Photo taken by Toyo Miyatake, provided by Alan Miyatake.
Only a few short years from resettling in Little Tokyo starting in 1945 after being released from the American concentration camps during World War II, Japanese Americans were once again forcibly removed from the vibrant pre- and post-war mega-block that made up one-quarter of Little Tokyo’s physical footprint. Through government eminent domain dozens upon dozens of families, small businesses, affordable housing, and Japanese cultural and community organizations were displaced to make way for the construction of the new LAPD headquarters complex in 1955 later to be known as Parker Center.
Mike Okamura, Little Tokyo Historical Society
I love Pom Poko (1994, directed by Isao Takahata). It was a childhood favorite, and more powerfully now that I recognize its themes in my own life. At the end of the film, the tanuki (raccoons) sit atop a construction vehicle and overlook the destruction of the land that used to be their home. Now wrought by dirt hills and housing developments, it’s incomparable to the lush greenery they once had. With the last of their power, they briefly transform the land into its likeness from many years ago. The humans see how they used to live within nature, tend to and care for it, and a woman cries out at the illusion of her long lost mother. This part always makes me cry. I see the despair, loss, and regret from both the tanuki and the people who did it themselves. I feel the raccoons will never win.
In the artwork, a construction vehicle teeters on a mountain embedded with a map of Little Tokyo. A chunk is missing from the mountain– land that has been historically affected by forces of colonialism, displacement, and gentrification. Present day Los Angeles is on indigenous Gabrieliño Tongva land, yet only 1-acre has been returned as of 2022. During WW2, Japanese-American incarceration vacated Little Tokyo.The neighborhood became known as Bronzeville as Black residents moved in from the South; only to face displacement again upon Japanese-Americans returning post-war, and both groups mistreated through racism from white landlords and residents.
In recent years, Toriumi Plaza has been fenced off and inaccessible to the public since March 2022. New, tall buildings cast shadows over what little authenticity remains, with the closure of 111-year old legacy business Mikawaya, eviction of Suehiro, and location transfer of 77-year old Anzen Hardware. All the while, an influx of anime stores and boba shops reveal the interests of an uncomfortably orientalist, Japanophile brand of tourism. It’s nearly impossible to walk through Little Tokyo without encountering cosplay and revolving storefronts. A community is hijacked as a hyper commodified cultural attraction of itself, of what its inhabitants do not even remotely identify with.
Four tanuki sit on the vehicle, reflecting, processing... This piece captures my sadness and my hope. It begs for action in the preservation of Little Tokyo’s heart as an interdependent, multicultural, self-sustainable Japanese-American community.
Bio:
Opia is a research-based collaboration between Jonathan Takahashi and Heather M. O'Brien. Rooted in lens and screen-based experimental practice, Opia reveals inaccuracies in visual representation. Their work builds encounters with familial archives, constructs of nationhood and the illusion of accurate memory. Opia is concerned with how the site of place, shelter and community directly define issues of identity and belonging. It is within this site of locality that the personal and political are inextricably linked. Research interests include expanded cinema and psychoanalysis, alternative histories of photography and the contemporary essay film. Opia aims to create a ‘Third Cinema Space', informed by Homi K. Bhaba’s Third Space Theory, the work of Augusto Boal and Paulo Freire and the Latin American film movement from the 1960s–70s.
An 'opia' is a condition of sight, or the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable—pupils glittering, opaque and endless. Opia re-contextualizes this function by building photographic and film/video installations that consider the Lacanian difference between the 'gaze' and the 'look'. Nuances of Japanese-American identity play a key role in Opia's ways of seeing and the place from which they speak. There is overlap, crossing of oceans, borders––fragmented memories of war are built into imagination. The performativity of nationalism and domesticity are disassembled to create new narratives. Projections transform into fantasy, ruminating in the unfamiliar. To forget is the only way to remember.
Opia response:
We take pictures so we can forget.
The street signal on 1st & Central in Little Tokyo foreshadows the necessity to stop, as people and cars move to their destinations. Streetcar tracks and overhead wires guide each passenger to their next stop. We see boater hats, fedoras and ducktail hairstyles––wide-collared shirts and long slacks fill the frame––a peephole into a warm day downtown in the City of Angels. There are beautiful brick buildings that house small businesses, including a drug store on the corner with a small cigar shop. The independent department store provides the community with textile goods and other necessities, while the money loan shop supports the growing economy of this immigrant community. The Silver Star Furnishing Rooms and Hotels offer shelter to people arriving into the U.S. and Los Angeles for the first time. The tower of LA City Hall exudes a panopticon-like gaze in the background and there are no visible clouds in the sky.
What existed before the community of Little Tokyo? What can’t we recollect?
The collective memory and erasure encapsulated within this pre-WWII image by Toyo Miyatake holds both a moment of reflection and an obscured intangibility. A fleeting frame of time recognizes the many histories and landscapes that have existed before us, and offers a glimpse into what might endure long after we leave. As small businesses change and large developments loom, it has only become more imperative that we unpack the many historical communities we draw strength from in our present day neighborhoods––whether it's the native Tongva people, the African-American community of Bronzeville, or Japanese Americans currently living and working in Little Tokyo. The historically grounded migrant ethos of this city and community at large has become obfuscated by layers of change, gentrification and development.
How might we remember and honor the multiplicity of histories in Little Tokyo?