In Michael Hames-Garcia’s essay, “Which America Is Ours?”, he argues that ethnic American literature should be taught politically, not just aesthetically.  By “teaching politically” Hames-Garcia means teaching texts within their historical context, and in relation to the political and social environment today.  A key aspect of this context is conflict, which is central to ethnic American literature and any discussions about that literature.  However, this focus on conflict and politics does not mean Hames-Garcia wants teachers to slant the reading of text toward or away from the prevailing political agenda of the day (leaving out certain passages or avoid certain issues to skew a text or render it “politically correct”).  He wants the conflict to highlight the struggle of the author’s ethnic group as a minority in an oppressive society, and believes the only way to honestly discuss that core dynamic is to address it, inviting conflict into the student’s discussions so that various sides are heard and the issues are shown in their true roundness and complexity.

            I strongly agree with Hames-Garcia’s argument, and intend to teach ethnic American literature to my future students politically.  In fact, I couldn’t imagine teaching A Raisin in the Sun without addressing its historical context and bringing up the conflicts Hansberry mentions in the play.  Without knowing the actual housing struggles African Americans faced after WWII, the Younger’s story can seem like a sad but isolated anecdote.  Without understanding the attitudes of White Americans and property values based on a neighborhood’s racial make-up, characters like Carl Linder seems like a fictional trope rather than a realistic archetype.  In short, without the conflict the play lacks teeth, and as an aesthetic achievement may have some shine, but would feel unpalatably watered down.  In my future classroom, I would have to talk about “blockbusting” and the realities of race-based mortgage lending.  I would have my students grapple with Carl Linder’s position and the Youngers’ position, playing Devil’s Advocate to get them working around all sides of the issue.

A novel like No-No Boy ties so intimately into its history and the experiences of Japanese Americans during the early 20th century that it only makes sense in a political light.  What would be the point of focusing on its aesthetics alone?  It is not meant to be a “universal story,” adaptable to all times; No-No Boy, like much ethnic American literature, insists on its exclusion from the universal, on its author’s marginalized perspective in the oppressive majority-dominated society during a given era.  Philip Roth’s American Pastoral, while written by a Jewish American author, tells a much more “timeless” story, where the main character faces many of the successes and difficulties anyone could face in America during any time.  Ichiro’s central conflict, based on a unique decision, only makes sense in its context: only a young Japanese American man during WWII would have to make the choice he made, and endure the many consequences of that choice in the society of post-WWII America.  If I were to teach this novel, I would have my students discuss – debate, even – the interment of Japanese Americans and the decision Ichiro was forced to make.  If they were in his position, how would they react?  How Okada crafted his narrative is interesting, but the meat of the novel is its political commentary, its undeniable conflicts.

Similarly, Zoot Suit is deeply political – how else could you teach it?  As an absurd comedy?  A universal tale of youth culture being “misunderstood” by older generations?  Certainly that link can be made, but the play itself has so little meaning out of context.  This isn’t some fantastical story about a made-up subculture and some exaggerated legal fall-out – Chicano zoot suiters were exactly real, and the media-fueled legal circus honestly took place.  In America.

Valdez based Hank’s fictional court case on the real Sleepy Lagoon trial almost word for word, character for character, injustice for injustice.  The appeal process Hank and the 38th Street Gang endure involved nearly as much struggle as Henry Leyvas’ actual appeal.  The only thing that seems fictional after their legal ordeal is that the appeal is successful, even in America The Just.

This need to treat ethnic literature so politically is perhaps unique to America, or unique in its degree, because of the professed nature of American society, the foundational values and beliefs of this country (as established by the White majority).  On paper, the US is ardently pro-freedom, pro-independence, pro-equality.  However, the realities of the immigrant experience, the hardships suffered by minorities – and not just in some remote past, but even in the second half of the 20th century, after two World Wars made us prosperous and unified our nation against the oppressive regimes of our enemies – those hardships stick out more prominently, contradict our social mores so thoroughly, and are that much more galling in their breadth and depth and excess, than they would be in any other nation.  We are a land of immigrants – immigrants run this country, immigrants decimated the natives of this land, and immigrants have oppressed immigrants since the day the Pilgrims landed.

The variety of ethnic groups in America gives this nation more potential than any other to benefit from the talents and wisdom of the world’s many cultures.  Thus far, we’ve fallen very short of realizing that potential; the marginalization and oppression of minorities, throughout time, across the land, without ever truly a break, has and continues to weaken the positive impact ethnic minorities can make.  Therefore, ethnic American literature needs to be addressed in its context, complete with the unavoidable conflict that informs it.  The sooner we can all discuss the ugly truths that spurred minority authors to write, the sooner the true America we live in will resemble the still-fictional America our founders envisioned.