The Beginning of the End, The End of the Beginning

December 16, 1941

Although I have encountered much inexplicability throughout my life, I still question the heavy distribution of misery in the lives of the most kindhearted people. Tragedy has its way of destroying us in utter clandestinity, and yet much of it unfurls without a secret; only the inevitable sorrow. Despite these conclusions, I have always considered it implausible for afflictions to spur in our family, though it is ludicrous to condemn any of my relations “perfect.”

Yet, I feel despicable when I say time has lagged by my bedside, when in fact it has propelled the world too quickly, wrecked systematic procedures in lapses too brief. But I often believe a great deal of my happiness lies in the past, where memories glowed brighter and things never did seem so bleak.

With the scant amount of understanding I retain within myself, there exists the last good-bye before life welcomed the end of the beginning, or perhaps the beginning of the end. Through this window, though tarnished and broken, I see a vision of normality before the curtains came crashing down. It involves Papa’s thin silhouette perched upon a white fishing boat and much yelling fluttering in unprojected destinations. Most importantly, there flit the faces of Bill and Woody as they struggled with demand after demand, though strangely, in their hearts, bearing the capacity to complete everything to be done. In a sense, the process revolved around a cycle, with Papa’s dictate, my brothers’ hustling footsteps, and the sea behind them that stood as a silent, ambient mediator.

Women and children would huddle about the sun-drenched Long Island wharf, faring the fishermen good-bye as their boats tore away from the only ropes restraining their hulls, bequeathing them the liberty to traipse across endless waters, to unshadow cryptic lands. The vision of Papa donning his skipper’s hat, with eyes thoroughly aglow as he stood aboard The Nereid, now strikes me as the ideal fantasy. Beneath all of my fear, confusion, and ambivalence, I hope if I am ever to reunite with him to see his face with the light that presides in this memory, the pride that has never succeeded to dim.

Perhaps the reason this day brought so much of the change people dread to ever see comes from the innocence it began with – the tranquil, almost lovely colors it wore as the sun glinted from a hedge of silvery clouds. I remember watching Papa, Bill, and Woody drifting gently away from the women swarmed about the docks, the sky casting glittering scintillations that sifted amongst the ripples distorting the soundless ocean. This morning would someday be pulled from my memories known simply as “December 7,” and yet it stands as a day of defeat for the Americans, a moment of triumph for the Japanese, and an end to the beginning for those caught in the middle.

“Good-bye!”

“Have a good trip!”

“Hope you come back soon!”

Even as the fishing boats dissolved against the unscathed horizon, Mama and Bill and Woody’s wives continued waving until the smudges suddenly brought their momentum to a halt. Worriedly, Mama observed the enlargement of the boats as they began their return trip, her eyes thoroughly bewildered.

“Why would they be coming back?”

“Maybe there’s a storm coming.”

“But the sky is perfectly clear.”

Then, as if to answer their call, a man came sprinting from the nearby cannery, informing us that the Japanese had just bombed Pearl Harbor.

“What is Pearl Harbor?” Mama cried, though her question remained unanswered as the messenger flew off once again, feeding the news to another women beside her.

That night, Papa quietly collected the possessions that linked to his Japanese heritage and burned them in quiet seclusion. In spite of his effort, he knew that the FBI would soon corner him, and he knew there would be no escape.  

They found him soon enough, just a few days ago. To my surprise, he crossed our threshold with no struggle, only a wordless dignity. His silence spoke enough.

Bill and Woody tried to divulge anything to be known about Papa, but all attempts have ended in vain. In the end, we discovered he had been taken into custody and shipped out to a location they would not disclose.

I have witnessed countless strange phenomena, from undeserved happiness to tears in a time of gaiety. But how can a bombing, just another attack people continually have the capacity to collude, culminate so much panic and animosity?

Although the impact of Pearl Harbor has dawned a great deal of  grief upon young and old alike,  it has also contributed to the final formation of my character, and corroborates to the legacy of the American future.