We are overjoyed to again feature Dr. Curtiss Takada Rooks in this springtime edition of the Nikkei Uncovered poetry column. Professor and Los Angeles-based creative, Dr. Takada Rooks offers us two wondrous and personal pieces of memory, homage, and hope - inviting us to recall the songs of our families, learn those of another, and lean into the love that is sometimes offered to us by a simple, storied kneading of dough. Enjoy...
—traci kato-kiriyama
* * * * *
Dr. Curtiss Takada Rooks is Program Coordinator of Asian Pacific American Studies and Assistant Professor at Loyola Marymount University whose research addresses ethnic and multiracial community and identity. He also serves on the US Japan Council Board of Directors, US Japan Bridging Foundation Board of Directors, Japan America Society of Southern California, Board of Governors and is a member of both the West Los Angeles Japanese American United Methodist Church and Senshin Temple Adult Buddhist Association (S.A.B.A).
Hoping for a Rainbow
Just when it looks like, the Sun ain't gonna shine anymore
God put a rainbow in the sky
Just when it looks like, the Sun ain't gonna shine anymore
God put a rainbow in the sky
As I sing this Spiritual…
I don’t know the name of the song
Or, even if there are other versus
I have never seen the notes or words on a page…
Yet, these melodic lines live singed in my mind, live on my vocal cords…
I first heard-learned them when Maya Angelou used this song to open a keynote address
Using it as a prelude to a message of resilience, of hope…
And, so I borrow…when asked to speak…
I open my mouth. Reach for deep baritone tones…
Striving for a richness as bright as the colors coaxed from the air’s moisture
As the sun’s energy, its light seeking expression of the beauty to come.
Today I sing to myself. No audience. No classroom of students. No church congregation.
But, hope eludes me…
No rays of light, no colors…
Today, today is dark
Robbed of the discovery of joys
Lost in stolen childhood innocence…
My body betrayed by trauma. Trapped in yesterday.
Searing pain embedded in every breath…
Screaming, screaming, screaming…
I yell, GET OUT!!!
Tomorrow, tomorrow I will sing…
Breathe in tomorrow’s today…
Hoping the rain will stop,
Hoping the clouds will part,
Hoping for a rainbow….
*This poem is copyrighed by Curtiss Takada Rooks (2024)
Grandma’s Hands
I’m not sure what woke me as I wiped the sleep from my eyes.
Maybe it was the distant sound of the crackling wood burning in the fireplace. Or, maybe the creaking sounds of an old wooden home coming to life as it greets the warm morning sun. Or, maybe just the shuffle of sheets as my big brother Tami rolled over in his bed falling more deeply into his dreams.
Maybe. Maybe it was just time for me to wake up and my body obeyed.
Somehow, the morning chill in our bedroom, the one I shared with my brother, greeted me gently instead of its usual brisk slap on the back.
Quietly, I get out of bed and roll the covers back into place. Careful not to be too loud. Tip toeing, slippers in hand, I step into the hall, moving far enough away so that when I put them, on the sound of the soles shuffling against the wooden floor bothers no one.
As I raise my head, the smell of Grandma’s baking biscuits wraps me up like the embrace of the blankets I had just left. Drawn towards the kitchen, I pause to glance into the living room. Granddaddy sits in his rocking chair talking softly to our dog Rusty, as they lay out their plans for the day. The glow from the fireplace dances on his face as big brown eyes look up dutifully so as not to miss a word.
The robust smell of the coffee in his hand sings out to that of the biscuits, intertwining in scented harmony teasing my long night’s nap empty stomach, as the rhythm of kitchen sounds anchored by the soft humming of a Sunday Choir’s hymn pull me closer. Grandma’s deep alto voice a siren call of comforting embrace.
Peeking around the corner of the kitchen door. I watch. Quiet. Listening. Learning.
Grandma starts up a second batch. On the counter, the flour jar rested having completed its mission. Baking powder stood ready, flanked by salt and sugar. Butter and milk await their calling. Into the bowl. Each in its turn.
From where I stand, Grandma’s hands disappear into the bowl. Turning, she sees me. Beckons me with a head nod.
I nod back.
Quickly, I crawl up on the kitchen stool just in time to see her warm dark brown hands firmly knead the butter into the dry mixture, its whiteness melding to her will creating dough from dust. Stopping briefly to wipe her brow with the back of her arm, Grandma reaches in, takes a piece of the dough rolling it in her hands.
One-by-one the biscuits appear. Beautifully shaped ovals, not too big, not too small. Not too fat. Not too flat. Passed on from her mother, and her mother’s mother. Legacies perfected every morning -- molded monuments of their lives sculpted into each line, each crack, of their hands. Each formed biscuit linked to the one before, yet unique to the moment. Waiting for me to take my turn.
Fresh from the oven, the aroma teases me, inviting me to the breakfast table. Honey cries out to the flakey white softness encased in regal golden brown crusts adorned by ridges and cracks. Perfect, imperfection. Of triumph and struggle. Of tears and pain. Of life and love. Of lessons learned and yet to be learned.
Gazing at the table before me, I see etched into the golden shadows, lifelines of generations and generations, nourishing each that follows.
* This poem is copyrighted by Curtiss Takada Rooks (2022).
© 2024/2022 Curtiss Takada Rooks
