I ask. Basho mewls, climbs next
to Grandpa, pressing his body so close that his tail
curls around the bend in Grandpa’s
skinny body. “I’m not sure, honey, I’m just
not sure,” Mother says quietly.
Grandpa takes his owl-like glasses off slowly,
presses his eyes with the palms
of his hand like he was pressing down the dirt
around his rose trees, and leans back
on his rocking chair. Mother leans back, too.
I sit, the word war ringing
through my head, forgetting about milk,
forgetting about dinner, forgetting about
history homework, thinking only about Father
in prison.
January 1942
This year, there wasn’t a
Christmas tree, or dinner with
our neighbors.
There weren’t any New Year’s
festivities this year,
no mochi—sticky rice—
no giving of money or playing games.
Without Father’s face red as a beet
from sake, and Grandpa
singing as he plays
the shamisen—the three-
stringed lyre made out
of the belly-skin of a cat—
there is no laughter, no joy.
Mother hurries from the dining
room to the kitchen,
sleeves of her kimono
fluttering
like a hummingbird’s
wings. All is quiet in this
house, with its small
ornament of bamboo
and pine branches
Grandpa left hanging
on my door.
Happy New Year it is not.
January 1942
Father looks small
sitting behind the bars,
surrounded by
soldiers towering
over him. He smiles,
then coughs, once,
twice. He asks me
how I am, whether
I’ve been a good girl,
and have obeyed my elders.
He squints his eyes,
his eyes bigger without
his glasses.
Mother gives him onigiri—
rice balls—and he smiles,
saying that the food
they serve him is too oily,
too American. I ask him
how he is, a stupid question,
I know, but he looks so small,
and so tired,
that’s the only thing
I can think to ask him. Fine, he whispers.
Everything is going to be fine,
they’ll figure out, soon, that this
is unconstitutional.
We are led away
only thirty minutes later,
our footsteps echoing in the hallway,
the door behind us banging
behind us, then locked,
my father left alone
in prison like a caged bird.
January 1942
Every time I walk down the hall
at school, kids hiss Jap
Jap. Every time I walk home
from school, I feel eyes as heavy
as handcuffs around my wrists and ankles.
Every time Mother and I go downtown
in our Ford to shop at Mr. Fukuyama’s
grocery store, every time Mother says
Konnichiwa, I look away.
Every time I see the word Jap in newspapers,
I become hot. Every time Mother cooks
miso soup and rice for dinner, suddenly
I am not hungry. Every time I see
myself in the mirror, I see a slant-eyed
Jap, just like they say, my teeth protruding
like a rat’s. Every time I look away,
Jamie holds my hand.
February 1942
Dear Father, I hope
everything is okay
and that you are
doing well.
From the letters
you sent us,
from what we can read
that hasn’t been
lined out, it seems
that they are treating
you well. Here, at home,
Grandpa’s been
pulling us together,
saying now that you are
in Montana (or North
Dakota, or wherever
they took you), we have
to listen to him.
Don’t tell Nick I told
you this, but a week ago,
Grandpa found out Nick’s been
breaking the curfew,
and without saying a word,
as soon as Nick came home,
Grandpa raised his cane
and hit him hard, once,
twice, over the head.
Nick just stood there,
angry, with his fists raised,
but he didn’t say or do anything
as Grandpa kept hitting him
again and again with his cane.
Mom was crying, and shouting,
Otosan, yamete, yamete
(Father, stop it, stop it), and
I was frozen, right there.
I’ve never seen this
Grandpa, who was like a stranger, angry
and spiteful. But as soon
as Nick apologized (for what?),
Grandpa stopped.
Don’t give them more reason to punish us, Grandpa shouted.
But we didn’t do anything wrong, Nick shouted back.
We’re American, just like everyone else.
Grandpa shook his head,
Ware ware wa Nippon-jin demo naishi,
America-jin demo nai—we are neither
Japanese nor American. His words stung me,
stronger than bee stings, even stronger
than the news of Pearl Harbor.
Most of the time, we are
doing okay, but Seattle’s changed.
Chinese kids walk around with buttons
that say, “I am Chinese.”
Then there are all these signs:
We don’t serve Japs. Japs go home.
The entire country hates
Japan. And they hate us.
No one seems to like us
anymore, except for Jamie
and her family next
door. Nick doesn’t say
it, but he’s having a really
hard time, I can tell.
He comes home with bruises
and cuts, and when Mother asks
him what happened, he only says
that he fell. I know he’s lying,
I know he knows that I know,
but we don’t talk about it.
Mother tells me not to go out
by myself. It’s hard to walk
down the street, being different.
I hope the new glasses Mother sent
you are the kind you like.
I miss you very much. I hope they are
treating you well. Father, I hope
you can come home soon so we can
all be together. I miss you.
Your daughter, Masako
February 1942
President Roosevelt
signed Executive
Order 9066 today. Nick says
that Germans and Italians
aren’t arrested like
Japanese men have been all over
the West Coast. Mina,
he whispered in the back
yard, they’ll put us
all in prisons.
I don’t want to believe him,
but I see, with Grandpa
and Mother worrying over our
frozen bank accounts and
curfews and blackouts
and the five-mile radius, I know
&nbs
p; we will probably be put in
prison like the Germans were put in
concentration camps.
March 1942
Grandpa sits on his favorite chair right near the rose
garden. His face, from where I stand, is as big as the
roses all around him, roses of bright red, deep red,
blood red, all kinds of red only he knows the names
of. “Masako, chotto kinasai,” he calls me over as he hears
the gate opening. He does not turn around. He does
not look at me, but keeps looking ahead, at his roses,
at the sky, at everything but me. Basho stretches
his body on Grandpa’s lap, saunters over to me, and says
hello by twirling his tail around my legs.
Grandpa, without moving his mouth, says, “We have
been asked to leave. We need to pack up
everything: the house, the nursery. We can only take two
pieces of luggage per person. We need to leave soon. And
I’m sorry, we can’t take Basho.” I am not hearing him right,
I tell myself. Why do we need to move, is it called
to evacuate? “They say that they are doing this for our
safety. They say that we will be taken care of. They say
that it’s for our own good,” Grandpa says quietly in
Japanese. He reaches over, then taking a pair of scissors,
snips off a bud near the middle of the rose stem. “They say
that it’s for our own good,” he repeats again. I know
that’s a lie. I know they are doing this to hurt us. But I
do not say anything at all.
April 1942
We have one week
to get ready.
It’s only been one week
since Mother and Grandpa
went to the Japanese
American Citizens League
Office and registered us
to be evacuated
to a place called Camp
Puyallup somewhere
not far away.
We are to leave
on Thursday, April
30th. Not a single Japanese
is to stay in Seattle
after May 1.
Mother and Grandpa
told us we are not
selling the house
or the garden
like other families,
but that we’ll board it up,
and that we’ll be back.
We have a week to say
good-bye, a week
to pack everything up.
It’s a week that
seems not long
enough,
but forever.
April 1942
What I can take:
the Bible that Mother gave me for my 12th birthday
my journals
Jamie’s Christmas present
homework assignments for the rest of the semester
(in case I return to Garfield next September)
clothes for autumn (maybe for winter, too)
the things that the WRA has ordered us to take:
blankets and linen; a toothbrush, soap,
also knives, forks, spoons, plates, bowls and cups.
What I cannot take:
Basho
our house
Jamie
the choir
Grandpa’s rose garden
Seattle and its sea-smell
What my grandfather packs:
a potted rose
April 1942
Basho is old.
The mangy
orange kitten
with a broken tail
came to the front
steps on a rainy
day and no matter
how much Grandpa shooed
it away, the cat kept
mewling until
Grandpa got sick
of it and pulled him
from under the porch
by the scuff
of its neck
and stuffed him
into the bed
next to him.
Fleas got
Grandpa, but Basho got
Grandpa. Basho came
before I was born.
See that scar
on his cheek?
He got it fighting
Kuro from four
houses down; he won.
See how his left
ear is torn? He got
it fighting
crows that were in the roses.
Basho brings gifts;
don’t be surprised.
Birds. Squirrels. Baby
moles. Basho likes
to get his ears
pulled gently.
He’ll show you
his belly if you do
that. He doesn’t understand
English; he grew
up around us, listening to
Japanese. He doesn’t drink
milk. He grew up drinking
miso soup and eating bonito
flakes and rice.
He is a good cat.
Please take care
of him. He’ll love
you, like he loves us,
like we love
him, like I love you, Jamie.
April 1942
Mother stands
in the middle
of the room,
our sofas
and table
and chairs
covered in
white sheets
looking like Halloween
ghosts.
She walks,
the sound of
her bare footsteps
across
the bare floor
empty, until
she pulls my hands
up the bare steps
where she puts me to sleep
on a blanket
on the floor.
It is cold;
I never knew
our house could
be so cold.
April 1942
The nursery is dismantled,
each glass pane taken off
from the frame. All the windows
of our house are boarded up;
the car’s inside the garage.
Everything has been put into
boxes and crates and stored
in the garage or with our neighbors.
My room is bare except
for the naked bed and an empty
dresser draped in white; it’s
my very own ghost.
Mr. Gilmore shakes his head
as Mother gives him the keys,
“I don’t know what the world
is coming to, but don’t worry,
we’ll take care of everything.
They’ll realize how silly all this
is, and you’ll be back here
before you know it.” Mother bows
deeply, her shoulders trembling
like a feather, and Mrs. Gilmore
puts her arm around Mother, she, too,
shaking. Mr. Gilmore opens
the door to his truck
where the back is filled
with our bags. Grandpa stands
in front of our house, feeling
the bark of the cherry blossom
tree he had planted when I was
born, feeling it, stroking it,
gently, as he looks at the house,
at the space where the nursery
used to be, then he raises his hat,
tips it gently, saying good-bye
to everything, to the house, to the wintering
roses left behind that will probably die
without his care, and to the tree
that has begun to bud.
April 1942
Chinatown,
where all the
Japane
se stores
used to be, is
boarded up.
It’s a ghost town;
no one’s about so early
in the morning.
It’s a ghost town
now and maybe will forever be.
A sign:
Thank you for your patronage,
it was a pleasure to serve you
for the past twenty years.
Then it gets smaller and smaller
and finally disappears
as we drive
quickly
toward the junction
of Beacon Avenue
and Alaska Street
at the southern end
of Jackson Park.
April 1942
We are all tagged like parcels,
our bags, our suitcases,
my mother, me, Nick, Grandpa.
Tagged with numbers, we become
numbers, faceless, meaningless.
We were told to come to Jackson Park
just two suitcases each,
no more names, no memories, no Basho,
only ourselves and what we can carry.
Here we are, waiting for the buses
to arrive, photographers flashing and clicking,
other Japanese like us, so many,
all quietly waiting, wordlessly smiling,
without resistance,
And we all shiver because it is cold,
because we do not know where we are going,
because we are leaving home as the enemy.
The only thing warm, pressed against my chest,
is the half-heart Jamie gave me, waiting to be one
with its other half.
The Bridge to Lillooet
by Trevor Kew
Ken Takahashi was about to cast his fishing line into the current when he heard a splash.
Across the river, no more than twenty yards away, stood two boys, shirtless and barefoot. They were perhaps three or four years younger than Ken.
The taller one hurled a stone. It sailed over Ken’s head and clacked against a rock.
“Jap,” called the boy. “Jappity-Jap-Jap.”
The smaller boy made slanty eyes at Ken with his index fingers.
Although this was Ken’s favorite spot for catching rainbow trout, he grabbed his fishing pole and his tin of worms, stood up, and began to walk away.
“Banzai!”
Ken spun around. His younger brother Tom was sprinting down the path, holding a large stone in each hand. As he reached the bottom of the hill, he let one fly. It sailed across the river and smacked against the tall boy’s arm.
The tall boy roared in pain.
Tom hurled another stone and the boys ran off toward the line of white houses in the distance.
“Sneaky Japs!” screamed the small one. “Filthy yellow rats!”
There were shouts from the iron bridge upstream. Ken knew that two Mounties were on duty at all times, guarding the only route to the town of Lillooet.
“Let’s get out of here!” he hissed.
They took off up the path.
By the time they reached the top of the hill, Ken’s heart was pounding and his legs ached. Steadying himself, he looked back at the bridge. The Mounties had gone back to their posts.
He grabbed hold of Tom’s arm.
“What were you thinking?” he snapped. “Do you know what kind of trouble you could have got us in?”