get the steps, their faces so labored and lost. Most of us, though, are having the best time we’ve had in decades, feel like we did in our teens, maybe better since we don’t care anymore if we look uncool—heck, no pressure anymore from ogling adolescents or lascivious men. Now nothing matters more than the way this Latin music pulls us in—our bodies set loose to congas and timbales. We learn salsa, very New York City smooth, while Dominican merengue is frenzied and almost too fast to keep on beat. We all like the song where we gyrate our hips, follow Yvonne in an unhurried blend of hula and belly dance, then raise arms and hands to shoo away something toward the sky, all of us joining the chorus, “amor—amor, amor, amor”—not sure if we’re sending love out to the universe or saying goodbye to a lover, our voices rising as one. But my favorite, as always, is the cha cha, which we got from Cuba. I didn’t know this in the ’60s, when I cha cha cha’d to Chicano and Motown discs, doing it Eastside style with a swivel and dip. Cha cha feels like I’m coming home, so easy and free, just a zumba-crazed grandma with bad knees—that’s me.

—from Rattle #51, Spring 2016
Tribute to Feminist Poets

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Amy Uyematsu: “Back in the ’70s, I taught a course at UCLA called ‘Asian Women in America.’ In that class, we studied ‘triple jeopardy’—how Asian American women face issues of racism, sexism, and economic discrimination. I’ve long considered myself an Asian American woman poet, which to me means being an advocate for people of color as well as women.”

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August 16, 2014

“Cracking Up” by Amy UyematsuPosted by

Amy Uyematsu

CRACKING UP

By far the most handsome of all the Velasco boys, Jesse got drafted in ’68, was married just weeks to the prettiest girl in Flagstaff. She didn’t mind waiting and no, he didn’t die. Jesse returned with two purple hearts, everyone bragging, “That Jesse sure is something,” still the talk of the town when the truck hit his car head-on.

But Jesse didn’t die. God or some angel or plain dumb chance protected him. Just like the war when no bullet or shrapnel could stop him, though now Jesse’s head hurt real bad and he couldn’t remember how many months he’d been sleeping or how long since his wife stopped coming to visit. Jesse just lay in that hospital bed staring at the door when his mother decided, “It’s been long enough,” and brought him back to the house where he was born. Taught Jesse to hold a fork again, the smell of pozole and steaming tamales slowly awakening his memory of home.

Jesse even got well enough to go outdoors. “A miracle,” everyone whispered. He still got admiring glances except when his right eye would wander away, see something behind him as if returning to the crash site. But before long Jesse’s condition was just more old news, most folks getting restless, even irritated, when he’d forget what he was saying. The simplest words never finding their way out, syllables deserting him, jumping right off their bright neuron tracks into a throaty darkness. There wasn’t enough time to feel sorry anymore, and kids too young to know Jesse’s story got nervous when he’d chuckle without warning, like he was in on a secret he wasn’t going to tell.

Almost fifty now, hardly anyone sees Jesse as he sits with his mom in front of their 60-inch T.V., staying up until 3 AM. He’s all but forgotten except for the neighbors who watch Jesse circle the block at least twice a day, cracking up at some punch line only he can hear then knocking on his front door. Waiting to be let back inside.

—from Rattle #20, Winter 2003

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