Erasure and Appropriation of a “Model Minority”

I don’t ask people to use my full name. In my nearly 50 years, there have been scant few who have been able to say it, but more importantly, I have always tried to spare people the experience of attempting, even enthusiastically, and more often than not, failing to pronounce it correctly. I go by “Hanz.” This presents its own raft of questions about my parentage, though, because I am 5’5” and brown. No I am not German. No, my mother is not German. No, she’s not Swiss either. It doesn’t help that for the past 20 years, my primary musical focus has been traditional Irish music. I don’t look like a Hanz, I don’t look Japanese, and I certainly don’t look like the American ideal of an Irish person.

My name is Hanzaburō Araki and I was born in Middletown, Connecticut to Tatsuya Kodō Araki of Tokyo, Japan, and Charlotte Campbell of Seattle, Washington. My father holds a degree in music from Keiō University in Japan, and a masters degree in ethnomusicology from Wesleyan University, which he attained around the time of my birth. He is a fifth generation iemoto — the grandmaster that serves at the head of a guild — of the shakuhachi, a traditional end-blown bamboo flute of Japan.

The name Kodō is part of that tradition, and has been in my family since the middle of the 19th century. It is a name synonymous with Kinko-ryu, or Kinko-style shakuhachi playing, and is the oldest guild in shakuhachi music. I took up the shakuhachi in 1988 and was named Baikyoku until my father’s retirement. In 2009, I became Kodō VI.

Professional names are customary among practitioners of Japanese arts. They are similar to a diploma in that they serve ostensibly to indicate mastery and proficiency enough to teach. They are also an important part of a sōke’s (another term for iemoto) income, as they are given to students after significant financial investment in their instructor.

Names are chosen by instructors and will occasionally include a character from their own name. For names that are handed down from generation to generation, as ours has been, there is a certain reverence. It is understood that to carry the name of one’s instructor, one must at least reach the level of one’s instructor.

Studying under my father and serving as his apprentice gave me an insight into some of the struggles he faced during his time in academia. Of the many stories I have heard, one that has indelibly written itself on my memory is when he was told directly by an ethnomusicology professor that he would never truly understand Japanese music as he was “just a musician” and not a scholar. It may not surprise you that the professor in question was a white male.

I have devoted over 30 years to this craft, though not singularly. My deep and abiding love of traditional Irish music has made it my primary source of employment for more than twenty years. That does not erase my accomplishments in Japanese music, nor does it diminish my ability on the shakuhachi. While my path as a musician forked, I remain as committed to the instrument and the tradition as I have been at any point in my life

I was invited to perform and present a talk at a convention for an organization that purports to be among other things:

“a distinguished organization, globally recognized in music and cultural education, artistic expression, scholarship, research, classification, documentation, historical and contemporary performance practices, and educational and cultural outreach, with the world’s indigenous and folk flute traditions as the primary focus of the society’s endeavors.”

With the convention postponed by the pandemic, I was recently contacted regarding my availability for 2021. As I had been retained for Irish flute and would already be in attendance, I offered my services as iemoto, the only sixth-generation shakuhachi player in the history of the instrument, and a direct descendant of Kodō II.

Kodō II was born Hanzaburō Araki to a samurai class family of Lord Akitomo Katō of Minakuchi Castle in 1823, 30 years before Japan would open to the west. Japan in my great great grandfather’s time saw the end of the Edō Period. From the opening of Japan in 1853 to the Meiji Restoration of 1868, Westernization was given top priority, and many traditional art forms were banned, including the shakuhachi. Without Kodō II, it could be argued that the shakuhachi would have gone functionally extinct as it was specifically banned due to its popularity among the Tokugawa shogunate, the primary collective opposition to the Emperor.

The contributions of Kodō II did not stop there. He was primarily responsible for improvements to the written notation, and advancements to the craft of making shakuhachi. His arrangements of the music and his methods of building instruments are still the standard to which all players and makers adhere to to this day.

Because of my family’s involvement and history with the shakuhachi, I know my perspective and insight can be valuable in a learning environment. I was informed however, that an instructor had already been contracted to cover the shakuhachi. If I could offer something not already covered by his presentation, some time could be made available to me.

The description of the class was as follows:

Warrior Monks and the Shakuhachi Flute

[Instructor’s Name] goes over a brief history of the shakuhachi flute and how it has changed over time. Who were the Komuso? What’s up with the hats and the shakuhachi beating sticks?

“Shakuhachi beating sticks.” That is a new one for me. I am very familiar with the orientalist tropes of the western gaze as pertains to the “warrior monks.” It’s one of the reasons I have found myself wary of further establishing myself as a shakuhachi player in the west. But this was the first time an organization whose central message is the intersection of music and culture would promote this specific mythology.

Very simply, these mythologies arise because most American knowledge of Japanese history is shaped and informed by samurai films, saturated with images of the kamikaze pilots in the second world war, garnished with the yakuza films of the 1970s, and served with a side of anime. This version of Japan is a world where everyone carries a sword and knows karate, and where if you saw a ninja you were already dead.

The shakuhachi can frequently be heard the moment a Chinese/Korean/Japanese character enters the frame in western cinema, and is often included in the soundtrack of the western releases of popular anime. It’s an oversimplified, childish interpretation of a culture and history that is thousands of years old.

In reality, Komusō (“monks of nothingness”) were mendicants that played shakuhachi as a form of meditation called suizen, and did not engage in combat. The shakuhachi at that time wasn’t considered a musical instrument, but rather a religious tool.

The “warrior monk” mythology that is touted in the presentation description above is based on characters from kabuki theater, later translated to film. The 1957 film Naruto Hichō saw Kabuki actor Chōjirō Hayashi later known in cinema under his real name Kazuo Hasegawa portray the character Gennojo Norizuki, a secret agent of the Shōgun. A far sexier version than the reality. A reality of which I can almost guarantee you that the presenter remains completely oblivious

With regard to this presentation, for maybe the third time in my life, I made the decision to voice my discomfort. Pointing out racism and stereotyping as a member of the “model minority” has been met with derision and condescension. Racism toward Asians isn’t that bad… You’re being overly sensitive… You’re just full of yourself… You need to lighten up… Get over it.

Still, as the current climate shines a light on racial awareness, I held out hope that times had changed. I communicated that this was an offensively orientalist way to speak of my ancestral and living culture. I shared that I have also been in the role of artistic director for four different folk and world music festivals, and I have an understanding of the need for cultural sensitivity and inclusivity.

I suggested I could teach a course on cultural stereotypes, misrepresentation, and appropriation.

To be honest, in this setting, I believed that my voice would be heard. The event actively promotes itself as inclusive. Disappointingly though, I was immediately faced with the organizer’s discomfort and strong desire to avoid conflict at the expense of authenticity. What followed was a hollow attempt to assure me that she knew how upsetting this was to me (she doesn’t), but wanted to make everyone happy. Since the majority of attendees were interested in Native American flutes, and were, in her words, laypeople, there wasn’t room for two shakuhachi instructors.

Her compromise was that she would ask her instructor to change the wording of his presentation. She believed that his presentation wouldn’t be racist or insensitive. I do not share her optimism. Changing the title does not change the entire content of the presentation, based in racist mythologies and misinformation.

I was faced with a choice: either accept that generations of dedication to this genre are meritless and collect my paycheck, or withdraw from the event on principle. Sadly, this is nothing new. Artists are constantly asked to leave their conscience at the door. Not to bring politics into their art. Shut up and sing.

I chose to withdraw. I thanked her for the invitation, acknowledged that she was in a difficult spot, and encouraged her to consider the responsibility she held as the director of a musical conference built on the celebration of indigenous folk traditions in a world that increasingly suppresses those experiences and voices. That fair and balanced representation matters.

The response I received was curt: Good luck with your future endeavors. No acknowledgement of anything I said.

In the wake of this event, I have vacillated between anger and despair. It’s difficult not to feel that all the talent, knowledge, labor, and experience of six generations of Japanese iemoto will never be equal to a white person with a college degree.

All the years I spent sitting across from my father, the innumerable hours of practice, rehearsal, performance, and travel. My father’s father dying during the war leaving his young son to carry on a tradition at the age of 12; my great grandfather achieving an unsurpassed level of mastery; my namesake almost single-handedly bracing himself against the inexorable winds of change to save this art form for the world and future generations to enrich their lives. None of that can compare to a white college graduate while the institutions in place to protect and promote these traditions are unwilling to look directly at generations of appropriation and tell that story too. It was deemed more important to protect the ego of a white male with a fraction of the experience and even less knowledge.

I am not naive. Music has never been a meritocracy. Those who succeed most often do because they desire success, not mastery. But every day we have an opportunity and a responsibility to do better. When the object of racism says “this is racist,” the answer is to seek out the root of it and repair it. The answer is not, “Perhaps. But we are uncomfortable with that tension or responsibility so we will carry on anyway.”

In this, they have fallen short of their mission statement, and shown themselves to be more harmful than helpful in preserving my cultural legacy, not to mention the others it purports to value. I encourage the leadership of any conference bound to indigenous cultures and folk traditions to take a good, long look at their policies and actions and to do better. And if I can be helpful in that conversation, I am willing.