Angel Island Poetry ClubI know where Angel Island is because I see it virtually everyday on my way
to work. I carpool from East Bay to the City every morning. On the
Oakland-San Francisco Bay Bridge, Angel Island always appears on my right
as the biggest piece of land floating in the Bay, so it seems. From time
to time I am mesmerized by its green and mystic appearance from afar. Do
Angels really reside on that blissful oasis amidst of this vast stretch of
heavenly water? For some reason in the past 15 years living in the Bay
Area, I hadn't found time to visit the Island, which has been a state park
for as long as I have been here. But I certainly know where Angel Island
is, though I knew very little of what is on it, except that some Chinese
were detained there long time ago. The other day, the Angel Island Immigration Station Foundation sent me an
invitation to join a group visit to the Station on the Island. A friend
who knows my past involvement with Chinese poetry introduced me to the
Foundation. The purpose of this visit was to take a close look at the
Chinese poems written on the walls of the old barracks by former
detainees, Chinese immigrants who came through and were detained at the
Immigration Station between 1910 and 1940. Time has, indeed, changed and
now is the time for preservation, documentation and education of the site. January 25, 2002, brought us a hazy sun out of the hills on the east to
the emerald Bay. The air was rather chilly and heavy but the day was
pleasant enough for a field trip. Driving to Tiburon, I remembered that
the forecast said it would rain late in the day. At Tiburon dock, the view
is almost exactly the opposite side of the Bay Bridge; from that angle,
Angel Island suddenly gained some real bulk, became taller, wider and more
formidable with many trees and giant rocks, holding steady facing the
currents of the Bay. The boat ride from Fisherman's Wharf in the city may
take much longer, but for us it was a rather brief ride, about 10 minutes,
more or less. Two vans were waiting there on the pier at the Island side
with friendly park rangers to greet us and take us to the station which is
just over the hills from the pier. The Station, which used to have a pier of its own, was built to process
newly arrived immigrants from all over the world, like Ellis Island in New
York. Unlike at Ellis Island, the real reason or intention, rather, to
relocate the immigration station here from the City, was to isolate the
new immigrants, the Chinese immigrants in particular. The Chinese were not
welcome here as the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act made amply clear. In those
days, the only way for a Chinese person to come to the land of gold was
through immediate family relation with earlier arrivals. Some in Canton,
indeed, had true relations while others bought faulty papers in the
streets, in order to escape the economic hardship in China at the time.
Little did they know what awaited them was a prison that promised no
escape. The Station was so designed to serve the dual purposes of cutting
off the newly arrived from other Chinese in the City and making it easier
for the authorities to interrogate and deport the undesirables. The
Station, although declared as unfit for human conditions by the
immigration authorities at the higher up levels, nevertheless opened for
business around 1910 and lasted three decades as a device and symbol of
"Chinese are unwelcome here." Biases and racism used to wear a very thin
mask, if not going buck naked. Asians or Orientals, as they were branded at the time, the Chinese in
particular, were singled out and treated cruelly. The Chinese peasants
were suspected, besides false entry, to have carried sordid diseases.
Several diseases of suspected as common among Chinese were listed as
sufficient reasons for deportation. Those who carried treatable diseases
would first have to check into the hospital on site for treatment before
their being processed for other faults. The unwelcome ceremony started by lining every boat person into the long
queue off the boat inside the maze of the administration building, Asians
and Europeans segregated of course. They were registered, checked out by
health officials, and then put into barracks, again segregated by race,
gender. Married couples were separated for the duration and children under
12 stayed with their mothers, while older boys were locked up in the
men's barracks. Already the Island promised no escape; once detained,
those immigrants also lost the privilege to wander off the premises as
even steps and walkways were enclosed with barbed wire. It was prison in
the truest sense. The thin mask of fairness illustrated itself in the fact
that every newly arrived must go through the process on the island; the
naked face of racism showed in that only the Chinese were kept there for
the longest time, up to several years for a few truly unfortunate while
most non-Chinese would get off the island in a matter of two to three
days. Some detainees even complained that Japanese POWs were treated with
more dignity than innocent Chinese at the same site. On average, many
Chinese spent up to three months in the barracks at the beginning; the
process was sped up somewhat under fierce protests and lobbying from
Chinese communities and diplomats off the Island. Who can blame them when the children of the Chinese immigrants are so
riled even today about such a harsh treatment of their parents and
grandparents several decades ago? The pain has cut deep and still hurts
in some hearts. The station was closed down only after the administration was destroyed in
a fire in 1940. Luckily nobody died. The barracks were later used to
detain POWs during WWII and the Island was handed to the US Army for a
period of time. Some time after the Army left the Island, it was converted
into a state park. Anyway, that day we came as honored guests. In our honor, the rangers
opened up the old hospital that is now falling apart; the staff had
noticed some writing on the walls in the hospital ward but wanted us to
verify if there is any significance in the drawing and writing. The
Chinese stairways were broken, so we had to go up, with the aid of
flashlights, the European stairway. There wasn't much to see except a few
scribbles by Japanese POWS. By contrast, the most amazing part of the Immigration Station has to be
the poems meticulously carved on the wooden walls of the Chinese men's
barracks as the Chinese women's barracks were burnt down inside the old
administration building. One can't help but notice the massive undertaking
and brave display of an unyielding human spirit in the poems. Their
writing converted this once cruel place into a Chinese or human legend. I have read many poems in Chinese. Poetry is such a constant in Chinese
culture, forever supplying strength, beauty and hope to the children of
the Yellow Emperor. Every character is cut out of an image. We were born
to breathe poetry in and out as our forefathers have made poetry an easier
access even to the common folks. Poetry in a magically Chinese way seems
to purify the soul from everyday dust and to provide those in predicament
with warmth and guidance to uplift their spirit to far and beyond.
Poetry is almost a Chinese religion, only the strength is drawn from
within, as opposed to from something almighty and above. Only those
children who can recite a few poems can be said of properly schooled and
cultured. So, it was almost logical to me that a bunch of hapless detainees locked
up in the dark and wet barracks in this forgotten corner of the world more
than half century ago found poetry. In my mind, the poetry surfaced from
within their souls when they had time to encounter themselves here. As one man
from Taishan put together the following lines. The wooden hut imprisonment produces nothing but boredom and sadness,
Here I often try to recall how many full moons my home village has had.
While folks at home wait anxiously by the door for my letters day by day,
who could I ask to pass the words of my being alive here to them? All of us in the wood prison feel the same boredom and sadness,
Here I recall how much hardship we had to endure to come thus far.
Nobody could tell us when we are allowed to get through this pass,
Months and years are wasted in great emptiness and helplessness. (Island, Poetry and History of Chinese Immigrants on Angel Island, 1910-1940,
Him Mark Lai, et al, page 152) This may not be great poetry. Still, what amazed me was how every inch of the
walls in two big rooms was covered with beautifully crafted characters of
poetry. Every inch reachable by the hand and eye was filled with calligraphy of
rather excellent apprenticeship of the art. The poems were put up in good order,
decent craftsmanship, and plenty of dignity, all indicated a highly organized
effort. More than half century later, the beauty of the calligraphy
determinedly shines through time and the many layers of paint, and still speaks
volumes about what went on in this corner of the world. What a massive
undertaking in a time of depression and hopelessness. The poetry may not be of
top notch quality, but the sheer number of the works can move mountains and part
the Bay. After walking through several rooms and staring at the characters painted
over, I could sense a well-organized life among the detainees, at least in
their effort to express themselves in poetry. Most of the Chinese
detainees were in their 20s and teens at the time. Their time spent
behind of the walls of the barracks was nothing but sheer agony and
frustration, sentiments that were clearly present in their poetry. But
the remarkable part was that they did not sulk in vain and emptiness as
they were entitled to do under such harsh light. Instead, they fell back
to this thousand year old Chinese tradition. They found a noble outlet
for their life's struggles in a foreign island where the angels were
conspicuously absent. Here there was teaching and learning of the ancient
art of the Chinese poetry in the classic tradition. They probably did
their poetry contests and went through their selection and calligraphy and
the meticulous carving process. They poured their heart out for us to
see. Yes, we see tears, twisted brows; but also the joy and satisfaction
of getting in touch with human spirit and reliving some of the moments of
their ancestors treading treacherous waters. There might be an elder who
led the young onto this path, a path that paved its way out of the
darkness of bias and hatred and into the light of human spirit triumphing
over cold rock and ocean water. It's said that the authorities in the station didn't like the walls to be
carved. So they scolded the young men who did the carving and ordered to
paint it over. But the writing and the teaching of the poetry couldn't be
suppressed. More were written on the paint; another layer of paint was
slapped on; at the end the paint is three layers deep. And more than half
a century later, the originally carved poems are the ones still reaching
out to the visitors through thick paint. Coming out of the barracks, I was dazzled by even the faint sunlight of
this late January day. I thought I saw a deer, but it was only a tree
stump. On the way back on the boat and in the car, I kept hearing voices
that seemed to be speaking across the corridors of time. Could angels write
poetry and speak Chinese? The heart encountering heavy grief would welcome
some rain, a heavy downpour ... Let's hope the ugly part of history will
never repeat itself so that angels could finally return to their habitat ... for good ... January 29-30, 2002
本贴由[三公子]最后编辑于：2009-3-6 15:8:36  --- |
天使摄影好手，解说清楚得当 
好久没见甚念 
