The Buddha in the Attic

I have a little bookshelf back home dedicated to what I consider “Japanese Feminism,” and I’m quite proud of it. This little book (I’m starting to marvel more and more at how the smaller the book, the more of an impression it can make) is only about 130 pages long, so it’s entirely possible to read in a sitting. For whatever reason, that’s never been my style – I’m way too antsy to sit still that long, though I did read it in about a day.

I was not prepared for how heartbreaking The Buddha in the Attic would be. It’s one of those where… I kinda saw the book and vaguely knew I needed to read it, but had no idea what it was really about or what to expect from it. Something about immigrant wives? Something vaguely “Joy Luck Club“-ish? Well, yes and no. You might actually like this book if you like Joy Luck Club, but it’s nothing like it, stylistically: apples to oranges, TBH. Thematically, however, there are some similarities.

The Buddha in the Attic is a story of an entire generation of Japanese women who boarded a boat(s) headed to San Francisco, with sometimes nothing much more than the photograph of a man they would meet and marry once they’d have arrived. They come from different backgrounds, but they’re all young and fed up with Japan – and are completely unprepared for what to expect once they arrive. The English they’ve learned is insufficient, sometimes their husbands completely lied about how prosperous they really were and so these women from mixed classes will end up working in fields and sleeping in sheds – if they’re lucky. Some will become housemaids for wealthy white women. Some will help their husbands run prosperous businesses: wash houses, restaurants, groceries. Some will leave their husbands. Some will commit suicide. They will start families – and become jealous of their children’s abilities to communicate in English so well. Better than they have in all their years living in America. They’ll be hurt that their children will abandon the identities that are important to the parents. And then – as we know, World War 2 will start and a very familiar suspicion will crop up, damning the Japanese. Scaring whites. And no one spoke about how suddenly the Japanese just vanished. How can a group of people living next door to you for decades vanish you not notice? Pretty easily, apparently.

Some readers found the use of the plural “We” annoying. I feel like it’s important to stress here why I think the author chose to do this. This is not about an individual woman. There is no singular identity representing a group of women: There’s no Mary-Sue. The character is actually characters – a group of women. Rather, a Greek Chorus. This is about every single Japanese woman living in that place, at that time. Because they are all exceptional – though their stories are incredibly similar – they all get to have their input and tell their part, and it flows together nicely. I’ve never seen a narrative handled quite in this way, and I thought it was beautifully done. The way that individual fibers are still unique, but are the same, and when put together create one harmonious thread – which can’t be denied that that is what it is.
What makes this feminist, in my opinion, is that we hear the voices of these women, speaking for themselves, when usually their silence has rendered them non-existent. They’re never competing for the mic, as it were, even though their stories are unique.

I’ve been wondering to myself lately, what made me compassionate? Where did I learn this? I know I’ve learned a lot of empathy for people I’ve never met, nor could have met living in a tiny town in Louisiana, by being a lifelong reader. But I know plenty of people who love to read and value education highly, but who are not empathetic individuals. So, of course, it goes back to what you read and how you respond to it. (Of course, not everyone will learn empathy and compassion this way)
This novel is a great message for those looking to find it. The entire thing is a letter from lost women time has forgotten, and in our current times, it would do to listen to them and not allow the same mistakes to be repeated.

this review was originally posted on my book blog, which you can find here

This book proves that you don't need 400 pages novels to make a point. I loved the precise choice of words, the rhythm and poetry of this book. I also loved that the author does not try to make things look better or more appealing; it's like a poetic historical documentary.

Strange in that it's written in the first person plural point of view so no individual story is fully developed, but it is still powerful and moving. It's the story of a group of Japanese immigrant women and the most heart-breaking parts for me revolve around the children. After the Japanese are sent to the relocation camps the story changes perspective to the apathetic Americans left behind. The sin of apathy is laid bare.