The Japanese have a saying, “Deru kugi ga utareru”—the nail that sticks out gets pounded down.
I did not hear this saying until I was an adult, but as soon as I heard it, I knew it was true. It was one of those unspoken rules that had ordered our lives; but not knowing what the rules were, we simply wondered if there was something peculiar about our family, or about us as individuals.
The Japanese value harmony, and the surest way to disrupt harmony is by creating difference—by insisting on one’s way, by challenging another’s opinion or authority, by asserting one’s individuality over the interests of the group. There is, therefore, an abhorrence of calling attention to oneself, a tendency which is often misinterpreted by the uninformed as “shyness.” It is not shyness. It is “good” social behavior which, when used among Japanese, preserves harmony. When a Japanese tries to use it with non-Japanese, especially Americans, who play by different rules, the Japanese usually gets the short end of the stick and ends up feeling pushed around.
Nowhere is this clearer than in my mother’s long-time relationship with Mrs. LaRue, the mother of my childhood friend Scarlet. When Scarlet was in medical school and I was living outside of matrimony with a divorced graduate school dropout, their lunchtime get-togethers were dominated by praise of Scarlet. When Scarlet became enamored with an Iranian engineer who was planning to go back to his home country after his studies were completed, Mrs. LaRue was vocal in her disapproval. “Good” or “bad,” Scarlet’s actions were always on display. Any action on my part which was “good” or “bad” beyond a certain range of acceptability was not talked about.
Inability to talk about me was used as leverage to try to make me behave within the limits of acceptability. “What am I supposed to say to my friends?” was one of the arguments used to apply pressure on me to get a marriage license. This argument had no weight to my Americanized mind, fortified by a belief in individuality and the sixties, and my response was, “Who cares what people think?”
But even exceptionally “good” behavior—accomplishments, promotions, etc.—was off limits. The Japanese concept of “self” includes those in one’s inner circle, i.e., family members. To brag about one’s family is to call attention to one’s self. Thus the Japanese tendency to belittle not only one’s own achievements, but also one’s possessions and family members. “Please accept this small gift. It is a thing of no value.” “I don’t know very much about this subject.” “Such foolish children.”
The trouble with saying this sort of thing to Americans is that Americans take you at your word. Can you imagine being asked to summarize your accomplishments in a performance appraisal, and saying, “I don’t think I did anything particularly outstanding”?
I was fortunate in that my mother had studied western psychology in college, and knew the dangers of self-fulfilling prophecy. She never disparaged us in public as some mothers did their children. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to brag, either. She usually compromised by falling into silence when others were bragging.
So my mother was constantly out-bragged by Mrs. LaRue. My mother sat through many lunches, hearing wonderful things about Scarlet’s “appropriate” husband, also a doctor (the Iranian engineer having returned to his home country), her two children, so bright, their large suburban house. All through the years, Mrs. LaRue was probably thinking, “Poor Mrs. Sasaki, her daughter turned out to be such a disappointment.” Because to an American, saying nothing means that there is nothing to say.
When my book was published, I was faced with the problem of how to promote it without seeming to be calling attention to myself. The ideal way, of course, is to have someone else sing my praises. However, as a maverick to both the writing and academic worlds, I was in a no-man’s land—an independent, out in the desert with only my publisher (a Midwestern small press), Publisher’s Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, and my family behind me. My publisher had counseled me on the realities of the publishing world. The average shelf life of a trade paperback was five weeks. Over 50,000 titles were published each year. Books published in hardcover by major publishing houses got most of the review space. I swallowed my pride and went from bookstore to bookstore, introducing myself and trying to persuade booksellers to carry and display my book. My assertiveness was limited, however; I found I could only introduce myself if the store had my book. Then I could thank them for carrying it and offer to sign their copies. If the store did not have my book, I did not know what to say, and would note the store name so I could send them a flyer, anonymously, later. In addition to storechecks, I set up readings and booksignings all over the Bay Area. I appeared at conferences and guest-lectured at college classes. I sent press releases to local papers to publicize the events.
During this process, I had several feelings I think only a Japanese-American imbued with the deru kugi concept would feel. I became somewhat self-conscious about the frequency with which my name appeared in Japanese-American newspapers. After writing a couple of articles for a local Japanese-American newspaper, I hesitated to write more. In my imaginings, the amount of attention I was garnering was turning the Japanese community against me. There I was, a deru kugi. I would be pounded down. I would be ignored, ostracized, criticized. Even though I was being invited to give readings and appear on panels, I felt I would be perceived as self-serving, ambitious. Other Japanese-American writers did not publicize themselves in this way. And that, I thought ironically, is why so many of them do not receive the attention they deserve.
That was also why, I thought, Asian-American writers tended to fall into two groups: those without strong ties to the community, who were discovered by mainstream publishing houses and became overnight sensations (like Amy Tan); and the guerilla artists—the ones who worked their way up within communities, forming strong alliances with other community artists, but who sometimes struggled for years to find a readership. The first group did not need to self-promote, promotion being handled by their big publishing houses. The second group promoted each other. I fell in between.
I did a few joint readings with other maverick writers. This was very consistent with the anti-deru kugi philosophy. The problem was that I didn’t know many other writers.
My aunt Kiyo said she could enclose a promotional flyer with notes to her friends. If my mother sent out flyers, Kiyo said, it would seem too much like bragging, since she was my mother. “I can do it,” Kiyo said, “because I’m not directly related.” This is how Japanese-Americans finesse the rules.
Even my mother overcame the deru kugi syndrome and started carrying flyers around in her purse, in case she ran into a friend who hadn’t heard about the book. As the reviews came in, she even started xeroxing those.
Through the years, my mother’s lunches with Mrs. LaRue have become more balanced, partly through my mother’s efforts to be more forthcoming, and partly because Mrs. LaRue has learned to “read” her. She knows there is more than meets the ear. The last time I saw Mrs. LaRue, she leaned over to me confidentially and said, “Everyone’s having babies and moving out to the suburbs—what a bore. At least you’re doing something interesting with your life.”
So it seems that the deru kugi syndrome is gradually fading after three generations of Americanization. I was raised to value humility, and I still see it as an admirable trait, but I have to admit that it never prevented me from wanting to stick out. I’m not sure how to reconcile that. The trick is to have a humble heart, and to wear humility when you can, but to be prepared to throw it off if it looks as if it’s going to prove fatal. Sometimes it’s tricky trying to satisfy the requirements of opposing values; but in the end, you just have to do what feels right.
(1992)
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