“Deimperializing” Higher Education

From a Granddaughter's Eyes

Sachi Edwards, r. Shizuko Hayashi-Simpliciano

Prelude

We use Spirit of The Northern People (Fitzhugh et al. 1999) to anchor ourselves in the Indigenous Ainu stylistic approach of storytelling and story-sharing as a process for transferring knowledge to our audience. In an essay about living with and learning from Hokkaido Ainu Knowledge Keepers, Tomoko Keira (an Ainu woman herself) writes that the “Ainu woman’s existence” can be experienced through the process of “thinking while moving your hands” (Keira, as quoted in Fitzhugh et al., 1999, p. 384). In other words, knowledge is transferred through engaging in daily life, and through both action and storytelling. Keira explains that respected Ainu female elders (fuchi) never lectured or made her feel like there was an exact moment she was being educated. Rather, memories, stories, and important lessons were transferred through “talkstory” conversations that were rooted in joy. The advice from the fuchi was “to fulfill [her] responsibilities and work as an Ainu woman in a fun manner” (Keira, as quoted in Fitzhugh et al., 1999, p.384). We, as Ainu women in the diaspora, engage with the process of storytelling with joy in sharing our own experiences in higher education and even as we collaboratively re-imagine the future of higher education. We share our stories through a series of vignettes, utilizing monologues and dialogue that represent various phases of our relationship: first as doctoral student and professor/committee member, next as peers engaged in relationship building among other Ainu in Diaspora, then as collaborators in both scholarly projects and community-based educational initiatives. Through vignettes, we seek to portray our attempts to “deimperialize” (Chen, 2010) our fundamental and complicated relationship with the academy and imagine higher education where the boundaries between formal and community education are blurred, where learning is personal and emphasizes genealogical histories and responsibilities, and where embedded colonialist norms and imperialist worldviews are identified and systematically dismantled.

Vignette 1: Coming Together

Shineshikpuikotcha utara, a term of endearment from one Ainu to another, literally translates to “people of the same eye socket” while the term Oyashikpuikotcha utara, refers to non-Ainu people and means “persons having a different class of eye socket” (Batchelor, 1903, p. 23).

Scene 1: Professor or Utari?

Utara^[1] (noun): comrades, people (Batchelor, 1903, p. 487).

Shizuko: I’ll tell you about when I first met Dr. Edwards. I didn’t realize it at first, but it set me on a path to be reintroduced to him… my grandfather. Dr. Edwards was a professor in my doctoral program. She was telling us about how the work of Dr. Haunani-Kay Trask helped her question her own settlerism, and reflect on how, as a part-Japanese hula dancer, she was contributing to the erasure of Kanaka Maoli. She was encouraging us to critically reflect on our own identities, relationalities, and responsibilities. She is so smart. Gahh! And, wow, her earrings are fabulous! She is smart, with a sharp fashion sense, this woman has it all! Her forehead though… she has a big forehead, like me. I wonder if she is Ainu. That has to be an Ainu forehead. But she just said that she’s Japanese. Those eyebrows though! She kind of looks like me! We could totally pass for cousins. Those are definitely Ainu eyebrows! Maybe she is Ainu but just does not know it yet. No way, can’t be. But her eyes. She has eyes like mine.

When I was a little girl, my grandfather would point out to me who was Ainu and who was not. He told me to never tell others that I am Ainu, and to never “out” another Ainu. He told me that you can always spot the difference between an Ainu and a Japanese person by their forehead and eyes. My grandfather emphasized that I needed to go to school, that I needed to get my high school diploma. He was the most brilliant man that I knew, but it wasn’t until I graduated from high school that he confessed to me that the highest level of formal schooling he reached was the third grade. There was no time for school because even as a young child, he had to labor on the plantations of Waialua.

Fake it until you make it! That got me through my first year as a doctoral student. But there was something about her specifically that I felt I could be very real with. I was raised by elders who spoke the plantation Pidgin-English dialect, so I was struggling with the formal academic English my professors expected. It felt like they were looking for any weakness in me, then using it as an excuse to dismiss me as not worthy of the academy. Something drew me to her specifically. In class, she would share enough about her background where I saw similarities to my own, especially her family’s plantation heritage and her close relationship to her grandfather. If anyone will understand my struggle with learning to write in academic English, she will, right? I mean, I don’t have anyone else to go to. My advisor treats me like I don’t belong here, and I love my family, but none of them have even been to college. This professor is my last hope. If this doesn’t work… if she tells me that this degree is out of my league, then I might as well give it up.

Scene 2: The Advisor

Shizuko: When I explained to my advisor that I wanted to study Ainu in Diaspora, he made it clear he did not support the idea. He said I needed documented proof that I am Ainu. He said that the stories passed down to me from my grandfather were not enough evidence, and could not be used for scholarly research, which is what I needed to do. He said that, as a part-Japanese man himself, he understood the Japanese system of genealogical documentation. Doesn’t he know that due to the history of Japanese enslaving and trafficking Ainu that our documentation is usually either inaccurate or nonexistent?! Doesn’t he know that many Ainu, including my ancestors, were documented as Japanese nationals on migration papers, erasing their Ainu identity? He said that no one knows this history, and if I can’t prove it in the way he wanted me to, I should just change my research topic. I’m spiraling. What do I do? He is a very powerful tenured professor and program administrator. I need him to like me. My future career probably depends on it. But he clearly doesn’t believe me. Has he seen the size of my forehead? Has he seen my father’s eyebrows?

Maybe he expected me to just go along with whatever he suggested. Many people assume that because we are labeled “Japanese” we will be quiet, demure, and compliant—the problematic social imaginary of Japanese women. They don’t understand the nuanced social, cultural, and deeply embedded ways of the Ainu women that have remained in our DNA and surface even in the diaspora. As a people, Ainu value argument and resistance; it is ritualized in charanke; or, when words fall exhaustively (Shigeru, 1994). Some, like Okada (2012) describe charanke as a way to “resolve disputes through conversation and negotiation” (p. 15). But for Ainu in diaspora, it can also represent our need to argue for basic recognition of our existence. As a people, we are left to scratch through the thick stereotype thrust upon us with the assumption that we are Japanese, or in our context, Americans of Japanese Ancestry. In reality, we often have an inexhaustible and even ancestral drive to argue, to resist, to tease, and to confront disputes head on. I’m not going to let him do this to me. I’m going to fight. But first, I want to see what Dr. Edwards thinks of all this.

Scene 3: I Thought I Was Alone

Sachi: I’ll tell you about when I first met Dr. Hayashi-Simpliciano. At the time she was a doctoral student in an academic writing class I was teaching. I remember her face looking so pained when I would share bits about my own background in class, as if she was feeling my story, embodied, right there in the moment. One day she asked to meet with me privately. She wanted feedback on her dissertation topic. As I read through her proposal, my eyes widened. Whoooaaa. This is amazing! I have never seen anyone talk about Ainu outside of Japan before. She’s talking about… me? I NEED to tell her about him, my grandfather.

As a child, I always felt a special affection for my grandfather. He would tell me hilarious stories about his life, joke around in both a teasing and self-deprecating manner, and construct toys for me out of the scraps of wood left over from his work in our garden. Despite all the joy and humor he exuded when we were together, he was what others would describe as a loner, and always moved around the house as if he felt unwelcomed in his own family. After his death, and later my grandmother’s, my mom told me about how my grandmother would often speak negatively about my grandfather because of his family background. “Inbreds,” she would say. “Low status, no good.” Learning this shook me. It triggered flashbacks of when my grandfather would tell me that Japanese people were racist, not to pay attention to them, which confused me at the time because I thought he was Japanese. But, now he was gone and I could no longer ask him about it. Now I had to grapple with the image of my grandmother I held so close to my heart: an important and cherished figure in my life, who also had deeply racist, imperialist^[2] prejudices. But, who can I talk to about this? My mom doesn’t seem to know much, and I’ve never met anyone else with an Ainu background. Am I just… alone?

As I explained all of this to her (the future Dr. Hayashi-Simpliciano), she gave me that same pained, empathetic look I remember from class. She understood. She could relate. But she was also struggling with her own doubts about whether she should stay in the doctoral program. She was pregnant with her second child and others from the program were suggesting she couldn’t handle it. I didn’t tell her at the time, but I was also newly pregnant with my second child—the child who would bear my grandfather’s name. I felt such kinship with her—she even looked like me! What you are doing is really important, I told her. Maybe if it had been safer to talk about being Ainu during his life, my grandfather wouldn’t have had to keep that part of him a secret, maybe he wouldn’t have been so depressed. I know you can do this. I will do whatever I can to help you do this. This is bigger than you or me. This is for them, our grandfathers, our babies, and all the others like them.

Vignette 2: Long-Fingered Woman

The spider goddess Ashketanne-mat (or Yushkep Kamuy), often translated as “long-fingered woman” (Phillippi, 2016, p. 78), is able to juggle multiple strenuous tasks due to her many hands. She is often evoked by women for her ability to aid in childbirth and to effectively defend against (predominantly male) attackers.

Scene 1: Pushing Boundaries

Take a good look

At the goddess who shook

Fallacies that I found in your books

Imperial house?

Or,

A den full of crooks?

The impact of trauma’s historical hooks

Our survivance ain’t always as good as it looks

But we are Ainu

We are Diaspora

And we are here…

(Hayashi-Simpliciano, 2020, p. 116)

Shizuko: I began my doctoral journey on a quest to trade in my beanie for the scholar’s hood and puffy hat. I had gone through several life and career transitions–a hip-hop artist & slam poet, turned educator and school administrator who had aspirations of becoming an education researcher. When I was accepted into my doctoral program, I was in shock, but I was excited because I was seeing headlines in the news about a hip-hop dissertation from another university that made me feel like I could actually craft a dissertation that was unique to my passions. I assumed that because other universities were allowing it, my university would welcome this kind of approach for my dissertation. I was wrong.

I wanted the title of “Dr.” so badly that I was willing to do whatever it took to get it. So, when my advisor told me that my approach to research was “unacceptable,” I took that to heart. Afterall, I didn’t know anyone with a doctoral degree outside the faculty in my program. But then, my belly began to grow, and just like that, I learned that I was pregnant and expecting a baby boy. This seemed like a relief to my advisor who attempted to guide me away from “embarrassing” myself, the program, and the university by using non-traditional approaches for my dissertation. Nauseated with persistent “morning sickness,” I succumbed to the idea that it was not the right time or space for me to pursue a doctoral degree. I trusted my advisor even though his advice stung to the core of my being. “It is time you focused on just expanding your family,” he said. “I am happy for you, but doctoral study demands a certain level of commitment and rigor.”

That day, I walked into what I thought would be my last session with my classmates feeling the weight of broken dreams on my shoulders, and an ache in my gut caused by a feeling of shame. I placed my hand on my belly, and whispered quietly, I tried, didn’t I. And then as I looked up, I saw her, in all of her round bellied glory, talking with other professors in the room. Dr. Edwards was pregnant too! And, I was surprised to learn, her career in academia was not over. She was a long-fingered woman in the flesh. She was doing it all at once. Teaching. Mentoring. Publishing. Growing life. Her very presence inspired me towards action.

The bigger my belly got, the less my doctoral journey became about a hood and a puffy hat. I even put my beanie back on from time to time. I knew deep down inside, that if I did not make the decision to keep the Ainu stories of my family alive the best way I knew how, the Ainu identity in my family line would be lost. With no access to the Ainu language, and no one alive in my family that I could seek advice from, I decided that I had one shot at writing a dissertation that I could be proud of, and I knew that hip-hop as a musical genre and Hip Hop as a culture, was too much a part of my own history to ignore in this next part of my journey. Perhaps in another time and place an elder would have recognized my talent and trained me in a traditional Ainu style of oration. In my life, hip-hop was the mechanism that enabled and empowered my reflective practice—it filled knowledge gaps regarding my Ainu heritage and language that were there because I didn’t have access to Ainu elders. Hip Hop’s culture of political critique and performative style allowed me to tell the stories I felt compelled to tell. While some claim hip-hop taints the Ainu culture, for me it maintains my Ainu identity and serves as a medium through which I disrupt the institutionalized spirit murder (Love, 2019) of colonialism, and as a framework for disciplined resistance that has helped me endure systemic oppression of both American and Japanese supremacy. I needed to do it this way.

In the end, I was able to switch advisors and put together a committee that was supportive of my topic and my use of hip-hop ethnography. Dr. Edwards was on that committee and was there as an utari, a comrade, who understood my historical trauma and was a shining example of historical triumph and community obligation. In the academy, we are taught to maintain professionalism in professor-student relationships. And, yes, there is no shortage of examples of how things can go wrong when power is abused and relationships become inappropriate. But, as Ainu women, we learn best through systems of kinship and camaraderie, from utari, and that is what I was desperately needing in my doctoral journey. I don’t think I would have made it through without that kind of support. I needed to sit in circle with my hands extended, in a space safe enough to reveal vulnerability, to reveal that I too am yet another Ainu long-fingered woman, in our tradition of Ashketanne-mat.

Scene 2: Edgewalking

Sachi: It was such an honor to be on Dr. Hayashi-Simpliciano’s committee. At the time I held a precarious position in the academy. I was on a short-term, non-tenure track contract, unsure myself of whether I could really “make-it.” I knew I was smart enough, I knew I could write in their academic English they cared so much about, but I used my talents to talk about the violence of systemic Christian hegemony embedded throughout higher education, and no one seemed to like that–they told me so in many ways. Advocating for her with what little power I had was never even a question. Watching her create the beautiful, emotional, theoretically rich dissertation that she did was inspirational, both on a personal level and as a scholar (although the distinction between the two is unclear because my scholarship is personal).

The year after I joined Dr. Hayashi-Simpliciano’s dissertation committee, I performed my own poetry at an academic conference for the first time. She gave me the confidence to do it. Then, she invited me to perform for a virtual open-mic she was organizing through a community-based organization. It would be open to the public and anyone with an Internet connection, which terrified me. But again she gave me confidence. She reminded me that our stories needed to be out in the community, and that creating a safe future for our children requires engaging folx far beyond the academy. I did it. It felt good. It felt right.

The more I got involved in her community building work, the more I saw just how hard, and how important, it is. Over and over again I watched her give her time and knowledge generously to hold space for people like us. I watched her stand up to protect our community from those seeking to use us for their own personal gain, or to deny our very existence. I watched her handle extremely difficult and frustrating situations with nuance and care, but with clear boundaries for respect and justice. Once someone came to our community seeking information, and then used that information to market their fraudulent shamanic services–what we call a plastic shaman^[3]. There were also the times when Christian proselytizers would attempt to befriend us, identify our vulnerabilities, and say they wanted to “help.” Then, we were betrayed by someone we trusted as a member of our community who wanted to sell knowledge that we knew was sacred and belonged to a particular Hokkaido Ainu family. We pleaded with them not to do it, but they chose to do it anyway, opting to disconnect from our community as a result. In all of these cases, Dr. Hayashi-Simpliciano dedicated a great deal of mental, emotional, and spiritual energy to facilitating a conversation amongst everyone involved about what happened and why it was wrong. In those moments, I found myself thinking, how does she do it all? She’s got a demanding full-time job, and two little ones at home just like me. I'm so amazed that she has the presence and clarity of mind to take on this much-needed leadership role for us. She’s the utari we all need, she’s our Ashketanne-mat.

Scene 3: Remembering Our Responsibility Under The Stars

Kanto oro yaku sakno a = ranke-p sinep ka isam. Nothing has come down from heaven without purpose.

Shizuko: When each of my sons were born, I named them in hopes they would never forget the genealogy of the ancestral fire grandmother—the divine warmth. In the opening acknowledgements of my dissertation, I wrote to my boys—one just a toddler, the other in elementary school—and ended my message to them with my favorite Ainu proverb:

To Chiyonofuji and Shigefuji: You are my reasons why. There were so many times throughout my dissertation journey when I know that you both wanted me home, too young to understand why I was compelled to journey without you. Please know that I entered into this journey for you. My biggest learning through this dissertation journey is that our genealogy is our greatest gift. Never forget that you are of the stars. “Kanto oro yaku sakno a = ranke-p sinep ka isam.”

It was over. My dissertation was published. I was a 2020 graduate. Despite earning a golden cord to graduate with honors while wearing a fancy robe and puffy hat, in the end the graduation ceremony for my cohort was canceled due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Unphased, I immediately started sending out my resume. I had just accomplished something no one in my family ever had before me. I always dreamed of becoming a professor and professional researcher, and now I finally could do so. Or so I thought. As it turned out, perpetuating Ainu in Diaspora stories and perspectives was not popular, even among academic programs with a demonstrated interest in Japanese-American issues. I knew that the stories I was documenting were an unwelcome reminder to both Japanese nationals and Japanese-Americans of the violent and persistent legacy of Japanese imperialism, but I was hoping I could convince them of the importance of our stories, of our histories. It was becoming clear that obtaining postdoctoral positions and funding for my kind of research would be difficult. What I did not know was that scholars from outside our community were doing research on us, without our knowledge, and were getting money from the Japanese government to do so.

New Year’s Eve 2021: It had been almost two years since I completed my dissertation and despite having no faculty interviews yet, I set a goal for the coming year to get a faculty position. I decided to “Google” myself so that I could see what a potential hiring committee would see. I was horrified to learn that there was another scholar, one who self-identified as someone trying to reconnect with their own Indigenous heritage, whose recently published thesis distorted my dissertation to slander and belittle our entire community of Ainu in Diaspora. The thesis names the social media group I manage, and claims that we in the diaspora have “precarious” claims to Ainu identity–which is especially triggering for us, given the history of shame and hiding we have endured. To make matters worse, this study that names and describes our community was conducted without our knowledge or consent and was funded by the Japanese government.

I was in a tailspin. How could this be? Immediately, I sought advice from the only person who I thought could understand: Dr. Edwards. I frantically texted her with tears streaming down my face, completely forgetting that Dr. Edwards was in Japan on New Year's Day, one of the most significant holidays of the year in Japanese society.

Sachi: New Year holiday celebrations are one of the times of year I remember my grandparents the most. In particular, I remember each of them eagerly preparing traditional dishes, and in their memory, I try to do the same for my own family each year. This year, in the midst of these celebrations, I found myself completely consumed by the messages and thesis excerpts Dr. Hayashi-Simpliciano was sending me about a study that portrays our community in a negative light. At first I couldn’t believe it. No way. How could a committee of tenured professors allow someone to analyze and publicly name people and private social media groups who were not even aware they were being studied? I know the IRB doesn’t actually prevent vulnerable people from being victimized by academic research, but even with IRB approval, wouldn’t this student’s advisor make it clear that this was unethical?! As reality began to sink in, I wondered how the elders in our diaspora community were going to take this. Many of them had heartbreaking stories of being labeled as Japanese yet openly outcasted by Japanese and Japanese-American communities. They persisted despite that treatment and proudly affirmed their Ainu identity, yet were still coping with the trauma of a lifetime of attempted erasure of who they were. Their stories were lovingly told in Dr. Hayashi-Simpliciano’s dissertation. Their stories, their identities, were now once again called into question by a non-Ainu student researcher who none of us knew.

Shizuko: I need to call them. I need to personally apologize. I feel responsible. If I hadn’t shared their stories, maybe this study wouldn’t have been done. I had promised my community of Ainu in Diaspora that I would honor their family stories, their oral histories, and that I would protect them as we brought our community forward together to the academic audience. I thought if our histories and experiences were documented in written form, then maybe our presence could finally feel validated. I thought I did everything possible to design a study that upheld the highest ethics, going beyond what the IRB expected, to show the brave participants of my research the respect and dignity they deserved. I guarded their stories, not just as a researcher, but as a community member, as the daughter and granddaughter of Ainu who hid their identity in order to survive amongst Japanese transnational colonial narratives, as a mother who was trying to break the cycle of historical trauma as I raised my own boys to have pride in their Ainu heritage. I just never imagined that another researcher, particularly one claiming Indigenous heritage themselves, would belittle us in this way—an act of lateral violence (Wingard, 2010).

So, I called them. As I spoke with one of our elders, I could hear his voice quivering. He had navigated being othered his entire life, both in Hokkaido and in America, and this news was re-traumatizing to him. I felt so sick that I had “outed” my community, making them vulnerable to the violence of academia and the outsider gaze. I felt so guilty for not heeding my grandfather’s words to never reveal openly that I am Ainu, or else Japanese society will find some way to punish me, to punish us. I felt an ache in my heart, and a sense of powerlessness. And then I vomited.

Sitting in silence with my ancestors, I asked, what of my yaku[4]? What of my responsibility and purpose? Not the self-righteous ego driven ideals of purpose that we know today in the West. For Ainu, one's yaku is not to be manifested or controlled. My elders talked about the yaku as something that chooses you, not the other way around. I may not fully know what my yaku is, but I know that my elders told me that I am possessed by my yaku as a being of the heavens and of the stars, as a woman who possesses the warmth of the divine fire grandmother. What, if anything, could I have done differently to protect my community from a researcher who was so distant from her own identity, that she was willing to tarnish the lived experiences of my community? A community of people who were products of human trafficking, displacement from land, who lost their Native language through colonial indoctrination in the Japanese context, and then, who faced inculcation into Americanization as our families stuffed away our Ainu in Diaspora history and culture to avoid being the sacrificial scapegoats of Nikkei^[5] immigrants facing incarceration during WW2.

Having a doctorate degree did not shield us from wounds caused by another researcher’s gaze upon us.

What good came out of my dissertation? Was there any real good coming out of our community work? I witnessed my own people taking on the role of “plastic shaman” only to exotify and use their Ainu-ness to make money, as if having a genetic link to a history of shamanism gave them the right to appropriate initiatory practices that had never been passed down to them. As if the last recognized shaman of our grandparent’s generation were not wholeheartedly against accepting money for their services, because it tainted their work. I felt victimized by this Indigenous-identifying academic who weaponized research with the allure of Japanese funding. I was becoming bitter when thinking about the price tag that apparently came with the retraumatization of the Ainu in Diaspora whom I had personally come to know, and grown to respect. I was left feeling like I had betrayed my yaku or responsibility to our families, and our Ainu in Diaspora community. It is the least Ainu thing that one can feel, but I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge just how lost under the heavens I felt during this time in my life and career.

Sachi: What of my yaku? What of my responsibility and purpose in the diaspora Ainu community? To this point I had been playing more of a supporting role by participating in community events, sharing my story with those who were struggling to come to grips with their own similar family stories, leveraging my position within academia to create spaces for Ainu (both in Japan and in the diaspora) to share their own stories, and pushing my students to think critically about Ainu and Japanese histories. But, was that enough? Certainly not—our community was hurting. Yet, as someone who wasn’t raised knowing my grandfather’s identity, I needed to follow the lead of those who knew more than me. What, then, should I do? How do I show up for my community in a way that contributes to our healing, while I’m still learning myself?

I thought about my grandfather. The last words he ever spoke to me were, “Don’t come back until you find a husband. I want to be a great-grandpa.” That day I walked away from him sobbing. I knew he wouldn’t live to meet his great-grandchildren. I had made the long trip to visit him precisely because I knew he would soon be gone. His death is still the loss in my life that pains me the most. What makes it so hard is that I knew he didn’t want to die. He wasn’t ready. He wanted great-grandchildren. He wanted the chance to build a relationship with another generation, to cook for them, construct toys for them, and tell them stories about his life. Instead, I have inherited the responsibility to do that. And, in my career as an education scholar—a career I long resisted but could not shake—I also have the responsibility, the yaku, to make schools, the academy, and the world a safer place for the next generation of young Ainu and Ainu in diaspora. That I can do. That I must do.

Vignette 3: Crabs In A Bucket

Shizuko: Upon being accepted into my doctoral program, I received an invitation to visit the home set aside for the current university president. It is located in a historic town, which today is predominantly made up of financially well-to-do educators. I realize now that the environment was misleading. It actually made me believe that a piece of paper from this university would solidify the dream of a financially stable life. After meeting program milestones, my former advisor would also invite me and other students to his home. I admired his standard of living for himself and his family. I thought that all academics lived just like he did. Afterall, we invested in our program tuition. The expectation is that it would pay back… somehow.

I kept in touch with Dr. Edwards through social media. She and I belonged to a local anti-capitalist, anti-consumerism group where members gift items to anyone interested without monetary cost. Dr. Edwards was giving away an unused makeup kit in the act of downsizing her possessions while preparing for her move to Japan to take a professorship there. Picking up the makeup was a good excuse to come together again with my teacher, my mentor, my utari. Plus, we have similar Ainu warm undertone skin which is not easy to shop for. If she was giving away makeup, I was happy to take it off her hands. We decided to meet at a neighborhood beach at sunset, so that our children could play in the sand on the “hunt” for baby sand crabs together. We sat together in the warm sand conversing in the way Ainu women do.

Sachi: So, how are things?

Shizuko: Honestly? I’m frustrated. When I originally decided to conduct research about our Ainu in Diaspora community, I just wanted to prove that we exist. But now, it feels like everything is all wrong. This is not how I thought things would play out in the end. I never thought that people would use my research to take advantage of people in our community. I feel like I messed up. I feel like I want to just… give up.

Sachi: You know, I never told you this, but one time, you said something that was really healing for me. You said, "our grandparents hid their identity so that we could be born," and that really made me stop and think. For a long time I struggled with why my grandpa never talked to me about it, about him being Ainu, about my own Ainu heritage. We were so close. Learning that he had hid his Ainu-ness from me made me feel like there was a distance between us, and I hated that feeling. Then, because I didn't really have anyone to talk about it with, I was just stuck in that place of questioning why.

Shizuko: Yea, I know that feeling… trying to see things from my grandfather’s eyes, and trying to understand why they would hide their ethnic identity for so long.

Sachi: I want you to understand that learning from others in the diaspora community helped me move past that. I finally started learning from a place of love for my grandfather and wanting to feel closer to him, rather than just operating from a place of confusion, obsessed with trying to understand why he didn't say anything... am I making sense??

Shizuko: Kind of… [I bent down to dig a hole in the sand and motioned for my son to come catch the sand crabs and place them in his bucket].

Sometimes when thinking about this whole journey, I can’t help but think that your grandfather, my grandfather, to some degree, they were not wrong. They hid their Ainuness, but they also kept themselves protected. They hid their Ainuness to keep us protected. I originally set out just to validate that we even exist! But now, we’re seeing all kinds of scholars hop on the Ainu bandwagon. It’s especially frustrating to see Japanese American scholars talking about Ainu issues, meanwhile never confronting the internalized imperialism within the Nikkei community which led to our grandfathers suppressing their own heritage to survive. And I think that is why I question whether I should have listened to my grandfather.

To tell you the truth, I am frustrated. I have applied to every position in Asian American studies that I have seen advertised on the West Coast and have not even been able to score a phone interview. And yet, there are Japanese Americans who are getting these jobs and using my research in their classes to make themselves look more aligned with the ethnic minorities who get labeled as Nikkei. They don’t even think twice about commodifying our community, our history, our struggle, for their own personal gain.

Sachi: Yeah, academia is such a racket, and a big part of the game of getting a job, and even an interview, is to have the right research topic, and the right approach to research, but…

Shizuko: I feel like from the beginning, it was always as if everything about me was just wrong. I never wanted to let go of Hip Hop and poetry in my methodology. I guess I have no one to be mad at but myself, right? I mean, I could have listened to that “advisor” and I could have did everything “right.” But instead, I chose to feel fulfilled in my work. I chose to make sure that our authentic stories and perspectives are documented.

You and I have talked so much about the need for the Nikkei diaspora to deimperialize. What does this mean for those of us in the academy, or longing to be a part of the academy? I don’t know if deimperializing means that I give in to what I know is more acceptable so that I can make changes from the inside? Or if deimperializing means that because they won’t let me in, I continue to just do my work within our community? I have been thinking about this a lot. Do I need to deimperialize my motives for even wanting to be a part of the academy? Is it about building us as a community? The whole reason I even got my doctorate was because I thought it validated me, my thoughts, my ideas… Would people even trust me or my work, if I don’t publish in academic journals and if I don’t score that professorship?

Sachi: So, I suppose in a sense we could argue that it's important to deimperialize our motives for engaging in research. But, also, there's no way to "change the academy from the inside" if we're not on the inside to begin with. So, do we just keep doing research, chasing peer-reviewed publications, and reading up on the latest scholarly literature even though we’re not getting paid? I did that for many years and I eventually got a professor job, but there were many, many points between the time I finished my PhD and the time I finally got this job that I thought I should quit, or that I could make more money as a barista anyway.

Shizuko: Really? You? Had thoughts of quitting?? They were slow to hire you!

Sachi: Yeah. So, I really struggle with how much and in what ways to encourage aspiring academics because I don't want to push them to do things they aren't passionate about, but I also don't want to push them to do unpaid labor knowing how cruel and inhumane academia is. Even with you… we have these projects we’re working on and these papers we’re writing together that I’m really excited about and I think are so important, but I also know that giving your time and energy to those projects means going beyond your current job description and, often, sacrificing your personal time. Now that I do have a professor job, I can see the benefits of staying in academia: I can integrate my community building work with my research and scholarship, and through my teaching I can help students think more critically about their own histories and responsibilities, and push them to think differently about what counts as inquiry, knowledge, and learning. So in that sense, I absolutely want to encourage more people from marginalized communities to get into academia. But, what if they don't get a professor job? Have I pushed them down a path of abuse and disappointment?

Shizuko: At this point, it just feels like I don’t belong. Like, I walk into formal academic spaces, and I, as an Ainu woman, as someone who tries to embrace my Aboriginality, am there for display, to make the university or the conference appear to be more inclusive, but I feel like in reality, I am never fully taken seriously.

Where do we even go from here? How do we remain open about our Ainuness, our historical trauma, my sorrow for everything our grandparents endured which has been minimized in formal academic spaces, practically to the point of erasure? My rage? How do I remain authentic despite all we experienced in the academy, just for openly saying that we are Ainu and that there are others out there who carry forward this identity? Trust me, I would love to publish. My dream is to be a full-time researcher. And yet, I have Ainu children that I have to support. I have to feed my family. It is so draining that we can’t even exist without another scholar feeling like they have the right to slap us in the face with the label “precarious indigeneity.” I mean, forget that this person could do that to you and me, but that this person could do that to the elders in our community who proudly say they are Ainu, despite surviving racism from both white America, and Nikkei alike. It makes me realize that yeah, maybe my grandfather was right. If I looked at everything that happened from my grandfather’s eyes, maybe I would see that protecting the next generation of Ainu is more important than establishing my career?

Sachi: The typical version of success in the academy we see "dominating" the field—publishing a ton in high impact journals, getting thousands of citations, getting tenure at a prestigious university, getting large grants and awards—I'm definitely not after that, and I don't think you are either. I want to feel secure, yes, but I don’t care at all about accolades. That’s likely part of why it took me so long to get a professor job, because I wasn’t willing to go just anywhere. I didn’t even apply for jobs where I didn’t feel I would be able to be myself and maintain the familial and community relationships that are important to me.

When I think about deimperializing higher education, I think about centering connection (relationship building) and love: love for ourselves, our communities, our lands, our waters. That doesn’t mean we can’t also feel rage! I rage all the time about how little self-described critical education scholars seem to care about the pervasiveness of Christian supremacy. But, like I said about my own evolution in learning about my grandfather, approaching our rage, confusion, and frustration from a place of love can help us gain clarity on how to proceed. bell hooks (1994) said that the classroom is the space with the most radical/revolutionary potential in the academy. I think that the relationships built not only in the classroom, but also in community-based educational spaces, are the core of that radical/revolutionary potential. That means building relationships between the academy and the community too, blurring the lines between formal processes of learning and the collaborative, ancestral responsibility-minded learning we do to make sure our grandfathers’ stories aren’t lost. That’s what guides me, even in my “formal” teaching. Relationships, love, and a sense of connection need to be built for revolution to happen, at least that's what I think.

Shizuko: [I looked down and realized that my toddler had placed several tiny crabs in a bucket, nuzzled in the sand by my feet].

Hey Sachi… You know, having this relationship with you, makes me realize the kind of really distressing and toxic relationships that I have engaged in with my teachers, not just in the academy, but throughout my life.

You know what? Thanks…

Sachi: Thanks?

Shizuko: [I pointed to the crabs in the bucket]. Thanks for being that professor who gave me your back to step up and out of an unhealthy situation. Some of my professors made me feel like I was one of those crabs, where every time I tried to escape the bucket, they pulled me back down and told me that change for myself was impossible. Some of my professors preferred to uphold the status quo in academia. But, instead, you chose to uphold me. Seriously… one day, I’d like to do all that you have done for me, for somebody else.

For Ainu people, our ancestors are very present in our everyday lives. It was as if I was pushed towards Dr. Edwards. I trusted her when I felt as if I was absolutely drowning. Some would call it fate, others destiny… but I believe it was my grandfather who led me to her as an utari, in a time in my life when I most needed to remember that the work ahead of me was not for just myself, but for a community of Ainu in Diaspora that we did not know existed beyond ourselves… (just yet).

Epilogue

Our journey together as scholar-collaborators, fellow Ainu in Diaspora, and friends has taken many shapes over the years. There has been a graduation, multiple job changes, new babies born, an international move (and later, a return home), and an ongoing global pandemic. There have been tears, but also many moments of joy and humor. Along the way we have learned about ourselves, our grandfathers, our children, our communities, and so much more. Most importantly, perhaps, is that through our relationship, and through the energy we have put into relationship-building among other Ainu in Diaspora, we have been able to learn and think a lot about our responsibilities: to our own community, to our Ainu cousins in Hokkaido and elsewhere, and to the Indigenous communities that inhabit the places we live and call home. Our initial introduction was in the context of a formal university, and some of the work we pursue together fits within the framework of academia (e.g., conference presentations, academic publications, IRB approved projects), but much of our work, and much of our most valuable learning, happens in ways that existing higher education systems would not likely embrace as legitimate pedagogical processes.

In our edgewalking, we seek out opportunities to combine community-based initiatives with our “day jobs” in higher education, but we continue to struggle with how and when to do that. We have more to learn. We do not have all the answers. The story of our relationship, then, is not intended as a template to be replicated by others, or even as a success story. Rather, it is about the importance and the power of relationships and community building, in what is otherwise a dehumanizing, individualist-minded, power-seeking, status-quo-maintaining context: the academy.

In our moments of struggle, we ask ourselves: How will the elders in our community feel about this? What would our grandfathers say? How does this affect other marginalized communities? What kind of future do we want for our children? What are our responsibilities in this moment? More importantly than the honorific “Dr.,” we are our grandfathers’ granddaughters and we find that seeing the world through these eyes—granddaughters’ eyes—helps bring our responsibility into focus a bit more. The vision we have for the future of higher education includes facilitating processes for others to, similarly, think about their own genealogical histories (not only to people, but to places as well), their accompanying responsibilities, and the ways they can build relationships and express love—not as a peripheral activity, but as a key component of how and what it means to learn at the highest level.

References

1. Aldred, L. (2000). Plastic shamans and astroturf sun dances: New age commercialization of Native American spirituality. American Indian Quarterly, 24(3), 329-352.
2. Batchelor, J. (1903). A grammar of the Ainu language. Kelly & Walsh.
3. Beals, F., Kidman, J., & Funaki, H. (2020). Insider and outsider research: Negotiating self at the edge of the emic/etic divide. Qualitative Inquiry, 26(6), 593-601,
4. Chen, K. H. (2010). Asia as method: Toward deimperialization. Duke University Press.
5. Deloria, P. J. (1998). Playing Indian. Yale University Press.
6. Fitzhugh, W. W., & Dubreuil, C. O. (Eds.) (1999). Ainu: Spirit of a northern people. University of Washington Press.
7. Hayashi-Simpliciano, R. S. (2020). Charanke and hip-hop: The argument for re-storying the education of Ainu in diaspora through performance ethnography (Doctoral dissertation). University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, Honolulu, Hawaiʻi.
8. Hayashi-Simpliciano, r. S., & Edwards, S. (2025). De-imperializing through Moshiri: An Ainu in Diaspora framework for addressing internalized empire and Japanese American apathy. AmerAsia Journal.
9. hooks, b. (1994). Teaching to transgress: Education as the practice of freedom. Routledge.
10. la paperson. (2017). A third university is possible. University of Minnesota Press.
11. Love, B. (2019). We want to do more than survive: Abolitionist teaching and the pursuit of educational freedom. Beacon Press.
12. Okada, M. V. (2012). The plight of the Ainu, Indigenous people of Japan. Journal of Indigenous Social Development, 1(1), 1-14.
13. Philippi, D. L. (2016). Songs of gods, songs of humans: The epic tradition of the Ainu. Princeton University Press. (Original work published in 1979)
14. Shigeru, K. (1994). Our land was a forest: An Ainu memoir. Westview Press.
15. Wingard, B. (2010). A conversation with lateral violence. International Journal of Narrative Therapy & Community Work, 2010(1): 13–17.

Notes

1. The Batchelor dictionary uses “utara” but the more common usage of the word today is “utari” so that it was we use in our dialogue. ↑

2. Even those born and raised outside of Japan, like my grandmother and many Japanese Americans today, have inherited Japanese imperialist ideologies that erase, downplay, or justify Japan’s military and cultural imperialism throughout the Asia-Pacific region and within the borders of what is known as Japan today. See Hayashi-Simpliciano and Edwards (2025) for a more detailed discussion of this phenomenon. ↑

3. Similar to the term “pretendian” (Deloria, 1998), we use “plastic shaman” (Aldred, 2000) to describe someone seeking to profit from unearned and inappropriate claims to shamanic abilities. ↑

4. Batchelor (1903) translates yaku as “a tax” of furs or fish (p. 519), but in the way our elders use it, it is better understood as a responsibility to give back to your community. ↑

5. Japanese migrants and their descendants who live in the diaspora ↑