Da
Pidgin Guerrilla
Does the fate of Hawaiian Creole English lie in the hands
of Lee Tonouchi?
Ryan
Senaga
November 13, 2002
The audience in the open-air auditorium at the Center for Hawaiian Studies eats it up as outrageous entertainment, but graphic sex is new to Tonouchi, a thematic first in his work that takes it to an entirely new level. Perhaps unbeknownst to the crowd, they’re witnessing physical and artistic growth, and the development of an artist/revolutionary. The poem, "Significant Moments in da Life of Oriental Faddah and Son," although comical, is actually a local cultural statement against political correctness.
"It started off as a little joke," says Tonouchi. "People get all wound up in one knot wit da word ‘Oriental.’ We should just start using da word, using it more instead of being all PC Asian American. Didn’t used to boddah us, didn’t used to boddah my faddah guys. Lotta people, da previous generation, dey all say ‘Oriental,’ dey no say ‘Asian American,’ eh? Just dat during our time, dea’s a shift now, try be more PC. So I guess I like rebel against da movement on da continent, do our own thing."
It is this penchant for rebelling against the "continent" that makes 30-year-old Lee Tonouchi more than just a prolific local writer — a freelancer who appears in dozens of publications throughout the state (including Honolulu Weekly) and, most distinctively, has been the only male contributor to "The Goddess Speaks" column in the Honolulu Star-Bulletin. His fiction and poetry have been printed in Bamboo Ridge, Hawaii Review and Honolulu Magazine; and Da Word, his own collection of short stories, recently won the 2002 Ka Palapala Po’okela Award from the Hawaii Book Publishers Association.
Tonouchi is not just a writer. He’s become one of the state’s most outspoken and revolutionary rebel theorists. About six years ago, Rob Wilson, the former UH creative-writing professor and a co-editor of Inside Out: Literature, Cultural Politics and Identity in the New Pacific, named Tonouchi "Da Pidgin Guerrilla." The writer quickly adopted the label.
"See dis cap?" Tonouchi asks, touching the brim of his baseball cap. "It’s my disguise, brah. Sometimes if I out in public and I take off da cap, people no recognize eh?" He removes the hat. "See? You no recognize now, right?"
Da Pidgin Guerrilla is a one-man political and cultural militia of Pidgin anarchy. He’s responsible for such minty-fresh ideas as establishing a Pidgin major at UH.
"I talked to lotta people who I tot would be supportive of it, real big supporters of Pidgin. But den when dey told me stuff like UH just going screw ’em up, maybe re-tink. Den I actually talked to someone from da whatevah — an official can-do-someting person, eh? Dat person tole me, you have to submit da proposal in English, or else who would take it seriously. So dat really turned me off, brah. Was like wow, dey no get da point."
This passion to change the local literature landscape was the source of his inspiration to co-create and co-edit Hybolics. The literary magazine launches its third issue, themed "Growing Up Local Filipino, Young Filipino Writers in Hawaii," this month. Included among works by Lee Cataluna, Joe Balaz, Cathy Song and Michael McPherson is the most comprehensive and informative interview ever with R. Zamora Linmark — Filipino author of the acclaimed novel Rolling the R’s — along with a plethora of other Pinoy prose.
"Dis wasn’t someting we planned," says Tonouchi. "Lotta young Filipino writers writing about dea own cultural identities, eh? By da nature, dat’s da kind of submissions we were getting. Das why we decided, just go wit da flow."
The other two co-editors of Hybolics are Normie Salvador and Carrie Takahata. Takahata recalls how the magazine originated. "We were sitting in Candace Fujikane’s class. Lee says to me, ‘I got this idea about starting a magazine. We’ll publish people who normally don’t publish, and we’ll provide them with a space where they can publish their own voice rather than having to conform to someone else’s aesthetic.’
"Lee is very organized and very committed to encouraging the use of one’s own voice. And he’s very enthusiastic about it … and his enthusiasm is catching."
"Dea was a need, eh?" says Tonouchi about Hybolics. "Some might say, not me, but some people, I don’t know who, but those people might say Bamboo Ridge is, old, or stale or kinda dry already. We just wanted to create someting a little mo exciting for try to appeal to people a little more our generation, get people little bit more excited about literature. Get people who normally wouldn’t read local literature to try get dem to pick it up. So das why Hybolics get all kine different stuff. Get rap. I don’t know if Bamboo Ridge would ever publish rap."
"He’s exploring different ways to expand local literature," says Eric Chock, co-editor and co-founder of Bamboo Ridge. "The range of activity — writing, publishing, criticism, performance, producing events for other writers — all this adds a lot of energy to the literary scene."
With Tonouchi, discussing issues like these is like catching pigeons blindfolded. His public persona may be the madcap, hilarious local guy, but professionally, he is one of the most diplomatically reticent — and like Takahata said — organized and premeditated individuals on the scene. He answers questions with questions and long pauses. Some of his answers are one word. The thick eyeglasses, the unassuming yet stiff walking gait, and the perpetual baseball cap and fanny pack. ... In a formal, one-on-one setting, the comical guardedness is not quite what you would expect from someone trying to foster a culture revolution. But then, perhaps his conversational countermeasures are part of his master plan:
What does "Hybolics" mean?
"I going have to beat you up aftah dis, yeah Ryan?"
"I’m just asking a question."
"You don’t know or you just asking? Do you yourself know?"
"No. You told me once about 10 years ago but I forgot."
"You seriously don’t know?"
"I seriously don’t know."
"It’s not a word you used to use?"
"No."
"Ai yai yai …"
For the record, Tonouchi eventually explains, "Pidgin to da Max when define Hybolics as to talk like one intellectual kine haole. To talk in Standard English, yeah? To use big impressive words, yeah? Da use of exaggerated forms of speech.
"So, what we wanted to do wit da magazine Hybolics was to reclaim our word again, and it’s like dey no have to use Standard English to have da kine intellectual kine ideas."
(Author’s note: A week or so after our interview, Tonouchi e-mails a request. "Would it be possible," Tonouchi wrote, "for check your quotes dat you going use before you run ’em or wot, Ryan? I like make Lee spelling and make shua da quotes expresses da feeling." Again, it is notable how controlling he truly is. In any case, if there are any dialogue portions "dat no express da true feeling," it was due to my sorry-ass attempt at "Lee spelling.")
Tonouchi graduated from Aiea High School in 1990 before receiving his bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English. "I do not like to give wea I graduated from cause bumbye dat particular institution might claim me as being dea’s."
It was in a Pidgin writing class taught by Eric Chock that he discovered his passion.
"It was very good dat I had Eric as my first mentor," Tonouchi says. "He pointed me in all da directions fo go. He showed me if you like write in Pidgin, you gotta know da history of all dat’s dea. To be part of da tradition, you gotta know da tradition."
Chock remembers the course. "Lee seemed to take off after the class," he says. "I’m glad he did — it’s the reason we started it. I remember him being conscientious, doing the homework, coming to me for suggestions. ... Just in terms of getting a Pidgin-writing course going, it was really gratifying."
The location Tonouchi chooses for an interview is Coffee Talk in Kaimukï, an odd choice considering that he doesn’t drink coffee. In fact, he didn’t start drinking caffeinated soda until a few years ago. Perhaps the location was chosen because it is near Kapi‘olani Community College, where he teaches English.
"To me, grammar is da least important ting on how to write," the English teacher says, toying with his empty cup. "What’s da most important ting to me is dey gotta learn how to tink first. Dey gotta have someting to write about. If dey no have da ideas, den what dey going write? So I do stress grammar but dat’s probably at da bottom. You have to present your argument."
What if students want to write exclusively in Pidgin? I ask.
"No student want to take aftah me. Sad, eh? Get some who wanna dabble but nobody hardcore. Dat’s probably good, cause dey going have hard time probably, about how accepting da system going be. Had dis student I heard, was all bummed cause da teachah nevah like her papah in Pidgin. I heard da student wanted to talk to me but what can I do? Dat’s not my class, right?"
The Pidgin dictionary Tonouchi is working on for local publisher Bess Press may help these students. Currently the project is in development purgatory, but Tonouchi is asking for submissions for the entries from the public.
"I guess it’s to fulfill a dual purpose," he says. "To preserve as well as perpetuate, eh? Like lotta da newer generation of Pidgin talkers, dey don’t know all da old words. Lotta da old Pidgin people, dey dying too, so might be lost forevah kine. We probably lost plenty words already. It’s also to see what else is going on, to see what new Pidgin is coming up now."
Much of the controversy accompanying such a dictionary has to do with the fear that a free-flowing vernacular such as Pidgin would become standardized.
"Going to be very difficult cause people ask me, ‘Aw Lee, what about spelling brah?’ To me, however dey spell it, might have two, chree, four ways of spelling em. ‘Bumbye’— bumbye, bombye … Just go put em all in dea. Just go put ‘see, see, see.’ All da different spellings is fine wit me.
"Da important ting to stress is dat dis is a community Pidgin dictionary project. Dat’s why I collecting words cause Pidgin belongs to everybody, so I like get as much people in da dictionary as can and all da ones who part of da book going get one free book too."
Available this December is Tonouchi’s chapbook, Living Pidgin: Contemplations On Pidgin Culture, a serious, but still entertaining group of Tonouchi’s lectures about Pidgin discrimination, Pidgin immersion schools and Pidgin civil rights. Susan Schultz, Tonouchi’s editor at Tinfish Press, says a reference of sorts is necessary at this time for local literature. "It seemed clear to me that there’s a distinct need for books that can be read in conjunction with creative works by Lisa Kanae, Lee Tonouchi, Lois-Ann Yamanaka, Darrell Lum, Eric Chock, Milton Murayama and others who compose their poetry and fiction in Pidgin."
She may have published him for more subjective reasons: "Lee’s work often makes me laugh, and I like the way he forces me to think about language issues while I’m in stitches."
One of the most provocative sections of the chapbook is the inclusion of a note that was anonymously passed on to him while he was eating in a restaurant.
Tonouchi recalls the incident: "I was just cruisin’ at Big City Diner, having one business breakfast, and den dis guy comes up to me from behind and goes ‘oh excuse me, are you Lee Tonouchi?’ I said, ‘Oh yeah yeah yeah’ and he give me dis note and runs out da door."
The actual note is reprinted in the book: "Your short story on ‘Ben the Betrayer’ is the stupidest piece of garbage I’ve ever read. My mother speaks better English than you’ll ever speak and she was blacklisted by the DOE. HCE [Hawaiian Creole English, i.e., Pidgin] is a badge of ignorance and illiteracy and everyone knows it. Grow up and have some respect for the language of Shakespeare, Milton and Swift."
Also included was a message written in Hiragana: "Tonouchi san wa baka desu yo." Rough translation: "Mr. Tonouchi is stupid!"
The story in question is "Pijin Wawrz," arguably the most challenging story Tonouchi has written, about a mechanical entity based on Ben Cayetano. Many of the Pidgin words are so far from their Standard English relatives they’re unrecognizable, unlike the rest of the reader-friendly stories in Da Word.
A sample passage: "Jimmy wen hia rumrz awv tu arkaivis hu wen sikretli seiv sam awv der hischriz."
Making it even harder was the experimental use of a quasi-established writing system called "Odo orthography," which includes a schwa-like melding of vowels that can only be described as the letter "a" procreating with the letter "e." In essence, with the application of this new vowel to the text, the story was the closest Pidgin has ever come to being printed and formatted as its own language.
"What was interesting was lotta da Mainland reviewers like dat story," Tonouchi says. "I guess because to Mainland people, it all no make sense anyways. Lotta locals had hard time reading dat one, dey just gave up. To me it felt right cause it was one science fiction story. It was in da future. Based on reading da story, who you tink won? I don’t know.
"Anyhow, I kinda wish Ben could run again so he can be da foil. Every hero needs one villain, ah? He’s da arch-nemesis of da Pidgin Guerilla. Within him, he get da powah of da Pidgin force — he get da potential for be da ultimate Pidgin role model, but no, he no like. Sad yeah?"
A few weeks after the Poetry to da Max reading, in early October Tonouchi participated in the Celebrating Anykine Identity event at the Campus Center at UH-Mänoa, co-sponsored by the English Department. He looked worried. Some doofus decided to give free pizza to the undergraduates during a break in the performances. As anyone who’s ever spent more than five minutes on a college campus knows, once you give the kids free food, they exit the premises.
"Everybody going split already," Tonouchi said, eyeing the crowd in the pizza line.
Unfortunately he was right, but a group of approximately 50 lingered on the bleachers. Tonouchi recited from memory (as usual) the story, "Da Word." He mimicked a little haole girl’s voice, made tetherball motions and pretended to look up words in a dictionary as he enacted his story. For a bunch of twentysomethings filled with pizza, their attention was impressively undivided.
Once Tonouchi was done, the students began filing down the bleachers, probably on their way to cheap pitchers at Magoo’s. One younger mixed Asian told his friend, "It was funny but there was meaning too."
At a time when after-artistic-event, Q&A discussions are usually left to elderly haole women with cats, the fact that such a kid noticed the "meaning" may be the most significant and noteworthy product of Tonouchi’s revolution.
(Author’s note #2: On the night before deadline, I receive an unsigned e-mail from an unknown address regarding the Nov. 19 reading of "Living Pidgin" at Kumu Kahua Theatre. Notification for the event was being spread by word of mouth or e-mail, the e-mail said, only by members of an organization called Write Club, "a secret underground band of writers from various write clubs across the state whose mission is to shake up the Writing World Order." Destroy the e-mail after reading it, the message instructed, and, lastly, "the first rule of WRITE CLUB … No talk about WRITE CLUB!" Was it another part of the wacky master plan Lee Tonouchi knew about all along, or was it a strike by a dissident insurgency? Maybe it was both.)
