Taiko in the Jails? Reflections by Various Contributors
Various Contributors: Kyoko Hongo, Yuta Kato, ManMan Mui, Tomomi Hongo
My journey with taiko began in the late ‘70s in the basement of Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist Temple in Los Angeles. A friend told me there was a small group practicing taiko so we decided to check it out. This was the emergence of Los Angeles Matsuri Taiko and it changed my life. We started practicing on tires and an old barrel that was carved out with skins attached to either side. A few months later, our first taiko came from Japan but since it was so expensive, we decided to start making our own drums.
Fast forward some decades later, I ended up marrying the sensei, Etsuo Hongo and have two beautiful daughters, Mika and Tomomi. Each had differing hobbies and careers, Mika played basketball and became an engineer while Tomomi played taiko and became a teacher. Though Tomomi grew up with traditionalist values both in the home and taiko world, I was excited to see her pursue new contemporary paths in this evolving art form.
While my own career path took me to teaching in the county jails, I never would have dreamed of taiko in the jails. I teach for a charter school that provides education for underserved, disenfranchised populations, including those behind bars. I have taught in Men’s Central Jail, Twin Towers Correctional Facility and Century Regional Detention Facility (women’s jail). The Twin Towers Correctional Facility is considered the largest mental health facility in the nation and sadly, it is dominated by people of color with histories of chronic trauma and socio-economic disparities.
A few years ago, with Tomomi’s encouragement, I took a Hachijo workshop at Asano Taiko U.S. under Yuta Kato and David Wells. It brought back many fond memories and was great fun! In class we also learned about how the men and women of Hachijo Island communicated their most intense, often sad, moments in their lives through taiko and song. Feelings of isolation, yearning and love very much resonated with the population I worked with.
I also appreciate the therapeutic value of art and music for mental health and decided to invite Yuta-san to present a workshop at Twin Towers. Of course, security is extremely tight and I could not bring drums or instruments into the facility. Yuta-san was very creative and decided to use the metal tables and body percussion for the workshop.
I had about 35 inmate students in the mental health dorm, a challenge in itself. Yuta-san explained the history of the residents of Hachijo Island and started a rhythm pattern that the students could play on the tables, on their laps or hitting their chest. At first the students were hesitant, but a few began to synch in with the rhythm. This encouraged others and soon we had a few guys doing solos on the round metal tables. Their faces beamed as they came together in an exuberant and spirited sound of joy and freedom. Even for a few moments, there were no ethnic, economic or academic disparities, just a harmonious culmination of feelings and spirit. It was at that profound moment that I realized the power of the language of taiko. It wasn’t about ego or style but about humanity. Taiko transcended all barriers and leveled the playing field for all of us. The inmates were extremely grateful and said it was an experience they would always remember.
About a year later, I was transferred to Century Regional Detention Facility (women’s jail), where I taught in the high security and mental health dorms. Though security was still tight, the facility had a tambourine and some shakers. At the same time, Tomomi was working with ManMan Mui on singing and body percussion projects. I asked them to present a workshop on taiko rhythms using song and patterns. The dorm soon resonated with song and weeks later, I heard inmates singing “Funga Alafia” in the elevator on their way to clinic. Taiko does not discern color, does not see socio-economic disparity but invites kindred connectivity. I am grateful for these artists for bringing light and joy to a dark and desolate place. Their stories here about their experiences will resonate the power of taiko as a tool not only for social justice, but for acceptance, inclusion, connection and bountiful joy.
-- Kyoko Hongo
I didn't know what to expect when going to Twin Towers Correctional Facility to teach a taiko workshop without drums nor bachi.
I did however have a fear that I may not be able to offer anything to the people who have experienced way more hardship than I have throughout my 35 years of life.
Would they even care about what I'm saying? Who am I to think that I can possibly teach something of value to these people?
Turns out, the students at the correctional facility were like eager elementary school kids. They were fascinated, open, and very pure in their attitude for learning and enjoying music through just their hands and a table.
I realized that they too are human beings just like me. I've made mistakes in life and luckily these were permissible through the eyes of the law. For whatever reason, these folks just happened to make the mistakes that landed them into this facility, but nonetheless, they are still warm-blooded human beings.
Sure there are bad people out there, but I was able to put aside differences, and re-appreciate the power of art, music, and taiko through my experience at Twin Towers Correctional Facility.
-- Yuta Kato
On November 20, 2018, I had the opportunity to lead 2 sessions of body music workshops along with Tomomi Hongo and Aileen Kyoko Hongo at the women’s jail in LA. Before entering the space, my only images of a jail were mainly from the mainstream media portrayal. “Orange is the New Black” was the most recent dramatic imageries of prison that I could draw from. I honestly did not know what to expect. I remember saying yes to this based on the belief that no matter what our past or our future look like, we can embrace the present together through music.
Soon after we entered the heavily gated complex, I felt like we were entering a hospital with an industrial tone for mass storage of human bodies. The sound of the heavy gates shutting, and the sound of keys and chains clinging still reverberate in my mind to this day.
One of our sessions was located in a unit populated with inmates that had mental illness. The workshop took place in the open area right in the center of a well-shaped multi-storey complex. We formed a circle of about 10-15 in the center of the open area. Adjacent to our meeting area, there were rows after rows of 3-tier bunk beds packed with inmates residing in their beds. (Thinking about our current covid crisis, this image creeped up in my thoughts from time to time - with their poor living conditions in close quarters.) As we were singing and playing body percussion during the session, I’d look up and I could see inmates peeking through the small windows of their doors. Some even danced and sang along with us from a far.
We sang a song from West Africa, “Funga Alafia, Ashay Ashay” which is roughly the equivalent to good health and may peace be with you in Hausa from Nigerian. We also chanted and danced to an adapted version of the song written by Doug Goodkin.
With my thoughts, I greet you.
With my heart, I greet you.
With my word, I greet you.
I have nothing up my sleeves.
As our voices echoed in this space, thick of concrete and heavy clanging metal, I recalled holding back my tears as it was a very emotional and intense moment to unpack.
Aileen facilitated a circle time at the end for us to share our thoughts with each other. We were all feeling grateful for each others’ presence. As I listened behind their words of emotion, I recognized the inmates’ need to feel alive as human beings, the need to feel dignified as individuals, and the need for their voices to be heard. In that moment, we shared compassion for each other, as the words “feeling alive” resonated with the participating inmates.
Music brings joy.
Artistic expressions nourish our soul.
Co-creation builds community.
A cacophony of sounds join together made beautiful harmony.
As the three of us departed the prison complex, our discombobulated thoughts stirred with emotion. Just moments ago, locked inside metal walls with metal gates and its tiresome blinding light, our first breath of privileged freedom proved just as blinding.
-- ManMan (July 21, 2020)
About a year and a half ago, I had the opportunity to co-lead a music workshop with Yeeman “Manman” Mui at the Women's Jail in Lynwood where my mom was a teacher, leading a life skills class for the inmates. I grew up with an understanding of the population that my mom has been working with for a long time, sharing stories about our very different student population as I am an early childhood educator, but the need for social-emotional support is a strong common thread for both populations. As we walked into the jail, one major memory I strongly remember was the lack of fresh air, like being inside of an airplane or airport. These inmates are constantly inside a building, even their recreation rooms. I knew and still know in my heart that that is not okay.
Despite the limited time that was allowed for the workshop, I felt a deep connection with the inmates. In one workshop, it was hard to see their faces since the class was held while they sat/stood inside their cell. Despite that, the emotional connection was there and a sense of appreciation for one another was definitely there. Fast forward to our last workshop, the inmates were able to gather as a class within our pod, and making that face to face connection is something that I will never forget. We spent only a few hours with them, but we sang, danced, collaborated, laughed, cried, shared stories, reflected...it was amazing.
I've always had a soft spot for inmates because of my mom's work but this workshop really taught me that these individuals don't belong in there. To a public's eye, it may be very simple--you commit a crime, you go to jail. However, it is much deeper than that. The inmates all have their own stories and upbringings, most often lacking a strong support system. I feel extremely grateful to have been part of an experience that gave these inmates the opportunity to "check out" of their reality for a couple of hours. It was hard to leave, knowing that once the class was over, they had to go back to their reality. I couldn't have done it without the strength of my mom, Manman, and the participants of the workshop.
-- Tomomi Hongo