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3 Sohn et. al's call for papers clearly echoes this early impulse; as with “Asian ...... and class conflicts which are
 

1   The  game  is  not  up:  Reading  the  “Asian  American”  fiction     Tara  Fickle   Dissertation  Prospectus,  July  2011   Please  do  not  cite  or  circulate  without  permission  ([email protected])    

  “The   difference   between   us   and   other   pioneers,   we   did   not   come   here   for  the  gold  streets.  We  came  to  play.  And  we’ll  play  again.  Yes,  John   Chinaman  means  to  enjoy  himself  all  the  while.”           -­‐Maxine  Hong  Kingston,  Tripmaster  Monkey     Introduction:  The  post-­lapsarian  crisis  of  Asian  American  Studies   For   approximately   the   last   fifteen   years,   Asian   American   literary   studies   has   considered   itself   to   be   in   crisis.   In   1996,   Susan   Koshy   suggested   that   “radical   demographic   shifts   produced   within   the   Asian   American   community   by   the   1965   immigration   laws”   (Koshy   1996,   315)     had   destabilized   the   original   coherence   of   the   field;   Asian   American   Studies’   ensuing   lack   of   critical   engagement   with   such   shifts   had,   according   to   Koshy,   resulted   in   its   occupying  a  subordinate  position  in  the  broader  field  of  Ethnic  Studies;  what  differentiated   it   from   its   counterparts   of   Chicano,   Native   and   African   American   studies   was   this   “theoretical  weakness.”1       Koshy’s   anxiety   over   the   political   and   academic   relevance   and   stability   of   Asian   American   Studies   has   produced   many   echoes   in   the   ensuing   decade.   Just   last   year,   the   editors   of   a   special   issue   of   Modern   Fiction   Studies   entitled   “Theorizing   Asian   American                                                                                                                   1  The  context  of  this  claim  reads  as  follows:  “…significant  scholarly  energy  has  been  directed  towards  editing  

and  introducing  the  works  of  individual  or  groups  of  Asian  American  authors...Certainly,  some  degree  of  effort   in  sponsoring  the  work  of  newer  or  unfamiliar  writers  is  constructive  in  an  emergent  field,  but  it  cannot   assume  a  disproportionate  importance...  One  of  the  consequences  of  this  prioritization  of  scholarly  activity  has   been  a  theoretical  weakness  within  the  field.  When  this  problem  is  compounded  by  other  conditions  like  the   status  of  Asian  American  literature  as  an  emergent  field,  and  the  enormous  demand  among  readers  and   teachers  of  American  literature  for  guidance  in  interpreting  this  literature,  it  becomes  clearer  why  the   influence  of  the  few  critical  texts  to  undertake  an  analysis  of  the  entire  field  has  been  so  great.  Thus,  often   inadvertently,  these  evaluations  have  assumed  a  canon-­‐forming  power”  (Koshy  1996,  324,  emphasis  mine).  

 

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Fiction”  lamented  the  fact  that  “literary  critics  have  avoided  defining  and  categorizing  what   exactly   hallmarks,   embodies,   and   characterizes   Asian   American   literature”     (Sohn   et   al.   2010,   1),   signaling   the   difficulty   of   defining   the   field   if   a   coherent   Asian   American   community  could  no  longer  be  identified.  At  the  same  time,  the  editors  were  clearly  wary  of   falling   into   the   essentialist   trap   of   locating   the   embodiment   of   Asian   American   literature   in   a   biological   entity   called   “an   Asian   American.”   Thus,   their   initial   call   for   papers   asks,   “If   existing  rubrics  of  Asian  American  literature  problematically  collect  texts  under  the  eye  of   biology,   what   other   ways   might   Asian   Americanists   approach,   categorize,   and   consider   their   objects   of   study?”   The   editors   attempt   to   transcend   the   limitations   of   defining   race   as   a   biological   category,   but   their   method   of   widening   that   classification   relies   on   an   essentialism  of  a  paradoxical  nature:  not  a  singular  object  of  study,  but  a  singular  type  of   practitioner,   the   “Asian   Americanist,”   is   imagined   to   exist   before   the   literary   text   does.   Much   Asian   American   criticism   has   found   itself   trapped   in   a   version   of   this   tautology,   which,   if   it   does   not   attempt   to   dismiss   the   author’s   biology   in   favor   of   their   politics   or   aesthetics   only   to   re-­‐locate   the   Asian   American   body   in   the   academic,   it   tends   towards   a   disciplinary  essentialism,  which  substitutes  a  biological  body  for  an  institutional  one.   Certainly  the  diversity  of  post-­‐1965  Asian  immigrants  presents  a  critical  conundrum   that  encourages  a  turn  away  from  biology:  in  terms  of  class,  language,  point  of  origin  and   political   affiliation,   the   population   has   greatly   inflated,   perhaps   to   breaking   point,   the   spectrum  of  those  “objects  of  study”  with  which  Asian  American  Studies  must  grapple.  But   this   would   assume   that   the   term   “Asian   American,”   and   subsequently   “Asian   American   Literature,”   was   even   at   its   inception   a   stable   point   of   reference.   Such   an   assumption   clearly  underlies  Koshy’s  critique,  and  even  those  critics  who  suggest  a  turn  away  from  a  

 

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conception  of  Asian  American  Studies  as  the  study  of  Asian  Americans  –  Kandice  Chuh’s  call   for  a  “subjectless  discourse”  comes  immediately  to  mind  -­‐  seem  to  believe  that  there  was   indeed  a  moment,  perhaps  in  the  political  foment  of  the  1960s  during  which  the  term  first   came   into   being,   when   “Asian   American”   was   a   meaningful   referent   and   identifiable   subject-­‐position,  if  not  for  the  object  of  study,  at  least  for  the  studiers.2     Yet   one   need   only   consider   a   few   of   the   early   anthologies   of   Asian   American   literature,  the  immediate  material  consequences  of  the  term  “Asian  American”’s  academic   legitimization,  to  topple  the  fantasy  of  a  golden  age.  David  Hsin-­‐Fu  Wand’s  Asian  American   Heritage:  An  Anthology  of  Prose  and  Poetry  (1974),  which  was  published  just  before  -­‐  and   has   subsequently   been   overshadowed   by   -­‐   the   infamous   Aiiieeeee!,   opens   with   the   “existential  question:  What  is  an  Asian-­‐American?”  (Wand  2).  The  inquiry  is  significant  to   Wand  insofar  as  it  raises  the  question  of  who  counts  as  an  Asian  American  author  –  “Are   only   second-­‐generation,   third-­‐generation,   and   fourth-­‐generation   Chinese   brought   up   in   the   States   Asian-­‐Americans?   …   Should   we   include…writers   who   publish   exclusively   in   Chinese,   Japanese,   Korean,   and   Tagalog?”   (Wand   2-­‐3).3   Wand’s   concerns   do   not   extend   to   what   counts   as   Asian   American   content   -­‐   in   fact   suggesting   that   there   is   no   specific   Asian   American   content,   a   contention   reiterated   by   Colleen   Lye   thirty   years   later   when   she   claimed   that   “there   is   no   Asian   American   aesthetic”   (Lye   2008)   -­‐   or   what   counts   as   literature   in   the   first   place;   rather,   his   questions   circulate   in   the   nebulous   sphere   of   authorial  identity.  Ultimately,  he  takes  refuge  in  the  formal  quality  of  the  texts  –  their  voice                                                                                                                   2  An  upcoming  course  to  be  taught  at  UC  Berkeley  by  Colleen  Lye,  a  prominent  critic  Asian  of  American  

literature,  entitled  “What  Was  Asian  American  Literature?”,  takes  its  cue  from  Kenneth  Warren’s  What  Was   African  American  Literature?  in  presupposing,  too,  that  some  body  of  texts  identifiable  as  “Asian  American   Literature”    also  once  existed.   3  Sohn  et.  al’s  call  for  papers  clearly  echoes  this  early  impulse;  as  with  “Asian  Americanists,”  the  turn  to  the   “Asian  American  author”  must  consider  the  body  of  the  writer  or  critic  as  the  determining  criteria,  rather   than  the  content  of  the  writing  or  the  object  of  study.  

 

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–   and   concludes   that   “[c]ontemporary   Asian-­‐American   writing   has   many   distinct   and   eloquent   voices”   (Wand   22).   What   Wand   ends   up   doing,   in   other   words,   is   invoking   the   synthetic  fantasy  of  the  very  term  whose  endless  diversity  caused  him  such  difficulty  in  the   first   place,   suggesting   that   the   question   (“What   is   an   Asian-­‐American?”)   can   be   resolved   by   the   process   of   anthologization   (and   canonization,   though   he   does   not   use   the   word),   which   for  him  consists  of  conducting  a  barrage  of  disparate  voices  into  a  harmonic  arrangement,   such  that  the  rumblings  of  internal  difference  somehow  resolve  themselves  into  a  chorus   rather  than  a  cacophony.   Later   that   year,   Jeffery   Paul   Chan,   Frank   Chin,   Lawson   Fusao   Inada,   and   Shawn   Wong’s   anthology   of   Asian   American   literature,   Aiiieeeee!,   grappled   with   the   same   “existential”   question   by   taking   an   essentially   ethnographic   approach.   The   first   sentence   of   the  preface  reads,  “Asian  Americans  are  not  one  people  but  several  –  Chinese  Americans,   Japanese   Americans,   and   Filipino   Americans.”   (Chan   et   al.   1974,   xi)   Adopting   an   anthropological   distance,   the   editors   invoke   the   spectre   of   racial   essentialism   –   the   all-­‐ encompassing   label   of   “Oriental”   that   historically   lumped   together   all   Asians   as   “one   people”  –  which  the  newly  coined  “Asian  American”  was  created  to  banish.  From  the  outset,   then,   the   reader   is   reminded   that   the   process   of   self-­‐identification   for   a   racial   subject   is   always   in   danger   of   reinscribing   the   process   of   identification   by   others   (and,   in   its   reduced   form,   stereotyping4).   The   editors   attempt   to   subvert   this   danger   by   resorting,   as   Wand   did,   to  voice:  “Asian  America,  so  long  ignored  and  forcibly  excluded  from  creative  participation   in  American  culture,  is  wounded,  sad…and  this  is  his  AIIIEEEEE!!!  It  is  more  than  a  whine,                                                                                                                  

4  which  is,  in  a  sense,  what  Asian  Americanists  do  by  identifying  certain  representations  in  Asian  American  

literature  as  more  “authentic”  than  others;  see  Mark  Chiang’s  discussion  of  positive  stereotypes  in  The   Cultural  Capital  of  Asian  American  Studies,  to  be  discussed  further.  

 

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shout,   or   scream.   It   is   fifty   years   of   our   whole   voice”   (xii).   The   rhetorical   strategy   here   is   more  complex  than  Wand’s,  though;  it  involves  the  imagining  of  Asian  America,  a  national   body   politic,   which   is   at   first   rendered   masculine   and   then   not   so   much   a   body   as   a   mouth,   a   mouth   whose   utterance   is   not   word   but   sound,   and   then   not   simply   sound   but   voice.   What  began  in  Wand  as  a  chorus  of  voices  has  now  fused  into  a  singular  shriek  of  aesthetic   expression.   This   impressive   image,   however,   still   fails   to   resolve   the   incoherence   of   the   term   “Asian   American”;   what   it   does   instead   is   substitute   the   incoherence   of   the   term   with   the  incoherence  of  the  cry.   Seventeen   years   after   the   publication   of   Aiiieeeee!,   the   editors   added   a   second   preface  to  the  newly  released  “Mentor  Edition.”  Again  they  invoke  the  metaphor  of  Asian   America   as   a   national   body,   but   they   are   quick   to   introduce   an   alternate   nomenclature   –   “yellows”  –  to  reinforce  the  possibility  of  coherence.  The  term  “yellows,”  in  my  opinion,  is   intended   to   reanimate   the   political   affiliations   with   African   Americans   which   initially   galvanized  the  1970s  Asian  American  Studies  movement  (initially  part  of  the  Third  World   Liberation   Front),   and   in   recalling   this   interracial   alliance,   to   seek   an   interchangeability   between   Asian   American   and   “yellow”   that   seemed   to   have   been   effortlessly   achieved   between  African  American  and  “black”  (and,  for  that  matter,  American  and  “white”).5  The   1991  preface  ends  by  identifying  not  only  yellow  authors  and  critics,  but  readers  as  well,  as   the  constituent  parts  of  “Asian  America,”  with  the  editors  at  the  head  of  an  expedition  into   that   country   “to   find   the   readers   and   the   writers   who   together   made   Asian   American                                                                                                                   5  Such  a  strategy  is  of  course  familiar  to  many  minority  movements,  in  which  a  previously  pejorative  term  is  

“reclaimed”  for  the  purpose  of  empowering  self-­‐identification.  What  is  interesting  is  that,  whereas  this   process  appears  to  have  been  so  successful  in  the  institutionalization  of  a  field  like  Queer  studies,  the  attempt   to  do  the  same  with    “yellow”  failed  in  short  order,  perhaps  because  it  existed  simultaneously  with  “Asian   American.”  

 

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literature”   (Chan   et   al.   1991,   xli).6   Such   a   rhetorical   move   personifies   the   individual   ethnicities   (Chinese,   Japanese,   etc.)   that   have   aggregated   into   the   pan-­‐ethnic   designation   “Asian  American,”  implying  that  the  lateral  relationships  between  those  sub-­‐groups  can  be   metaphorically   understood   as   the   interactions   between   reader,   writer,   and   critic,   each   acting  as  a  type  of  representative  “constituency”  in  the  Asian  American  body  politic.   The   anxiety   over   what   (or   who)   is   Asian   American,   and   what   is   (or   was)   Asian   American   literature,   clearly   first   became   articulable   through   the   process   of   canonization   and  anthologization,  for  any  attempt  to  group  and  introduce  the  texts  automatically  called   attention  to  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  common  thread  beyond  that  which  was  handed  down   by   governmental   and   social   discourses.   Perhaps   it   was   the   proliferation   of   available   “Asian   American”  texts  to  choose  from  that  made  this  task  difficult  from  the  very  beginning,  and   the   fact   that   one   could   make   a   choice   at   all   implied   that   perhaps   the   term   “Asian   American   literature”   was   already   too   small   to   account   for   the   unwieldy   largeness   of   the   material   products   that   it   culled   from.   Far   from   being   able   to   focus   on   the   conversation   between   texts,   or   what   was   being   said   within   them,   the   presiding   concern   for   Asian   American   literary   anthologies   was   over   who   was   being   excluded   from   the   discussion,   who   was   being   denied   a   voice   –   in   effect,   rehearsing   the   impossibility   of   a   single   text   to   represent   any   particular   group,   and   the   impossibility   of   “Asian   American”   to   represent   all   of   the   individual  ethnicities  under  its  aegis.  That  synecdochical  relationship,  which  is  essential  to   the  project  of  canonization  more  generally,  presaged  the  academic  debates  over  minority   literature  in  the  larger  canon  of  20th-­‐century  American  fiction  taught  in  American  schools                                                                                                                  

6  Like  Sohn  and  others,  Wong  et.  al’s  claim  here  clearly  attempts  to  retroactively  insist  upon  a  history  for  

Asian  American  literature,  suggesting  that  it  is  already  in  place  at  the  time  of  anthologization,  rather  than   recognizing  that  anthologization  itself,  or  the  formation  of  a  readership,  is  responsible  for  this  invention.  

 

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that   became   the   focus   of   John   Guillory’s   Cultural   Capital,   a   text   which   I   intend   to   explore   further  to  help  clarify  the  position  of  Asian  American  and  ethnic  literature  vis-­‐à-­‐vis  generic   convention.     Research  Question:  Playing  the  “Asian  American”  game   By  failing  to  interrogate  the  ways  in  which  both  parts  of  the  appellation  “Asian  American”   function  as  synecdochic  fictions,  numerous  critics  of  Asian  American  literature,  and  Asian   American   Studies   more   broadly,   have   tended   to   focus   too   strongly   on   the   second   term.   For   example,   David   Palumbo-­‐Liu’s   well-­‐received   Asian/America   opens   with   the   following   contention:   “…the   persistent   deferral   of   the   status   of   ‘American’   to   ‘hyphenated’   Americans…begs  the  question  of  the  precise  constitution  of  the  totality  presumed  to  inhere   beneath   the   signifier   ‘American’”   (Palumbo-­‐Liu   1999,   1).   The   implication   is   that   the   critical   project   of   Asian   American   Studies   should   be   to   lay   bare   the   processes   by   which   such   a   totality  has  become  invisible;  in  other  words,  the  historical  events  which  have  masked  the   simultaneity   of   “white”   and   “American”   which   the   editors   of   Aiiieeeee!   responded   to   with   their  use  of  the  term  “yellows.”    

But   what   about   the   totality   presumed   to   inhere   beneath   the   signifier   “Asian”?   By  

asking  this  question,  I  am  not  trying  to  be  facetious  or,  for  that  matter,  particularly  critical   of   work   like   Palumbo-­‐Liu’s,   the   relevance   of   which   is   indisputable   for   establishing   a   historical   understanding   of   Asian   racial   formation.   However,   it   is   clear   to   me   that,   just   as   we   have   falsely   assumed   the   existence   of   Asian   American   bodies   –   be   they   individual   physiologies,   bodies   of   literature,   or   body   politics   –   we   have   also   too   easily   accepted   the   existence   of   something   called   “Asia,”   simply   because   it   appears   to   be   the   lowest   common  

 

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denominator   among   Chinese,   Japanese,   Koreans,   Vietnamese,   Cambodians,   Laotians,   Indians,  Mongolians,  Malays,  etc.  etc.  etc.  In  reality,  there  is  no  place  called  “Asia.”  There  is   no  singular  point  on  a  map  which  one  can  point  to;  it  merely  serves  as  spatial  shorthand  for   an  aggregate  mass  of  continuous  land  which  we  call  a  continent.  While  I  am  not  well-­‐versed   in   the   historical   processes   by   which   the   naming   of   the   continents   occurred,   it   appears   logical   to   assume   that   the   name   “Asia”   originally   indexed   an   undifferentiated   conglomeration   of   space,   the   internally-­‐drawn   boundaries   of   which,   to   early   European   explorers,   were   considered   mostly   arbitrary   and,   until   trading   relations   and   colonization   began  in  earnest,  remained  semantically  irrelevant.   What  I  am  attempting  to  draw  our  attention  to,  through  this  seeming  tangent,  is  that   the  term  “Asian”  is  as  much  a  totalizing  fiction  as  “American”  is,  a  cartographic  fantasy  of   continuity   and   contiguity   that   must   always   occur   in   order   to   draw   even   the   most   rudimentary  map.  The  fact  that  “Asiatics”  became  a  legal  classification  by  way  of  eugenics   (a   process   which   is   well-­‐narrated   by   Palumbo-­‐Liu)   tends   to   impress   an   apparently   biological   truth-­‐value   upon   the   term,   such   that   race   is   real   because   space   is   real.   In   this   sense,  any  critical  engagement  with  the  problems  that  crop  up  when  organizing  a  field  of   study  around  biology  (as  Sohn  et.  al  were  concerned  with)  must,  I  think,  also  consider  the   ways  in  which  cartography  is  the  original  fiction  which  underlies  biological  determinism.  In   other   words,   map-­‐making   and   body-­‐making   are   both   attempts   at   fictional   representation   which  always  seem  to  point  to  a  material  reality,  be  it  a  tract  of  land  or  a  strand  of  DNA,  but   which  in  fact  rely  upon  a  fictional  correlation  between  part  and  whole.   Examining   the   logical,   rather   than   merely   legal,   contradictions   and   abstractions   required  to  create  the  term  “Asian  American”  seems  to  me  a  useful  point  of  departure  for  a  

 

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new  body  of  Asian  American  critical  studies  which  highlights  the  multiplicity  of  discursive   fictions  behind  the  term’s  application  to  institutional  or  physical  bodies.  A  theoretical  work   which  I  find  useful  in  this  respect  is  Mark  Chiang’s  The  Cultural  Capital  of  Asian  American   Studies.   For   me,   the   theoretical   power   of   Chiang’s   analysis   arises   from   his   application   of   Pierre   Bourdieu’s   theories   of   cultural   capital   and   institutional   practice   to   Asian   American   Studies.  Arguing  that  “Asian  American”  should  be  seen  as  a  form  of  symbolic  capital  which   accrues   to   those   who   identify   as   such,   Chiang   convincingly   rewrites   the   traditional   narrative   of   the   institutionalization   of   Ethnic   Studies   (of   which   the   Asian   American   Studies   department   was   a   product)   beginning   at   San   Francisco   State   University   in   1967/8.   He   suggests  that  the  protesters’  call  for  representation,  which  has  generally  been  understood   as   a   desire   to   make   visible   the   so-­‐called   marginalized   histories   and   suppressed   voices   of   ethnic   minorities,   or,   in   other   words,   as   a   demand   to   see   those   histories   represented   alongside   a   “master   narrative”   of   American   history   in   higher   education,   can   be   more   productively   understood   as   the   goal   to   establish   an   institutional   conduit   for   the   accumulation  of  a  specific  form  of  cultural  capital.     Thus,   the   present   crisis   and   “theoretical   weakness”   of   Asian   American   Studies   is   helpfully    clarified  by  Chiang  to  be  a  consequence   of  the  “weakly  institutionalized  status  of   Asian   American   Studies”   (Chiang   2009,   15).   The   reason   hinges   upon   the   paradoxical   relationship   that   the   term   “Asian   American”   has   with   representation:   unlike   political   representation,   which   at   least   nominally   depends   on   the   election   of   a   representative   by   their   constituency,   one   simply   “chooses”   to   call   oneself,   and   hence   becomes,   an   Asian   American,   meaning   that   the   resulting   community   of   Asian   Americans   is   essentially   the   product  of  a  self-­‐legitimating  politics  of  recognition  (a  process  which  relies  on,  and  is  thus  

 

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dangerously   close   to,   the   essentializing   function   that   the   earlier   term   “Oriental”   served).     Chiang  clarifies  the  positions  that  Wand  and  Chan  et  al.  staked  out  nearly  forty  years  ago  by   suggesting  that      

disparate  individuals  and  groups  are  held  together  under  the  Asian  American   designation   only   by   an   interest.   This   interest,   however,   is   not   a   “common”   one  insofar  as  that  implies  a  unitary  and  homogeneous  subject.  Instead,  it  is  a   competitive   interest   signifying   by   acting   against   but   also   with   others   in   the   pursuit  of  some  object  or  end,  which  in  this  instance  is  the  specific  capital  of   the  Asian  American  field,  or  what  I  call  the  political  capital  of  representation.   (Chiang  2009,  14,  emphasis  original)  

  This   passage   offers   a   way   to   render   intelligible   the   chorus   of   voices   or   incoherent   cry   of   “Asian   American,”   what   Frank   Chin   made   explicit   when   he   asked,   “What   holds   the   Asian   Americas  together,  right  now,  at  about  half  past  dead?  Aiiieeeee!”7  The  scream  can  now  be   read   as   the   frustrated   desire   for   a   stake   in   the   cultural   economy,   frustrated   not   simply   because   it   has   been   denied   representation,   but   because   the   desire   is   itself   agonistic   (competitive).   “Aiiieeeee!,”   and,   equally,   “Asian   American,”   faces   theoretical   or   institutional   weakness   precisely   because   the   utterance   constantly   rehearses   the   fragility   of   the   bonds   which   create   communal   identity,   fragile   because   the   strategic   essentialism   required   for   group   representation   must   continually   suppress   the   antagonism   of   individual   difference   that  threatens  to  erupt.       By   defining   the   process   of   becoming   or   creating   an   “Asian   American”   as   agonistic   (agon,   the   root   morpheme   in   “antagonism”   and   like   words,   is   the   Greek   term   for   “the   contest   for   the   prize   at   the   games”   [Oxford   English   Dictionary],   its   original   meaning   of   “gathering   or   assembly”   having   undergone   semantic   narrowing   via   its   association   with   gaming   arenas),   we   can   read   the   interplay   of   the   terms   “Asian”   and   “American”   –   a                                                                                                                   7  Chin,  “Come  all  ye  Asian  American  Writers  of  the  Real  and  Fake”  in  The  Big  Aiiieeeee!,  1991,  p.92.  

 

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combination  which  is  in  the  first  place  by  no  means  natural  or  uncontested,  and  the  mid-­‐ 1990s   saw   many   attempts   to   decide   how   to   most   accurately   formulate   it,   whether   as   hyphenated,  unhyphenated,  or  with  solidus  (cf.  Palumbo-­‐Liu,  Asian/America)  –  as  itself  an   exercise   in   competition.   Failing   to   recognize   that   the   formation   of   a   racial   identity   like   “Asian  American”  is  fundamentally  a  play  on  words,  a  play  with  words  like  “yellow”  meant   to   suppress   other   words   like   “Oriental,”   “Jap,”   or   “gook,”   obscures   the   fact   that   the   discursive   processes   surrounding   institutionalization   of   all   sorts,   be   it   of   an   academic   department  or  of  racism  itself,  in  many  ways  resembles  the  playing  of  a  game.  To  talk  about   Asian  American  literature  in  terms  of  gaming  is  not  to  denounce  it  as  a  trivial  pursuit,  and   neither   is   it   an   imposition   of   cynicism   upon   the   texts,   as   if   to   criticize   the   authors   for     “playing  up”  their  Asian  Americanness  to  the  publishing  world.  I  want  to  emphasize  a  point   that  J.  Huizinga,  the  earliest  theorist  of  game  theory  and  modern  culture,  himself  made:  that   many   games   are   not   immediately   apparent   as   “play,”   for   they   are   usually   very   serious   indeed,   but   that   “fun”   and   “game”   are   not   perfect   translations   of   one   another;   indeed,   seriousness  is  often  an  index  of  the  absorptive  capacity  of  a  game,  rather  than  an  indication   of  its  “playfulness.”   A  universal  byproduct  of  institutionalization  is  the  creation  of  game  spaces,  and  the   way   in   which   we   understand   institutions   is   clear   from   the   way   in   which   we   speak   of   them:   one  “plays  by  the  rules”  of  institutions,  be  they  legally  explicit  or  socially  implied.  Indeed,   the   syntax   of   game-­‐play   is   sometimes   the   only   way   that   we   can   articulate   a   subject’s   interaction   with   institutional   sites,   to   the   point   that   an   idiomatic   phrase   like,   “One   must   play  the  game  to  get  ahead”  ceases  to  have  metaphorical  power  and  appears  to  be  simply  a   cliché.   I   do   not   think   it   a   great   leap   of   logic   to   suggest,   then,   that   institutions   can   in   part   be  

 

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defined  by  their  ability  to  elide  easy  literalization,  instead  forcing  those  within  the  system   to  utilize  the  diction  of  games  and  play  to  represent  all  aspects  of  that  system.  Essentially,   the   subject   is   invited,   if   not   actually   encouraged,   to   see   himself   as   a   game   player,   to   wholly   focus  his  attention  on  the  seemingly  endless  range  of  choices  and  decisions  that  can  help   him  “climb  the  ladder,”  “beat  the  boss  at  his  own  game,”  or  “win  respect”  from  his  fellows.  It   seems  to  me  that  institutions  most  successfully  achieve  this  by  disguising  through  various   means   (not   least   of   which   can   be   seen   in   the   conversion   of   economic   capital   into   its   immaterial   forms),   the   ways   in   which   “choice”   is   a   fiction:   a   player   might   move   to   any   position   he   wishes,   but   the   one   move   he   cannot   make   is   the   one   that   would   take   him   beyond  the  game  itself.     Whether   games   can   be   understood   as   small-­‐scale   precursors   for   institutions   (cf.   Huizinga),   or   if   our   obsession   with   games   is   the   consequence   of   institutionalization   (cf.   Caillois   and   Baudrillard),   the   two   have,   in   the   current   moment,   become   mutually   constitutive,   such   that   modern   man   sees   no   contradiction   between,   on   the   one   hand,   “making  a  game”  out  of  accomplishing  the  mundane  tasks  of  daily  life,  and  at  the  same  time   spending  one’s  free  time  planting  virtual  seeds,  harvesting  virtual  crops,  and  hiring  virtual   laborers;   in   other   words,   playing   a   game   like   “Farmville”   or   its   hundreds   of   spin-­‐offs.   Indeed,   the   two   activities   are   simply   mirror   images   of   one   another:   both   seek   to   “make   work  fun,”  and  the  only  thing  which  distinguishes  them  is  the  amount  of  energy  required  to   maintain  the  fictional  boundaries  or  “virtuality”  of  the  game.   The  relevance  of  this  state  of  affairs  for  the  current  project  exists  in  understanding   racial   formation   as   an   institutional   byproduct   which   can   itself   find   articulation   only   in   terms   of   games.   The   most   obvious   example   of   this   is   the   accusation   that   one   is   “playing   the  

 

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race  card.”  A  literal  translation  of  this  phrase  cannot  be  rendered  without  reproducing  the   metaphor   of   race   as   a   representation   on   the   level   of   the   game   piece   or   playing   card   –   in   essence,  we  cannot  understand  race  at  all,  or  for  that  matter  attempt  to  dismiss  it,  without   falling  back  upon  its  supposed  materiality,  whether  that  be  biological  or  social.  Anne  Cheng,   in  The  Melancholy  of  Race,  draws  attention  to  this  conundrum:   Holding   a   “full   deck”   may   imply   some   idealized   version   of   multisubjectivity   (that   is,   the   potential   to   play   the   race   card,   the   gender   card,   the   immigrant   card,  and  so  forth),  but  it  also  implies  a  state  of  mental  health  and  completion   that  renders  such  playing  unnecessary  in  the  first  place.  One  would  “play”  a   card   only   because   one   is   already   outside   the   larger   game,   for   to   play   a   card   is   to   exercise   the   value   of   one’s   disadvantage,   the   liability   that   is   asset.   The   paradox  doubles:  the  one  who  plays  with  a  full  deck  not  only  need  not  play  at   all  but  indeed  has  no  such  “card”  to  play.  Only  those  playing  with  less  than  a   full  deck  need  apply.  (Cheng  2001,  103,  emphasis  original)     The  racialized  subject  emerges,  in  Cheng’s  argument,  as  spectator,  which  is  no  surprise;  in   her  version  of  the  metaphor,  “spectator”  is  synonymous  with  “Other.”  But  it  is  precisely  the   way   in   which   she   characterizes   the   behavior   of   this   spectator   which   belies   an   attempt   to   fuse   race   and   mental   state   into   the   singular   metaphor   of   the   playing   card;   to   participate,   as   a  spectator,  is  to  break  the  illusion  of  the  game’s  sacred  boundaries,  and  the  consequence  is   to  appear  deluded  oneself,    like  a  bystander  leaning  forward  to  place  a  domino  on  the  table   in   the   middle   of   a   poker   game.   Ultimately,   her   logic   distorts   the   metaphor   by   failing   to   acknowledge   the   central   image   with   all   of   its   self-­‐contained   rules,   rules   which   appear   contradictory  when  transposed  literally  onto  the  real  world.  More  to  the  point,  there  can  be   no  “outside”  the  game,  because  the  social  world  is  itself  a  game;  if  the  racialized  subject  has   been  encouraged  to  see  herself  as  a  spectator,  she  is  still  only  given  meaning  in  relation  to  

 

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that   game,   whether   or   not   she   is   required   to   imagine   herself   as   an   outsider   looking   in,   a   viewer  who  takes  vicarious  pleasure  in  occupying  a  bird’s  eye  view.8   What   has   hopefully   become   clear   by   this   point   is   that   the   reasons   behind   the   creation   of   “Asian   American”   as   a   term,   and   its   subsequent   institutionalization   as   “Asian   American   Studies,”   are   nearly   identical   to   the   reasons   that   games   are   played   in   the   first   place.  As  Roger  Caillois  has  pointed  out,  the  essential  feature  common  to  all  conventional   games   is   that   they   seek   to   nullify   all   forms   of   advantage.   In   both   games   of   pure   skill   and   those   of   pure   chance,   what   Caillois   respectively   refers   to   as   alea   and   agon,   the   decisive   purpose   of   the   game   is   to   make   all   players   exactly   equal   or,   in   other   words,   to   make   the   game   completely   fair:   “…all   must   play   with   exactly   the   same   possibility   of   proving   their   superiority  or,  on  another  scale,  exactly  the  same  chances  of  winning”  (Caillois  1961,  19).   And   this   is   precisely   the   same   desire   underwriting   the   logic   of   civil   rights   and   socialist   ideology:  the  attempt  to  nullify  unfair  advantage,    which  in  this  case  can  be  defined  as  racial   or  class  privilege.  The  goal  of  establishing  minority  rights  has  always  been  to  give  everyone   an  equal  chance  -­‐  to,  as  they  say,  “level  the  playing  field”  such  that  being  born  white  or  rich   is   not   a   boon   -­‐   and   in   doing   so   eliminating   social   stratification   arising   from   biological   determinism.   We  can  also  see  the  extent  to  which  academic  institutionalization  is  invested  in  this   rhetoric   of   “fair   play.”   As   Huizinga,   Caillois   and   others   point   out,   a   seeming   peculiarity   of   many   games,   particularly   mental   ones   like   crosswords   or   mazes,   is   that   they   contain   no                                                                                                                   8  This  is  another  way  of  phrasing  W.E.B.  DuBois’  concept  of  “double  consciousness”;  in  this  case,  one  sees  

oneself  not  as  abjected  other,  but  as  spectator,  at  the  same  time  that  one  watches  the  game  being  played.  An   exit  strategy  might  appear  to  be  seeing  the  game  as  a  game  –  seeing  “through”  the  game  (cf.  Seltzer’s  “Parlor   Games”)  –  but  such  a  process  of  recognition  is  already  built  into  the  structure  of  the  game  itself  and,  in  fact,  is   required  to  become  a  successful  player.  

 

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material  stakes  beyond  personal  satisfaction.  This  is  the  condition  Caillois  calls  ludus,   the   imposed   “ruleness”   of   games   which   disciplines   and   complements   paidia,   which   he   considers  to  be  the  spontaneous  exuberance  and  turbulence  which  characterizes  the  play   of   children   (the   term   paidia   is   Greek   for   child-­‐rearing   or   education).   Thus,   the   ultimate   expression  of  ludus  is  “the  pleasure  experienced  in  solving  a  problem  arbitrarily  designed   for   this   purpose…so   that   reaching   a   solution   has   no   other   goal   than   personal   satisfaction   for  its  own  sake”  (Caillois  1961,  29).9     Whereas   most   critics   tend   to   refer   to   all   forms   of   gameplay   as   “ludic,”   Caillois’   helpful   distinction   allows   us   to   better   see   the   connection   between   ludus   and   institutionalization,   as   well   as   to   posit   a   framework   in   which   the   specific   types   of   game   spaces  created  by  institutionalization  (as  I  spoke  of  earlier)  are  ludic  in  design,  which  allow   for   expressions   of   paidia   only   within   their   boundaries.   Bernard   Suits,   whose   extremely   influential  book  The  Grasshopper:  Games,  Life  and  Utopia  (1978)  continues  to  be  a  driving   force  behind  contemporary  game  theory  criticism,  clarifies  this  connection  further  when  he   defines  a  game  as  “a  system  of  reciprocally  enabling  moves  whose  purpose  is  the  continued   operation   of   the   system”   (Suits   1978,   135).   Insofar   as   we   can   understand   academic   institutions  to  be  social  systems,  this  definition  of  games  is  perfectly  transportable  into  our   discussion   of   Asian   American   Studies.   What   Koshy   and   others   have   seen   as   a   crisis   of   representation   I   see   as   a   series   of   “reciprocally   enabling   moves”   –   publication,   pedagogy   and  intellectual  exchange  –  which  are  not  merely  concerned  with  the  seeming  impossibility                                                                                                                   9  This  insight  also  highlights  the  fictionality  of  play  itself,  in  that  most  games  tend  to  contain  within  them  (and  

in  fact  can  ultimately  be  traced  to)  a  narrative  which  explains  their  limits  and  their  choices  of  representation.   For  example,  in  the  game  of  chess,  the  monarchical  narrative  gives  the  pieces  their  names,  as  is  evident  not   only  with  the  queen  and  king,  but  also  the  fact  that  “knights”  are  fashioned  to  resemble  horses,  which  can   “jump”  around  on  the  board.  

 

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of   defining   an   object   of   study.   Rather,   the   field   itself   depends   on   the   indeterminacy   -­‐   or   undecideability,   or   whatever   one   wishes   to   call   it   –   of   the   term   “Asian   American.”   That   term’s   incoherence   is   in   fact   what   allows   for   the   perpetuation   of   Asian   American   Studies   itself.    

Games  are  thus  implicated  in  the  various  processes  of  representation  that  allow  us  

to  articulate  racial  formation  and  to  perceive  its  perpetuation  through  institutional  means.   Of  particular  interest  to  a  literary  analysis  of  games  is  a  tertiary  function,  what  I  will  loosely   term  “character  development.”  This  is  an  area  of  inquiry  that  draws  on  social  anthropology,   cognitive   psychology,   and   performance   theory,   and   will   elucidate   the   ways   in   which   “Asian   American”   can   be   productively   understood   as   not   only   an   institutional   byproduct   or   an   equalizing  force  but  as  “character”  itself.    

The  liminality  of  game  spaces  is  the  force  behind  much  of  their  ability  to  function  as  

character   development.   Developed   by   Arnold   van   Gennep   and   Victor   Turner,   liminality   refers  to    “in-­‐between  situations  and  conditions  that  are  characterized  by  the  dislocation  of   established  structures,  the  reversal  of  hierarchies,  and  uncertainty  regarding  the  continuity   of   tradition   and   future   outcomes”.10     It   provides   a   useful   model   for   studying   “events   or   situations   that   involve   the   dissolution   of   order,   but   which   are   also   formative   of   institutions   and   structures”11;   in   other   words,   game   spaces.   As   suggested   earlier,   games   are   characterized   by   their   simultaneous   perpetuation   and   destruction   of   institutional   inequalities,   and   this   is   in   many   cases   achieved   through   the   fiction   of   choice   or   chance.     Perceiving   gamespaces   as   rites   of   passage   (tribal   rites   of   passage   were   the   source   of   van                                                                                                                   10  Agnes  Horvath,  Bjørn  Thomassen,  and  Harald  Wydra,  “Liminality  and  Cultures  of  Change,”  International  

Political  Anthropology  (3),  2009.  Also  see  Turner  (1982)  and  van  Gennep  (1960).   11  Arpad  Szakolczai,  “Liminality  and  Experience:  Structuring  transitory  situations  and  transformative  events,”   International  Political  Anthropology  (3),  2009.  

 

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Gennep’s   initial   formulation   of   preliminal,   liminal,   and   postliminal   stages)   allows   us   to   investigate  the  ways  in  which  they  develop  various  forms  of  character  and  identity  through   their  encouragement  of  role-­‐playing.    

Augusto  Boal  offers  an  initial  point  of  affinity  between  role-­‐playing  and  games,  for  

he  identifies  the  birth  of  modern  theater  in  the  figure  of  Thespis  of  Icaria,  the  6th-­‐century   B.C.   actor   said   to   be   the   first   to   ever   “play   a   character”   rather   than   speak   as   himself   on   stage.   Attempting   to   directly   address   the   Athenian   statesman   Solon,   who   was   that   day   in   attendance,  Thespis  broke  from  his  place  in  the  Chorus  in  the  midst  of  the  performance  and   delivered   a   monologue   outlining   his   political   views.   In   doing   so,   “[w]ithout   realising   it,   Thespis  had  created  the  Protagonist,  the  Proto,  the  First,  the  one  who  stands  alone,  the  one   who   rebels,   thinks   and   acts   for   himself   –   without   mimesis,   without   mimicry,   without   imitating  anyone”  (Boal  2008,  xiii).  After  being  chastised  and  threatened  for  this  outburst,   Thespis   “invented  disguise:  the  Mask  (this,  which  looks  like  me,  is  not  me,  it   is   another   –   it   is  the  Character)”  which  revolutionized  the  stage  and  cleaved  the  actor’s  body:  “Actor  and   Character,  previously  one  and  the  same,  were  now  separated  and  made  into  two:  Man  and   Mask”  (xiv).    

This   cleavage   is,   of   course,   built   upon   the   fundamentals   of   gameplay.   The   term  

“protagonist”   returns   us   to   the   root   of   agon   itself,   for   an   agonist   is   literally   “a   combatant   in   the  games”  (Oxford  English  Dictionary).  In  this  case,  the  game  is  theater;  more  specifically,   it  is  the  playing  of  a  role  which  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  one’s  “real”  self.  The  effects  of  this   new  game  institution  are  in  a  sense  paradoxical:  on  the  one  hand,  the  adoption  of  a  mask   and   the   mimetic   process   of   inhabiting   a   character   allow   for   an   eschewal   of   responsibility,  a  

 

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“hiding   behind”   the   mask.   This   submergence   of   the   personality   and   the   self   in   the   institution   of   performance   underscores   the   absorptive   capacity   of   games   as   mentioned   earlier:  one  also  “loses  oneself  in  the  game,”  whether  through  serious  concentration  or  by   “leaving  to  chance”  all  future  outcomes.12      

On  the  other  hand,  as  Bakhtin’s  study  of  Carnival  makes  clear,  the  submergence  of  

personality   can   be   liberatory,   which   is   another   way   of   saying   that   the   rules   of   a   game   paradoxically   provide   for   freeplay.   In   the   case   of   performative   games   or   aesthetic   ones   like   poetry,   this   freedom   is,   quite   interestingly,   often   described   in   the   same   terms   that   early   anthologizers  of  Asian  American  literature  used.  For  example,  a  2008  poetry  collection  by   four   Japanese   female   poets   working   in   the   tradition   of   renshi,   a   collaborative   process   of   linked   verse   in   which   one   poet   builds   upon   a   line   given   by   the   previous   poet,   is   tellingly   titled   “No   Choice   but   to   Follow.”   Excerpts   from   an   interview   with   the   four   women   after   the   poem’s  completion  read  as  follows:   “Taking   part   in   the   renshi   took   me   out   of   my   element…I   felt   I   was   being   thrown   into   the   unknown,   addressing   topics   I   usually   don’t   write   about,   so   there  was  a  need  to  be  more  creative.”  (Inoshita  in  Oda,  emphasis  mine)     “…I   felt   I   had   to   step   up   my   writing   and   not   to   emulate,   but   to   find   my   own   voice  in  this  project”  (Passion  in  Oda,  emphasis  mine).     Here,  rigidity  of  aesthetic  form  produces,  indeed  necessitates,  freedom  of  aesthetic  content,   but  it  also  apparently  allows  for  a  reconfiguration  of  what  we  think  of  as  characteristically   formal  devices  like  tone  and  voice.  

                                                                                                                12  In  fact,  both  can  exist  simultaneously.  Boal  suggests  that  the  way  to  achieve  “liberation”  is  by  transforming  

the  audience  member  from  spectator  to  actor  (“Spect-­‐actor”),  which  first  requires  a  freeing  of  the  body  that   can  be  best  achieved  through  the  playing  of  parlour  games  like  charades.  See  Theatre  of  the  Oppressed,  p.106-­‐ 7.  

 

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Games   as   institutions   also   provide   for   a   second   type   of   “character   development”  

beyond   the   aesthetic   and   performative   realms.   Cognitive   psychologists,   beginning   with   Jean   Piaget   in   the   1930s,   have   taken   particular   interest   in   the   way   that   games   serve   pedagogical   and   moralizing   functions   for   children,   suggesting   that   a   child’s   coming   to   respect  and  play  by  the  rules  of  a  game  is  a  literal  metaphor  for  her  coming  to  respect  and   play   by   the   moral   and   legal   rules   of   society.   As   Piaget   puts   it,   “[a]ll   morality   consists   in   a   system   of   rules,   and   the   essence   of   morality   is   to   be   sought   for   in   the   respect   which   the   individual   acquires   for   these   rules”   (Piaget   1932,   1).   Thus   we   can   speak   of   the   ethical   dimensions  of  a  game  both  in  terms  of  the  negative  ethical  consequences  of  game  playing   (as   in   the   denunciation   of   gambling   as   vice)   as   well   as   a   positive   ethical   development   understood  to  emerge  from  the  game’s  pedagogical  function.    

For   this   project,   Piaget’s   major   contribution   is   his   insight   that   moral   development  

and  a  consciousness  of  games  proceed  along  the  same  path;  that  is,  in  evolutionary  stages   from   infancy   to   eleven   or   twelve   years   of   age.   In   their   nascent   forms,   moral   and   play   sensibilities   emerge   in   the   motor   stage,   in   which   an   infant   neither   comprehends   the   rule   system  nor  senses  the  possibility  for  collective  play.  Between  the  ages  of  two  and  five,  the   egocentric  stage  is  reached,  and  the  child  dimly  grasps  the  force  of  rules  but  continues  to   play   for   and   by   himself.   Once   at   the   incipient   cooperation   stage   (seven   to   eight   years   of   age),  rules  are  grasped  as  indisputable  forces  of  law,  and  the  subsequent  desire  is  to  unify   those   rules   into   a   cooperative   system   that   allows   for   multiple   players   –   and   hence   the   possibility   of   winning   and   losing.   The   final   developmental   stage,   reached   three   to   four   years   hence,   involves   a   codification   of   rules,   and   the   child   proceeds   from   his   earlier   relationship   of   heteronomy   with   the   rules   to   one   of   partial   autonomy,   recognizing   that  

 

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rules   are   not   immutable   but   are   in   place   to   allow   for   collective   play,   and   also   that   rules   must  constantly  be  ratified  and  accepted  by  the  players  in  order  for  the  game  to  continue.13    

This   micro-­‐schema   of   cognitive   development   underscores   some   of   our   earlier  

arguments;  namely,  that  an  awareness  of  the  fictionality  of  games  and  rules,  rather  than  a   mindless   idolatry   of   them,   constitutes   the   basic   character   of   a   game   player.   Further,   games   serve  as  a  sort  of  production-­‐line  conveyor  belt  in  which  the  infant  (or,  in  game  terms,  the   non-­‐participant)  is  built  up  into  a  cognitive  framework  which  fundamentally  relies  on  the   vocabulary   of   the   game   to   create   a   “well-­‐adjusted”   subject.   We   could   call   this   the   “laboratory  effect”  of  games,  in  which  the  stages  of  experimenting  with  rules  and  eventually   assimilating   them   produces,   by   providing   given   roles   and   regulations   for   play,   an   institutionalized  social  life.    

It   is   worth   noting,   however,   that   Piaget’s   analysis   tends   to   flatten   differences  

between  the  various  subjects  that  get  produced  in  this  fashion.  Carol  Gilligan  has  critiqued   the   gender   differences   that   both   reflect   and   reproduce   varying   responses   to   games   (and,   subsequently,   distinct   moral   developments);   in   doing   so,   she   draws   our   attention   to   the   way   in   which   games   can   themselves   produce   gender   (and   other)   roles.   Gilligan   attacks   Lawrence   Kohlberg’s   well-­‐known   theory   of   stages   of   moral   development,   which   closely   followed   Piaget’s   methods,   for   its   naturalization   of   male   cognitive   development   and   subsequent   subordination   of   female   psychology   as   less   “morally   developed.”   She   replays   key  moments  from  Kohlberg’s  “Heinz  experiments,”  in  which  an  eleven-­‐year-­‐old  boy  (Jack)   and   girl   (Amy)   were   separately   asked   to   respond   to   a   moral   dilemma   in   which   “a   man                                                                                                                  

13  For  a  full  explanation  of  these  stages,  see  Piaget,  The  Moral  Development  of  Children,  particularly  pages  16-­‐

69.  

 

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named   Heinz   considers   whether   or   not   to   steal   a   drug   which   he   cannot   afford   to   buy   in   order  to  save  the  life  of  his  wife”  (Gilligan  1982,  2).  The  question,  “Should  Heinz  steal  the   drug?”  receives  markedly  different  responses  from  Jake  and  Amy;  essentially,  in  Kohlberg’s   analysis,   Jake   gives   the   “correct”   answer   that   Heinz   should   steal   the   drug,   while   Amy   suggests  alternatives  like  taking  out  a  loan  from  the  bank.      

While   at   first   it   might   seem   that   Amy,   given   that   she   condemns   stealing   as   an  

immoral   act,   should   have   emerged   from   the   experiment   as   the   child   further   along   in   moral   stages   of   development,   Kohlberg   in   fact   places   her   far   behind   Jack.   The   moral   stages,   as   summarized  by  Gilligan,  proceed  from   “a   three-­‐level   progression   from   an   egocentric   understanding   of   fairness   based   on   individual   need   (stages   one   and   two),   to   a   conception   of   fairness   anchored  in  the  shared  conventions  of  societal  agreement  (stages  three  and   four),  and  finally  to  a  principled  understanding  of  fairness  that  rests  on  the   free-­‐standing  logic  of  equality  and  reciprocity  (stages  five  and  six).”  (Gilligan   1982,  3)   According  to  Gilligan,  Jake  (stages  three  to  four)  trumps  Amy  (stages  two  to  three)  because   of  Kohlberg’s  inability  to  perceive  the  value  of  the  female  approach  to  the  dilemma,  which   she   terms   “an   ethic   of   care”   (Gilligan   1982,   5)   that   is   unintelligible   when   the   sign   of   successful  moral  development  is  a  child  who  has  achieved  “a  favorable  balance  of  industry   over  inferiority  –  competent,  sure  of  himself,  and  knowing  well  the  rules  of  the  game”  (3).   What  has  been  overlooked,  beginning  with  Freud’s  characterization  of  the  female  psyche  as   primarily   narcissistic,   is   the   potentially   reparative   value   in   Amy’s   introspective   response:   “…if   this   turning   inward   is   construed   against   a   background   of   continuing   connection,   it   signals   a   new   responsiveness   to   the   self,   an   expansion   of   care   rather   than   a   failure   of   relationship”  (Gilligan  1982,  10).  

 

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What  has  emerged  from  the  preceding  discussion  that  is  interesting  to  me  is  not  that  

female   psychological   responses   to   male-­‐formulated   situations   are   generally   denigrated,   either   because   the   male   perspective   has   been   normalized   as   the   status   quo   or   because   rationality   and   logic   appear   above   emotion   and   compromise   on   the   gendered   social   hierarchy:  we  already  know  this.  What  is  intriguing,  however,  is  that  this  hierarchy  can  be   made  transparent  through  games,  and  that  gender  emerges  as  a  distinct  identity  only  once   it   is   understood   as   the   playing   of   a   role.   Thus,   the   development   of   “moral   character”   can   be   understood   as   a   corollary   to   the   character   development   described   by   Boal,   in   which   one   essentially  comes  to  claim  an  identity  by  way  of  playing  a  game.  Furthermore,  it  reminds  us   that  games  are  implicated  in  questions  of  choice  and  responsibility  on  both  an  ethical  and  a   technical  level:  “following  the  rules”  resonates  at  both  ethical  and  formal  tenors.       Significance  of  the  Project:  Reading  by  the  rules   While   I   am   aware   that   “literature”   appears   to   have   dropped   completely   out   of   the   preceding   section’s   discussion,   I   hope   that   it   is   now   clear   why   this   notion   of   an   “Asian   American”  fiction  lends  itself  to  an  analysis  of  Asian  American  fiction.  If  we  can  agree  that   literary  criticism  depends  on  a  definition  of  minority  literature  as  the  place  where  an  object   of   study   studies   itself   (which   would   explain   why   the   first   Asian   American   anthologies   mentioned   earlier   were   so   intent   on   letting   the   authors   “speak   for   themselves”),   then   we   can   also   say   that   literature   produces   and   reproduces   the   dialectic   of   represented   (or   reflective)  object  and  representative  (or  reflecting)  institution.  It  does  so  in  the  same  way   that  any  game  narrates  itself  through  being  played,  and  it  accomplishes  this  feat  by  serving   as  a  scale  model  for  the  world,  as  an  institution  that  provides  a  temporary  reality  and  set  of  

 

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formal  rules  for  the  drama  of  racial  identity  to  be  “played  out”  through  aesthetic  labor.  In   other   words,   we   can   twin   the   projects   of   politicizing   and   aestheticizing   race   by   understanding  that  both  are  ways  to  make  race  playable.  In  the  former,  one  can  “play  the   race   card”;   in   the   latter,   as   I   suggest   in   my   chapter   breakdowns,   aesthetics   is   the   arena   where  one  plays  with,  and  at,  being  “Asian  American.”14   The   four   types   of   games/institutions   that   I   propose   to   analyze   mark   not   only   the   various   strategic   functions   of   literary   works,   but   also   different   configurations   of   forms   of   capital,   and   therefore   offer   several   perspectives   from   which   to   view   the   ways   in   which   capital   can   be   variously   stratified   and   distributed   according   to   the   rules   and   logic   of   the   game.  The  fundamental   framework   for  the  project,  then,  is  Bourdieuian  in  nature,  for   I   find   Chiang’s  use  of  Bourdieu  very  convincing,  and  think  that  it  is  productive  to  demonstrate,  as   he   did   by   using   the   academic   institutionalization   of   Asian   American   Studies   as   a   way   to   theorize   race   as   a   field,   the   way   in   which   the   institution   of   the   game   becomes   a   crucial   way   for  racial  minorities  to  interface  with  the  larger  juridical  and  social  structures  from  which   they   are   excluded   due   to   legal   and   linguistic   barriers   and,   through   “playing,”   produce   various  permutations  of  identification  and  representation.   In  order  to  apply  Bourdieu  to  Asian  American  literary  games,  certain  assumptions  in   his   theory   must   be   revised.   Whereas   Bourdieu   suggests   that   the   three   guises   of   capital   –                                                                                                                   14  Which  is  why  it  makes  sense  that  performance  studies  has  become  such  an  enormous  sub-­‐field  within  

Asian  American  Studies,  and  also  why  some  of  the  most  well-­‐known  Asian  American  literary  texts  are   dramatic  ones  (in  particular,  David  Henry  Hwang’s  M.  Butterfly  and  Frank  Chin’s  Year  of  the  Dragon)  and   some  of  the  most  well-­‐received  Asian  Americans  are  comedians  (Margaret  Cho).  At  the  same  time,  dramatic   performances  tends  to  occupy  an  intermediate  position  that  spans  the  academy  and  popular  culture,  which   means  that  it  is  often  staged  in  arenas  that  are  self-­‐defined  as  Asian  American  (political)  community   institutions.     At  the  same  time,  I  think  that  the  status  of  literature  for  Asian  American  Studies  and  English   departments  differs  widely  from  that  of  performance,  and  my  focus  in  this  project  will  mainly  be  prose  and   poetry,  rather  than  dramaturgy,  mainly  because  it  seems  to  me  that  “play”  has  been  severely   underrepresented  in  Asian  American  literary  criticism.  

 

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economic,   cultural   and   social   –   are   institutionalized   in   the   forms   of   property   rights,   educational   qualifications,   and   a   title   of   nobility,   respectively   (Bourdieu   1986,   16),   in   my   analysis   the   historical   denial   of   property   rights   for   Asians   means   that   the   liquidity   of   economic   capital,   rather   than   its   institutionalization,   becomes   the   primary   motivation   for   playing   gambling   games;   secondarily,   that   social   capital   in   the   form   of   title   tends   to   be   similarly   unattainable,15   so   that   the   alternate   form   of   institutionalization   becomes   that   of   skill  or  craft,  namely  in  the  form  of  the  professional  gambler  or  artist;  and  finally,  that  the   generational   and   class   conflicts   which   are   the   focus   of   many   of   the   texts   tend   to   center   around   the   disagreement   over   what   constitutes   legitimate   cultural   capital   rather   than   wasteful   energy,   so   that   the   concept   of   game-­‐play,   particularly   in   the   form   of   aesthetic   expression,  helps  us  recognize  the  way  in  which  the  institutionalization  of  cultural  capital  is   often  divided  along  racial,  national  and  generational  lines.16     I  have  chosen  to  focus  mostly  on  canonized  works  not  because  they  are,  or  should   be,  accepted  a  priori  as  “Asian  American”  texts,  but  rather  because  the  historical  conditions   of   their   reception   and   integration   into   the   curriculum   suggest   that   they   are   the   primary   artifacts  around  which  the  very  concept  of  “Asian  American”  has  attempted  to  define  and   legitimate   itself.   If   we   continually   ask   the   question,   “Is   this   or   that   book   an   Asian   American   text?”,  we  can  only  arrive  at  the  unsatisfying  conclusion  that  Wand,  Chin  and  many  others   came  to  before  us,  inevitable  because  it  assumes  that  there  is  a  singular  source  of  validation                                                                                                                   15  Clearly,  titles  of  nobility  are  not  as  relevant  in  the  American  context,  so  in  my  sense  of  the  term  refers  more  

generally  to  hereditary  wealth  that  is  apparent  in  the  “big  names”  of  the  wealthy  or  established.   16  In  minority  literature  this  becomes  especially  apparent,  because  of  the  relatively  consistent  depiction  of   immigrant  characters  as  universally  working-­‐class  once  they  come  to  America,  despite  their  social  standings   in  Asia.  

 

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that  can  produce  a  definitive  “yes”  or  “no.”17  Instead,  I  ask  the  questions  –  “What  has  this   text   contributed   to   the   making   of   ‘Asian   American’?”   and   “How   does   this   text   play   with   the   very   possibility   of   being,   and   continuing   to   be,   (an)   ‘Asian   American’?”   –   that   will   hopefully   help   us   understand   the   mutually   constitutive   process   by   which   racial   identity   and   representation  comes  into  being.   Furthermore,   the   concept   of   an   Asian   American   canon   as   such   provides   further   insight  into  the  curious  institutional  game  that  has  been  played  which  makes  “winners”  of   some  texts  and  “losers”  out  of  others.  There  appear  to  be  three  distinct  arenas  in  which  a   text  by  an  Asian-­‐raced  author  is  put  into  competition  with  its  counterparts.  I  find  this  idea   to  be  most  succinctly  illustrated  by  way  of  Figure  1.     Text   encounters  

Institution   Publishing  industry   Asian  Am.  Dept.   English  Dept.  

Stakes   Status   “Is  it  a  good  read?”   which   Bestseller   produces   Asian  American  fiction   “Is  it  Asian  American?”   “Is  it  literature?”   Literary  work   Figure  1.  Three  institutions  of  judgment   which   asks,  

  While   many   excellent   books   have   been   written   on   the   historical   process   of   canon   formation,  little  (that  I  am  aware  of)  has  been  written  on  the  fact  that  two  texts  with  very   similar   content   often   have   vastly   different   luck   in   this   game.   For   example,   while   Maxine   Hong  Kingston’s  The  Woman  Warrior:  Memoirs  of  a  Girlhood  among  Ghosts,  in  addition  to   winning   the   National   Book   Critics   Circle   Award,   is   supposedly     “the   most   commonly   taught   text   in   modern   university   education,”18   Amy   Tan’s   The   Joy   Luck   Club   continues   to   be   a                                                                                                                   17  And,  further,  that  such  a  structure  of  formal  rules  is  in  fact  desirable.  

18  This  is  taken  from  Wikipedia  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Woman_Warrior),  which  cites  the  Modern  

Language  Association  as  evidence  for  the  claim,  though  I  have  not  actually  been  able  to  locate  a  specific  MLA   publication  which  attests  to  it.  

 

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massive   bestseller   but,   as   far   as   I   know,   never   appears   on   a   twentieth-­‐century   American   fiction   university   course   syllabus.19   One   can   argue   that   Kingston’s   text   is   more   sophisticated   and   experimental   than   Tan’s,   but,   as   I   suggest   in   my   analyses   of   the   two,   there  is  little  textual  evidence  to  support  this  aesthetic  judgment.  Furthermore,  it  is  often   forgotten  that  Frank  Chin,  in  his  infamous  excoriation  of  The  Woman  Warrior,  directed  his   vitriolic  criticism  against  three  books  –  Woman  Warrior,  The  Joy  Luck  Club,  and  Jade  Snow   Wong’s   Fifth   Chinese   Daughter   –   but   simply   elaborated   most   fully   on   the   first,   and   received   a  lengthy  rejoinder  only  from  Kingston.     Thus,  Asian  American  Studies’  “reciprocally  enabling  moves”  are  clearly,  in  the  first   place,   intended   to   secure   a   definition   of   Asian   American   literature,   but   it   is   unclear   precisely  what  the  formal  criteria  and  historical  circumstances  of  this  process  of  selection   actually   are.   In   the   current   moment,   we   can   also   see   this   process   being   interrogated   by   those  authors  defined  as  Asian  American    by  any  of  the  three  institutions,  which  suggests   that   the   identities   of   “author”   and   “Asian   American”   are   sometimes   uneasy   bedfellows,   because   these   authors   perceive   the   racial/political   label   as   one   which   potentially   denigrates  their  skill  by,  in  essence,  hyphenating  them.  Thus,  an  interview  with  Chang-­‐Rae   Lee  that  appeared  in  the  Kartika  Review  (a  relatively  prestigious  Asian  American  literary   journal)  ended  on  a  fairly  awkward  note:   ZILKA:  What  advice  do  you  have  for  Asian  American  writers?    For  emerging   writers  in  general?                                                                                                                     19  This  pattern  appears  to  hold  only  partly  true  for  Asian  American  literature  courses  at  the  university  level,   which  are  often  cross-­‐listed  with  Asian  American  or  Ethnic  Studies  departments.  In  an  informal  study  I   conducted  of  21  Asian  American  literature/Studies  syllabi  taught  at  both  public  and  private  universities  from   1992-­‐2010,  the  most  commonly  taught  texts  were  Woman  Warrior  (7),  Obasan  (7),  Bone  (6),  and  No-­No  Boy   (6),  with  The  Joy  Luck  Club  and  Fifth  Chinese  Daughter  both  taught  in  3  courses.  What  would  be  interesting  is  a   survey  of  course  syllabi  from  the  early  years  of  Asian  American  Studies,  particularly  1975-­‐1995.  

 

27   LEE:  I  don’t  have  any  advice  for  Asian-­‐American  writers  only.  My  advice  for   all  emerging  writers  is  to  read  and  read  and  read,  as  much  and  as  widely  as   one  can.  And  then  if  you  truly  do  want  to  write,  to  sit  down  and  do  so,   without  making  excuses  for  why  you  can’t  or  don’t  want  to  write  that  day.  All   the  true  writers  I  know  are  extremely  focused,  and  exhibit  an  almost  fierce   stubbornness  when  it  comes  to  doing  their  work.   (Kartika  Review,  2009,  v.  6)20  

  Lee’s  rather  blunt  recourse  to  “true  writers”  clearly  reflects  his  perceived  alliance  with  the   politics  of  publishing  and  the  universalizing  skill  of  craft,  signaling  the  potential  difficulty   that  Asian  American  literary  criticism  and  publications  have  perhaps  always  faced  beyond   the  borders  of  their  individual  institutions.    

 This   dissertation   has   the   potential   to   bridge   the   chasm   that   currently   marks   the   divergent   ways   that   certain   Asian   American   texts   are   read   in   Asian   American   Studies   departments   (which   is   to   say,   less   as   literature   than   as   historical   document),   while   simultaneously   encouraging   the   “taking   seriously”   of   minority   literature   within   English   departments,   where   such   literature   often   serves   the   purpose   of   fulfilling   “diversity   requirements,”   whether   unofficial   or   academically   sanctioned,   for   the   larger   university   population.   In   this   sense,   English   departments   and   Asian   American   Studies   departments   tend  to  read  Asian  American  literature  with  essentially  the  same  limitations,  treating  it  as   creative  non-­‐fiction.   As   I   see   it,   the   relationship   between   Asian   American   literature   and   both   literary   studies   and   Ethnic   studies   is   fundamentally   an   agonistic   one,   and   thus   literature   can   be   understood   to   be   the   common   ground   upon   which   this   conflict   is   played   out.   As   such,   I   think   that   the   heretofore   overlooked   way   in   which   texts   institutionally   marked   as   “Asian                                                                                                                  

20  Lee  also  comments  earlier  in  the  interview  that  “I  certainly  hope  that  I’m  not  read  by  Asian-­‐Americans  or  

anyone  else  solely  because  of  the  subject  matter  or  ‘ethnicity’  of  my  books.”  

 

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American”  (through  anthologization  or  other  forms  of  social  validation)  use  games  as  a  way   to  conceptualize,  for  example,  the  fiction  of  choice  in  racial  self-­‐identification,  the  odds  of   overcoming   biological   chance   through   assimilative   skill,   or   the   liberatory   potential   of   mimicry   and   make-­‐believe,   provides   a   point   of   interrogation   that   can,   by   way   of   strengthening   the   institutionalization   of   Asian   American   literature   for   Asian   American   Studies  and  Literature  departments,  attend  to  the  “theoretical  weakness”  that  has  crippled   our  field.  For  to  suggest  that  Asian  American  Studies  is  “weakly  institutionalized”  is  another   way  of  saying  that  its  “gameness”  has  not  been  adequately  established.  Because  of  this,  it   offers   the   rare   opportunity   to   see   what   institutions   might   look   like   before   they   become   fully  grasped  as  “games,”  and  at  the  same  time  interprets  this  lack  of  full  translatability  in   negative   terms,   as   a   “weakness,”   exposing   the   extent   to   which   the   desire   for   theory   and   for   institutionalization  is  essentially  a  desire  to  be  accorded  full  rights:  not  as  a  citizen,  but  as  a   player.     Hence,  what  affirmative  action  (an  education  policy  which  is  strangely  absent  from   Chiang’s  analysis,  given  that  it  and  the  departmentalization  of  Asian  American  Studies  are   two   versions   of   the   same   “call   for   representation”)   sought   to   do   by   “leveling   the   playing   field”  can  be  understood  as  the  legally  sanctioned  version  of  this  bestowal  of  rights.  It  also   clues  us  in  to  the  ways  in  which  political  agitation,  when  the  goal  is  to  be  allowed  into  the   game,  can  unwittingly  play  into  the  hands  of  the  very  institutions  that  are  supposedly  being   challenged.     Method  and  Research  Design   Chapter  Structure.  Ideally,  I  would  like  to  publish  or  create  conference  papers  out  of  each  

 

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individual   chapter,   so   feedback   as   to   the   most   productive   way   of   structuring   chapters   to   achieve  this  would  be  greatly  appreciated.  At  this  point,  the  organizational  structure  that  I   envision   for   this   project   looks   at   four   distinct   forms   of   game-­‐play   in   Asian   American   literature.21     Method.  While  both  Bourdieu  and  Chiang  regularly  use  the  term  “game”  to  metaphorize  the   social   relations   which   inhere   in   the   circulation   of   and   aspiration   for   various   forms   of   capital,  or,  as  Bourdieu  does  in  The  Logic  of  Practice,  treat  games  as  one  aspect  of  habitus   for   tribal   societies   (specifically   the   Kabyles   of   Algeria,   another   indication   of   a   theoretical   affinity  between  games  and  racialization),  literary  depictions  of  games  generally  exceed  the   purview   of   their   interests.   Thus,   I   will   also   be   engaging   with   literary   game   theory,   in   particular   the   1968   special   issue   of   Yale   French   Studies   edited   by   Jacques   Ehrmann,   as   well   as   with   early   structuralist   accounts   of   the   cultural   significance   of   play,   beginning   with   J.   Huizinga’s   Homo   Ludens   (1938)   and   Roger   Caillois’   Man,   Play,   and   Games   (1958),   from   which   much   literary   game   theory   draws.   I   am   having   a   difficult   time   finding   Asian   American  critical  texts  which  are  specifically  interested  in  the  question  of  play  and  games   outside   of   S.L.   Wong’s   chapter,   “Homo   Ludens,”   in   Necessity   and   Extravagance:   Reading  

                                                                                                                21   I   have   not   included   “performance”   as   a   specific   category   of   games.   Ultimately,   my   decision   to   focus   on  

games,   rather   than   performativity   as   such,   is   based   on   my   belief   that   the   concept   of   game-­‐play   is   able   to   illuminate  certain  facets  of  Asian  American  literature  that  performativity  does  not,  particularly  when  it  comes   to  narrative  fiction.  These  facets  include  the  distinction  between  winning  and  losing  and,  more  broadly,  the   stakes   of   performing   versus   playing,   as   well   as   the   presence   of   external   operators,   such   as   institutional   structures   or   other   players,   that   exceed   the   status   of   bodily   performance   and   gestures.   Rather   than   understanding   Asian   American   authors   or   characters   to   be   “performing”   their   Asian   Americanness,   as,   for   example,   Judith   Butler   has   suggested   women   perform   their   gender,   I   focus   on   the   ways   in   which   race   as   a   playable  representation  can  be  interpreted  through  the  performance  of  institutional  strictures.  

 

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Asian  American  Literature.22  Finally,  I  briefly  considered,  but  have  for  the  moment  tabled,   the  possibility  of  including  Asian  American  graphic  novels,  mostly  because  1)  there  are  so   few,     and   2)   they   may   expand   the   discussion   of   genre   and   literary   convention   beyond   what   is   feasible   for   the   timely   completion   of   the   current   project   .   If   you   have   a   strong   opinion   regarding  this,  I  would  like  to  hear  it.     Chapter  Breakdown   Chapter  1.  The  fiction  of  choice  in  The  Joy  Luck  Club   This  chapter  undertakes  a  reading  of  what  I  consider  to  be  the  most  overlooked  and   uncritically  dismissed  novel  in  Asian  American  literary  studies:  Amy  Tan’s  The  Joy  Luck   Club.  This  text  posits  a  connection  between  “Asian”  and  “American”  in  explicit  game  terms,   taking  it  up  as  both  a  generic  convention  and  a  trope  for  immigration  and  assimilation.   Using  the  game  of  mahjongg  as  both  a  metaphor  for  intra-­‐  and  intergenerational  struggle     and  as  a  structural  framework  for  the  book’s  organization  (the  novel  is  divided  into  sixteen   “rounds,”  in  which  each  woman’s  story  plays  out  and  is  then  taken  up  and  reworked   through  the  next  “player’s”  narrative  turn),  The  Joy  Luck  Club  has  long  been  vilified  by  Asian   American  critics  for  its  supposedly  “inauthentic”  portrayal  of  Chinese  language  and  cultural   values  (see  Wong  1995)  and  derided  for  its  “pandering”  to  a  Western  audience  which   thrills  to  Orientalist  literary  depictions  (see  Chin  1991).  However,  Tan’s  staging  of  the  U.S.   immigration  institution  as  an  explicit  game  structure  which  the  Asian  immigrant  must   navigate  through  stratagem  and  collective  cunning  has  been  largely  ignored  as  a  viable                                                                                                                   22  Wong’s  major  critical  contribution  in  terms  of  this  project  is  that  play  is  treated  disparagingly  by  the  Asian   immigrant  community  for  its  apparent  lack  of  utility;  basically,  play  is  antithetical  to  work,  and  work  is   necessary  for  survival.  Thus,  play  is  a  type  of  extravagance  that  is  unacceptable  to  the  immigrant  mentality.   She  then  goes  on  to  complicate  this  insight  by  suggesting  that  play  can  itself  can  be  seen  as  a  form  of  labor.  

 

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model  for  discussing  Asian-­‐U.S.  immigration,  which,  as  Jinqi  Ling  has  pointed  out,  has   turned  away  from  a  unidirectional  nationalist  discourse  only  to  rely  too  heavily  on  the   rhetoric  of  transnationalism  to  provide  a  spatial  foundation  for  political  engagement  (Ling   2011,  ii).  What  Tan  does,  by  interweaving  the  “Western”  game  of  chess  into  the  “Eastern”   game  of  mahjongg,  is  reveal  the  limitations  of  both  models.  The  novel  suggests  that   immigrating  can  be  understood  as  the  act  of  stepping  onto  a  game  board  (the  limits  of  the   nation  being  coterminous  with  the  boundaries  of  the  game)  and  being  faced  with  two   unsatisfactory  choices:  playing  at  playing  the  game,  i.e.  not  knowing  the  rules,  or  playing   the  game,  which  is  to  say  accepting  the  fiction  of  the  American  dream  as  attainable  reality   and  egalitarian  ideal.  Exposing  the  fictionality  of  the  binary  that  tends  to  haunt  Asian   American  Studies  –  the  choice  of  assimilating  rather  than  remaining  “authentic”  –  is  Tan’s   attempt  to  formulate  a  politics  of  recognition  that,  in  essence,  seeks  to  beat  the  State  at  its   own  game  of  (mis)recognition.     Chapter  2.  The  illusion  of  character  in  The  Woman  Warrior   As  suggested  earlier,  games  can  serve  the  purpose  of  character  development  –  with  its   multiple  attendant  meanings  –  by  providing  models  of  real-­‐world  situations  which  force   children  to  conceptualize  the  significance  of  rules,  limits  and  the  interrelatedness  of  action.   These  models  essentially  produce,  through  play,  the  concept  of  personality  and  moral   character.  Psychologists  and  game  theorists  alike  have  noted  the  significance  of  a  particular   form  of  this  game  –  make-­‐believe  or  role-­‐playing  –  which  children  universally  engage  in   (see  Piaget  1932,  Caillois  1962).  In  this  chapter,  I  explore  the  way  in  which  these  fantastic   games  become  the  crux  for  developing  the  notion  of  (an)  Asian  American  character  in  

 

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Maxine  Hong  Kingston’s  hugely  influential  novel  The  Woman  Warrior:  Memoirs  of  a   Girlhood  Among  Ghosts.  Where  The  Joy  Luck  Club  was  categorically  denounced  by  Asian   American  literary  critics,  Kingston’s  novel  has  –  with  the  notable  exception  of  Frank  Chin  –   been  widely  heralded  as  the  first  great  success  of  Asian  American  literature,  and  continues   to  hold  canonical  status  in  Asian  American  Studies  as  well  as  Literature  departments   nationwide.  The  novel  itself,  I  suggest,  is  playing  a  game  with  the  conventions  of  genre   literature  by  frustrating  the  possibility  of  inhabiting  singular  generational  or  racial  roles   vis-­‐à-­‐vis  kinship  structures  and  national  cultural  values.  The  narrator’s  performance  of   multiple  characters  (she  is  sometimes  an  ostracized  aunt  in  China,  sometimes  Fa  Mulan,  a   vengeful  woman  warrior,  sometimes  a  lonely  Chinese  American  child  and  sometimes  the   adult  Maxine  herself)  and  the  resultant  admiration  which  that  multiplicity  has  garnered   from  literary  critics  allows  us  to  understand  the  ways  in  which  postmodern  identity   politics  continue  to  depend  on  the  illusion  of  (a)  racial  character.  Illusion  is,  as  Roger   Caillois  has  pointed  out,  nothing  more  than  the  beginning  of  a  game  (in-­lusio,  originating   from  ludus  [Caillois  19]).  This  game  of  character  resonates  on  the  level  of  content,  but  also   on  the  level  of  generic  form,  for  we  can  understand  the  novel  itself  to  be  a  laboratory  in   which,  as  in  all  games,  ideal  conditions  are  artificially  induced  to  account  (or,  in  scientific   terms,  “control”)  for  deviations  among  individual  subjects  in  order  to  produce  a  universally   transposable  model.  Generic  experimentation  –  one  of  Woman  Warrior’s  acknowledged   achievements  (see  Wong  1999)  –  thus  can  also  be  understood  as  an  insular  game  in  which   the  author  performs  the  role  of  puppeteer  and  invokes  the  fictionality  of  play  as  a  way  to   maintain  the  fictionality  of  the  text  and  its  characters.    

 

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Chapter  3.  When  play  becomes  work:  Fifth  Chinese  Daughter  and  aesthetic  labor   Like   Tan   and   Kingston,   Jade   Snow   Wong   suffered   the   wrath   of   Frank   Chin   in   his   tellingly   titled,  “Come  all  ye  Asian  American  writers  of  the  Real  and  the  Fake”  (Chan  et  al.  1991,  2-­‐ 92);   according   to   Chin,   Wong’s   novel,   Fifth   Chinese   Daughter   –   the   acknowledged   predecessor   to   Woman   Warrior   –   falls   into   the   latter   category   because   it   “stylizes   the   essential  clichés  of  the  Charlie  Chan  good  Chinese  American  honorary  white”  (24-­‐5).  Unlike   Kingston’s,  however,  Wong’s  novel,  published  in  1950,  has  long  since  been  discarded  as  a   seminal  Asian  American  text,  particularly  since  the  “rediscovery”  of  an  earlier  female  Asian   American   writer,   Sui   Sin   Far   (Edith   Maude   Eaton).   In   this   chapter,   as   in   Chapter   1,   I   reexamine  an  Asian  American  novel  which  has  provoked  a  remarkable  amount  of  vitriolic   criticism   by   Asian   American   literary   critics.   And   as   with   The   Joy   Luck   Club,   I   ask   whether   the   predominance   of   games   in   Fifth   Chinese   Daughter   may   bear   some   relation   to   its   rejection   as   a   canonical   Asian   American   text.   In   particular,   I   take   up   one   of   the   novel’s   presiding  yet  overlooked  concerns  –  the  possibility  of  making  a  career  out  of  play  –  to  posit   an   alternative   reading   of   Asian   American   autobiographical   fiction   which   refuses   the   antiquated   binaries   of   “real”   versus   “fake”,   “authentic”   versus   “inauthentic,”   and   “minority”   versus  “mainstream”  literature.    

Beyond  the  Asian  American  community,  Jade  Snow  Wong  was  actually  a  rather  well-­‐

known  and  well-­‐received  figure:  but  as  a  potter,  not  as  an  author.  Wong’s  aesthetic  labor  is   thus  twofold:  she  explicitly  states  that  her  career  in  ceramics  –  which  was  initially  decried   as   a   frivolous,   not   to   mention   gender-­‐inappropriate   pursuit   by   her   family   and   the   Stockton   Chinatown   community   –   is   intended   to   support   what   she   sees   as   an   actual   playful   endeavor:  the  writing  of  her  autobiography.  At  the  same  time,  she  is  drawn  to  the  aesthetic  

 

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potential   of   ceramics   because   it   allows   her   to   actualize   the   pleasure   of   labor   –   the   development  of  technique  and  skill,  the  satisfaction  of  material  production  instilled  in  her   through  her  family’s  overalls  factory  –  through  the  labor  of  pleasure.     I  thus  suggest  in  this  chapter  that  the  Asian  immigrant  family,  with  its  historical  ties   to  low-­‐paying  machine-­‐driven  labor  in  factories,  laundries  and  plantations,  in  fact  creates   the  impulse  for  play,  even  while  discursively  discouraging  it  through  a  heavy  emphasis  on   labor   and   economic   gain.   The   blurring   of   the   epistemological   boundaries   between   labor   and  leisure,  and  between  tool  and  toy,  seems  to  encourage  a  desire  in  the  Asian  American   child   to   continue   this   fusion   through   aesthetic   play,   a   game   in   which   Schiller   has   suggested   the  inherent  possibilities  of  social  freedom  (cf.  Schiller  1954,  letters  41-­‐43).  However,  the   ideal  aesthetic  object  in  Asian  American  literary  terms  is  not  adequately  theorized  from  the   disinterested   perspective   of   the   viewer,   for,   given   the   historical   economic   realities   of   Asian   immigration,   as   well   as   the   institutionalization   of   the   art   world,   it   is   always   implicated   in   a   consumerist  economy  of  exchange.       Chapter  4.  Playing  to  lose  (oneself)  in  How  to  Live  Safely  in  a  Science  Fiction  World   and  “In  a  World  Small  Enough”   Alongside  games  of  competition,  chance  and  mimicry,  Roger  Caillois  included  a  fourth  type   of  play  in  his  taxonomy  of  games:  ilinx,  the  Greek  word  for  “whirlpool,”  which  he  used  to   describe  a  whole  class  of  games  -­‐  among  them  children’s  rapid  spinning  to  produce   dizziness,  tight-­‐rope  walking,  and  a  variety  of  amusement  park  rides  -­‐  which  “attempt  to   momentarily  destroy  the  stability  of  perception  and  inflict  a  kind  of  voluptuous  panic  upon   an  otherwise  lucid  mind”  (Caillois  1962,  23).  This  chapter  analyzes  two  literary  works  

 

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which  actively  seek  to  induce  vertigo  by  using  the  sensual  loss  of  perception  as  a  metaphor   to  examine  the  stakes  of  cultural  and  racial  identity  loss.  David  Wong  Louie’s  little-­‐known   short  story,  “In  a  World  Small  Enough,”  depicts  a  grim  dystopian  future  following  the   dropping  of  an  atomic  bomb,  with  the  main  character,  Antonio  Ma,  finding  himself  unable   to  hold  onto  his  job,  his  family,  his  bicycle  and  even  his  teeth.  A  generic  experiment  in  its   own  right,  the  story  interweaves  and  adapts  conventions  of  detective  fiction  (a  genre  which   itself  is  often  thought  of  as  a  game  between  author  and  reader23),  historical  fiction,  and   scientific  textbooks.  According  to  The  Big  Aiiieeeee!  editors,  who  anthologized  the  story,   Louie’s  great  achievement  was  countering  the  “model  minority”  stereotype  of  Asians  as   reserved  and  economically  successful  through  his  creation  of  the  dissipated,  incompetent   and  hypersexual  (though  impotent)  Antonio  Ma.  The  editors  lauded  what  they  saw  as  the   story’s  ultimate  goal:  to  “make  rubble  of  this  [model  minority]  myth  and  to  reinterpret  the   basic  laws  of  nature”  (Chan  et  al.  1991,  580).  The  pairing  of  these  two  seemingly  disparate   projects  –  dispelling  stereotypes  and  reinterpreting  nature  –  is  not  as  flippant  or  absurd  as   it  first  perhaps  appears:  the  destabilization  of  racial  and  physical  perceptions  are   analogous  possibilities  if  one  considers  them  as  twin  outcomes  of  simultaneously-­‐played   games  of  ilinx.    

Charles  Yu’s  recent  novelistic  debut,  How  to  Live  Safely  in  a  Science  Fiction  World,  

uses  the  concept  of  time  travel  to  induce  a  similarly  disorienting  effect  in  both  reader  and   character.  The  main  character  (also  named  Charles  Yu)  is  a  listless,  unambitious  time-­‐ machine  mechanic  who  finds  himself  trapped  in  a  time-­‐continuum  loop,  where  he  must   forever  play  out  his  own  painful  death  unless  he  can  find  a  way  to  escape  to  an  alternate                                                                                                                  

23  see,  for  example,  Bernard  Suits,  “The  Detective  Story:  A  Case  Study  of  Games  in  Literature,”  Canadian  

Review  of  Comparative  Literature,  June  1985,  200-­‐219.  

 

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version  of  reality.  The  solution,  it  turns  out,  is  to  play  a  hide-­‐and-­‐seek  game  to  find  his   father,  a  man  literally  lost  in  time  after  he  builds  a  time  machine  to  escape  his  own   confining  reality  as  an  ambitious  but  little-­‐respected  immigrant  scientist  with  limited   linguistic  or  economic  means.  The  novel  engages  with  the  possibility  of  identity  politics  in  a   cartographically  abstract,  “postrace”  world  –  most  of  Charles’  companions  are  robots  and   holographic  AIs  whom  he  knows  only  by  voice,  and  most  of  Earth’s  major  cities  have   become  uninhabitable  wastelands,  driving  much  of  the  population  into  single-­‐occupancy   spaceships  –  by  using  the  generic  conventions  of  science  fiction  to  present  the  destabilizing   effects  of  an  acultural  and  denationalized  reality  alongside  those  of  losing  a  chronological   experience  of  time  and  memory.      

 

37   Working  Bibliography  

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