天使岛诗社 -- 华裔移民美国的苦难历程

我知道天使岛在何处，因为几乎天天能看到的。清晨从东湾搭便车去市里上班，从奥克兰连接旧金山的海湾大桥上看去，天使岛似一片绿洲在桥右边的海湾漂浮，那葱绿而又飘渺的景象令人既迷惑又向往。真的吗？真有天使居住在这方绿洲，终日漂泊荡漾于通往天堂之水上吗？出于很多原因在旧金山湾区住了十五年的我却从未涉足天使岛。这期间，这座岛屿已经修成正果，成了州立公园了。是啊，尽管我知道天使岛的具体位置，除了道听途说当年华裔新移民曾被关押在此之外，别的就知之甚少了。

前不久，天使岛移民站基金会(Angel Island Immigration Station Foundation)来函，诚邀本人上岛观摩移民站的故址。一位朋友知晓我平常喜欢弄些中文诗英译，就给基金会作了个举荐。此行的目的在于细察中国移民在移民站羁押室木板墙上留下的中文诗。沧海横流，如今已经到了保存原貌，文物入档，昭示后人的年代了。

2002年1月15日晨起薄雾漂浮，太阳吃力地爬上了东面的山丘，使得海湾变得分外翠绿。即使有一股冷飕飕的气流让人感到空气的凝重，作为游园的天气也算是晴爽的了。驱车前往啼波浪(Tiburan)的路上，突然间想起来天气预报说今天午后有雨。从啼波浪这边观岛，角度正是海湾大桥观岛的反面。到了近前，这岛一下子威风了起来，变得孔武高大，露出怀抱里众多的大树和巨石；正襟危坐，任凭四下里波涛汹涌，威严不可侵犯哩。从旧金山渔人码头来的游船航程较长，而啼波浪始发的渡船差不多十分钟就抵达岛上了。天使岛公园管理员已经等候多时，热烈欢迎。两辆面包车接送客人去移民站故址，路不远，翻过一座小山包就到了。

天使岛移民站早年也有专用码头，和地处纽约州的埃利斯岛(Ellis Island)一样接待来自世界各地的移民。与埃利斯岛不同的是，把原址在市里的移民站搬到岛上来，其用心明显是要把新移民特别是中国移民与外界完全隔离起来。美国不欢迎中国移民，早在1882年美国国会就签署了赤裸裸的《华裔移民排斥法案》。那时只有早年淘金来美定居华人的直系亲属才允许移民美国。为数不多的广东人确有亲戚在美国，当然有人出钱从黑市买了些假证明也乘船来了。只是人们没有想到这头等待他们的竟是无路可逃的监牢。天使岛移民站的设计方案包括了隔离新移民和遣返不可容分子的意图。尽管建成时高层官员明确表明此地不适合住人，天使岛移民站还是于1910年投入使用，作为“华裔不受欢迎”的标志性设施沿用了30年之久。遥想当年，种族偏见和种族歧视根本不用掩饰，人家不赤裸裸恶狠狠对你就算很给你面子了。

亚洲人特别是中国人当年被称作东方佬曾经饱受美国移民局的凌辱。中国来的乡巴佬被视为除了携带伪造文件外满身都是令人发指的疾病。移民局列表存档加了好几例华裔移民病症，一旦检出，立刻遣返。新移民若患有可治病，当务之急是入院治病，出院后才有资格接受移民审查。这种粗暴的“欢迎仪式”从新移民下船那一刻开始，人人被请入迷宫一般的移民局办公大楼，排队受审。亚裔和欧洲人当然是分开的。例行注册，体检，然后再按种族和性别关押在不同的营房里，配偶在关押期间一概不能见面。十二岁以下的儿童随母亲，大男孩入住男性营房。在原本无路可逃的岛屿上，关押在营房的人是不允许离开营房一步的。房间之间的通道，室外台阶均有铁篱笆隔绝。这哪里是什么移民站，分明就是设备齐全的监狱。表面上还要貌似公道平等，因为新移民个个均被送到了岛上接受审查；种族歧视的嘴脸赤裸裸地暴露在光天化日之下，因为一般人会在两三天之内就能离岛而去，唯有华裔被羁押的时日最长，有人在此被羁押了数年之久。早期华裔移民平均被羁押的时间为三个月左右，后来因为华人团体和外交界的强烈抗议和请愿，华裔移民接受审查的时间才有所缩短。

半个多世纪过去了，那些曾经饱受凌辱的人大多已经老去，只是他们的子孙至今愤愤不平。能不愤恨吗？那屈辱有着切骨之痛，几代人的心灵还在感受着扭曲和痛楚，心底还在悲号哭泣。

也许是报应，1940年的一场大火烧毁了办公大楼，天使岛移民站从此被关闭了。还好，没有人在这场大火里丧生；残存的营房第二次世界大战时曾经用来关押战俘。战后天使岛一度为美国陆军使用，军队撤离后不久，这里成了州立公园。

那天我们是作为贵宾被接上岛的，公园管理员专门为我们打开了不对外开放的移民站医院；这是座名副其实的危房，处处岌岌可危。公园管理员注意到住院部墙上有些涂鸦，想让我们鉴定一下是否有什么深意。医院里华裔专用的楼梯已然塌陷，来人只能手持手电筒从当年欧裔专用的楼梯上楼。住院部的墙上除了日本战俘的胡乱涂鸦之外别无名堂。

相较之下，关押华裔男性的营房里的木板墙上工工整整，洋洋洒洒，刻满了许许多多的中文诗，令来人大为惊叹，交口称绝。可惜设在办公大楼二楼的华裔女性营房因为大火而毁，墙上是否有诗句已不得而知。置身营房，来人无法不赞叹诗文巨大的规模和诗人们不屈不饶的人性光华。这些诗行在冷酷的牢房谱写了一篇中华民族也是人类精神的传奇。

读过中文诗的人都知道诗歌是中国文化的主流，为炎黄子孙世世代代输送着力量，美好和希望。中文的每一个字都是从形象演变而来。中华儿女是呼吸着诗歌出生，我们的祖先创作了平常百姓也能读懂的诗和歌。中国诗歌有一种神奇的力量，它能净化魂灵，给身处困境的懦弱者带来温情，给人内心一个全新的理想境界。中国人信仰诗歌，诗歌几乎是中国的国教。与宗教不同的是，诗歌的力量源自诗人的内心世界，而非神外的万能之物。华裔子孙，只有能背诵诗文的才算是有教养的孩子，几千年历来如此。

我突然明白了，半个多世纪之前被关押在黑暗潮湿的牢房里的一伙中国人，用诗歌来打发愁困有其内在的道理。可以想象，这样的境遇使得他们有时间认识自我，有机会直面自己的灵魂，苦难以诗歌的形式从他们的灵肉里脱颖而出。尽管如此，两间偌大营房里几乎占据了每一寸空间的诗文和工整的书法还是令人惊愕。每一寸手眼能及的空间都认真地刻写了有模有样的正楷汉字；每首诗都占据一席合理的位置，配上了相对相应的书法，显得有组织有纪律。半个世纪流失了，这些严谨的字词书法透过时间的冲刷油漆的覆盖依然风采不减，有声有色地向后人诉说着当年这个世界角落所发生的事件。在消沉和无助的境遇里，这是多大的成就啊。即使诗歌本身不足以流芳万世，但这数量之巨，工程之浩大足可以移山造海的了！ 

边走边看，透过层层油漆能看到被羁押人的从容，诗行里体现着高度的秩序。当年新移民的年龄大多数在二十岁左右，甚至更小，集中营的日子对他们来说是纯粹的痛苦和人生挫折，这些都在他们的诗歌里得到了充分的渲染。令人敬佩哪，尽管他们完全有理由沮丧消沉，却没有坐在角落里生闷气，孤苦度日，也没有一蹶不振而无所事事。人在海外，身陷囹圄，还没有忘记继承祖先几千年的传统，在这方天使莫名其妙走失了的地方，他们用诗歌与命运抗争过。在这些木屋里，一帮好男儿传授研习过中国古典的诗歌，举行过诗歌比赛，评选，抄写，木刻等一系列见灵魂显精神的工序，留下了自己的心声。人们从诗歌里能看见长流的泪水，紧锁的眉头，也能看见人类不屈不挠的精神，遭遇艰辛时的从容和豪迈。也许，他们中间有一位年长者把一帮子后生领上了诗歌之路，一条能让受屈的灵魂走出黑暗、超越偏见和仇恨的道路，一条人类精神战胜冰冷顽石不驯海水的光荣之路。

移民局官员不喜欢营房的墙壁被刻画，训斥了刻字的人之后用油漆覆盖了墙上的诗文。只是写诗的欲望和行动没有因此而湮灭。油漆上面又出现了新诗文；然后又被油漆覆盖，一共达三层之深。50多年之后，最早刻入的诗文得以保留，和后人交流着心思。

走出营房，一月里的阳光昏黄，但还是照花了我的眼睛，以至于我竟把一座树桩当成了野鹿。乘船，开车回家的路上，耳边总能听到从时间长廊另一边传来的声音。真的，天使会讲中文也能做诗吗？直面了沉重和悲伤的心儿此刻希冀有一场雨，一场大雨。。。但愿历史不再重蹈丑恶的覆辙，这样天使才有可能重返家园。。。

（原文为英文，写于2002年1月29-30日，中文译文发表在《中外论坛》杂志2002年第二期）

 ==================================

Angel Island Poetry Club

I know where Angel Island is because I see it virtually everyday on my way to work. I carpool from East Bay to the City every morning. On the Oakland-San Francisco Bay Bridge, Angel Island always appears on my right as the biggest piece of land floating in the Bay, so it seems. From time to time I am mesmerized by its green and mystic appearance from afar. Do angels really reside on that blissful oasis amidst of this vast stretch of heavenly water? For some reason in the past 15 years living in the Bay Area, I hadn't found time to visit the Island, which has been a state park for as long as I have been here. But I certainly know where Angel Island is, though I knew very little of what is on it, except that some Chinese were detained there long time ago.

The other day, the Angel Island Immigration Station Foundation sent me an invitation to join a group visit to the Station on the Island. A friend who knows my past involvement with Chinese poetry and translation introduced me to the Foundation. The purpose of this visit was to take a close look at the Chinese poems written on the walls of the old barracks by former detainees, Chinese immigrants who came through and were detained at the Immigration Station between 1910 and 1940.  Time has, indeed, changed and now is the time for preservation, documentation and education of the site.

January 25, 2002, brought us a hazy sun out of the hills on the east to the emerald Bay. The air was rather chilly and heavy but the day was pleasant enough for a field trip. Driving to Tiburon, for no reason I suddenly recalled that the forecast said it would rain late in the day. At Tiburon dock, the view is almost exactly the opposite side of the Bay Bridge; from that angle, Angel Island suddenly gained some real bulk, became taller, wider and more formidable with many trees and giant rocks, holding steady facing the currents of the Bay. The boat ride from Fisherman's Wharf in the city may take much longer, but for us it was a rather brief ride, about 10 minutes, more or less. Two vans were waiting there on the pier at the Island side with friendly park rangers to greet us and take us to the station which is just over the hills from the pier.

The Station, which used to have a pier of its own, was built to process newly arrived immigrants from all over the world, like Ellis Island in New York. Unlike at Ellis Island, the real reason or intention, rather, to relocate the immigration station here from the City, was to isolate the new immigrants, the Chinese immigrants in particular. The Chinese were not welcome here as the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act made amply clear.  In those days, the only way for a Chinese person to come to the land of gold was through immediate family relation with earlier arrivals. Some in Canton, indeed, had blood relations while others bought faulty papers from the streets, in order to escape the economic hardship in China at the time. Little did they know what awaited them was a prison that promised no escape. The Station was so designed to serve the dual purposes of cutting off the newly arrived from other Chinese in the City and making it easier for the authorities to interrogate and deport the undesirables.  The Station, although declared as unfit for human conditions by the immigration authorities at the higher up levels, nevertheless opened for business around 1910 and lasted three decades as a device and symbol of "Chinese are unwelcome here." Biases and racism used to wear a very thin mask, if not going completely naked.

Asians or Orientals, as they were branded at the time, the Chinese in particular, were singled out and treated with outright cruelty. The Chinese peasants were suspected, besides false entry, to have carried sordid diseases. Several diseases of suspected as common among Chinese were listed as sufficient reasons for deportation. Those who carried treatable diseases would first have to check into the hospital on site for treatment before their being processed for other faults.

The rude welcome ceremony started by lining every boat person into the long queue off the boat inside the maze of the administration building, Asians and Europeans segregated of course. They were registered, checked out by health officials, and then put into barracks, again segregated by race, gender. Married couples were separated for the duration and children under 12 stayed with their mothers, while older boys were locked up in the men's barracks. Already the Island promised no escape; once detained, those immigrants also lost the privilege to wander off the premises as even steps and walkways were enclosed with barbed wire. It was prison in its truest sense. The thin mask of fairness illustrated itself in the fact that every newly arrived must go through the process on the island; the naked racism showed in that only the Chinese were kept there for the longest time, up to several years for a few truly unfortunate while most non-Chinese would get off the island in a matter of two to three days. Some detainees even complained that Japanese POWs were treated with more dignity than innocent Chinese at the same site. On average, many Chinese spent up to three months in the barracks at the beginning; the process was sped up somewhat under fierce protests and lobbying from Chinese communities and diplomats off the Island.

Who can blame them when the children of the Chinese immigrants are so riled even today about such a harsh treatment of their parents and grandparents several decades ago? The pain has cut deep and still hurts in some hearts. 

As some form of justice, the station was closed down after the administration caught fire in 1940. Luckily nobody died. The barracks were later used to detain POWs during WWII and the Island was handed to the US Army for a period of time. Some time after the Army left the Island, it was converted into a state park.

Anyway, that day we came as honored guests. In our honor, the rangers opened up the old hospital that is now falling apart; the staff had noticed some writing on the walls in the hospital ward but wanted us to verify if there is any significance in the drawing and writing. The Chinese stairways were broken, so we had to go up, with the aid of flashlights, the designated European stairway. There wasn't much to see except a few scribbles by Japanese POWS.

By contrast, the most amazing part of the Immigration Station has to be the poems meticulously carved on the wooden walls of the Chinese men's barracks as the Chinese women's barracks were burnt down inside the old administration building. One can't help but notice the massive undertaking and brave display of an unyielding human spirit in the poems. Their writing converted this once cruel place into a Chinese or human legend.

I read many poems in Chinese. Poetry seerves as such a constant flow in Chinese culture, forever supplying strength, beauty and hope to the children of the Yellow Emperor.  Every character is cut out of an image.  We were born to breathe poetry in and out as our forefathers have made poetry an easier access even to the common folks.  Poetry in a magically Chinese way seems to purify the soul from everyday dust and to provide those in predicament with warmth and guidance to uplift their spirit to far and beyond. Poetry is almost a Chinese religion, only the strength is drawn from within, as opposed to from something almighty and above.  Only those children who can recite a few poems can be said of properly schooled and cultured.

So, it was almost logical to me that a bunch of hapless detainees locked up in the dark and wet barracks in this forgotten corner of the world more than half century ago resorted themselves to poetry. In my mind, the poetry surfaced from within their souls when they had time to encounter themselves here.

What stunned me was how every inch of the walls in two big rooms was covered with beautifully crafted characters of poetry. Every inch reachable by the hand and eye was filled with calligraphy of rather excellent apprenticeship of the art. The poems were put up in good order, decent craftsmanship, and plenty of dignity, all indicated a highly organized effort.  More than half century later, the beauty of the calligraphy determinedly shines through time and the many layers of paint, and still speaks volumes about what went on in this corner of the world.  What a massive undertaking in a time of depression and hopelessness. The poetry may not be of top notch quality, but the sheer number of the works can move mountains and part the Bay.

After walking through several rooms and staring at the characters painted over, I could sense a well-organized life among the detainees, at least in their effort to express themselves in poetry. Most of the Chinese detainees were in their 20s and teens at the time. The time spent behind the walls of the barracks was nothing but sheer agony and frustration, sentiments that were clearly present in their poetry. But the remarkable part was that they did not sulk in vain and emptiness as they were entitled to do under such harsh light. Instead, they fell back to this thousand year old Chinese tradition. They found a noble outlet for their life's struggles in a foreign island where the angels were conspicuously absent. Here there was teaching and learning of the ancient art of the Chinese poetry in the classic tradition. They probably did their poetry contests and went through their selection and calligraphy and the meticulous carving process. They poured their heart out for us to see. Yes, we see tears, twisted brows; but also the joy and satisfaction of getting in touch with human spirit and reliving some of the moments of their ancestors treading treacherous waters. There might be an elder who led the young onto this path, a path that paved its way out of the darkness of bias and hatred and into the light of human spirit triumphing over cold rock and ocean water.

The record showed that the authorities in the station didn't like the walls to be carved. So they scolded the young men who did the carving and ordered to paint it over. But the writing and the teaching of the poetry couldn't be suppressed. More were written on the paint; another layer of paint was slapped on; at the end the paint is three layers deep. And more than half a century later, the originally carved poems are the ones still reaching out to the visitors through thick paint.

Coming out of the barracks, I was dazzled by even the faint sunlight of this late January day. I thought I saw a deer, but it was only a tree stump. On the way back on the boat and in the car, I kept hearing voices that seem to be speaking across the corridors of time. Could angels write poetry and speak Chinese? The heart encountering heavy grief would welcome some rain, a heavy downpour ...  Let's hope the ugly part of history will never repeat itself so that angels can return to their habitat ...

January 29-30, 2002

[图片均为网上共享，不是个人摄影，特此说明。]