Monthly Book Highlight: My Name is Not Viola

My Name is Not Viola: Book Review

Sara Ziegler, One Stone High School Summer Intern

It was at the very beginning of the Friends of Minidoka high school internship that Robyn Achilles recommended I read the book My Name is Not Viola by author and poet Lawrence Matsuda (who was born at the Minidoka camp), after expressing my interest in learning more about the traumatic impact the incarceration had on the Japanese American community during World War II. This book had a significant impact on me as I began my internship with Friends of Minidoka, deepening my understanding of a complex period of American history through the eyes of someone who actually experienced it.  My Name is Not Viola is told from the introspective, thoughtful eyes of his mother, Hanae as she experiences life in America during the 20th century as a young Japanese American. Matsuda writes of his mother's experiences with sensitivity and beauty, capturing the visceral emotion of the story in rich detail. 

At the beginning of the novel, we join Hanae’s journey from her birthplace of Seattle to her coming of age in Japan. Upon research into Densho’s articles and resources, I learned that many Nisei - children of the Issei who were born in America, were brought to Japan for some of their education. Hanae lives with her brother’s wife Fumi and her housekeeper, Masa in Hiroshima, enduring a long while of Fumi’s wrath before being sent to the countryside of Japan to live with an uncle. From there, Hanae’s epic story takes us from early adulthood and marriage in Seattle, to the isolation of Minidoka and the deep-rooted trauma of the bombing of Hiroshima. Through the eyes of Hanae and the writing of Matsuda, I was able to better understand the experiences of Japanese Americans through a more personal and empathetic lens. The trauma of Japanese American incarceration, as well as the bombing of Hiroshima, left Hanae with emotions of distrusting the American government, and feeling alienated in her post-war Seattle community. In the 60’s, Hanae spent time at the Western State Mental Hospital. I found that mental health in the book was handled with sensitivity and with great respect to the woman whose story the book explores. 

Some of the things I love most about the book are its explorations of connection and friendship, specifically female friendship. I loved when Hanae found a kindred spirit in Koko while living with Uncle Yosh in the countryside. I loved the deep friendship between Hanae and Franny and Dutch at the Western State Mental Hospital. The story has beautiful themes of people finding strength in each other, despite experiences that threaten to tear them apart. Although Franny and Dutch are Caucasian and have very different experiences, their united trauma links them as a found family of sorts. The relationship between Hanae and her husband Kiyoshi was in turns sad and beautiful; they deserved the world but their lives were in many ways changed forever by the effects of Minidoka, the Hiroshima bombing, and the post-war repercussions of racism and alienation. 

This book is important in the ways it sheds light on the experience of Japanese Americans in America. Certainly before this internship, as well as before the book, it wasn’t something I understood very well. But the ways in which Japanese Americans were treated had very, very real effects. Lawrence Matsuda writes of his mother’s distrust of the government, and the alienation she felt. In the end she chooses not to forgive the government, but instead dances with her son at the Bon Odori festival, a Japanese festival for honoring the spirits of one’s ancestors. This book is a beautiful celebration and reflection of Japanese and Japanese American culture. I am so glad that I got to read this book and honor the legacy of Hanae. I will not forget her story, and I urge anyone who is interested in reading her story to do so, so that she may live in our hearts and minds forever, and the history and experiences of Japanese Americans are not forgotten.