In the matter of opinions, I usually settle on the former or the latter. Never has there been an incident in which I have caught myself between a game of tug-of-war, where partiality may sometimes be weighed on one facet and not the other.
Yet, in opposition to this known fact, I have struck a dilemma in the art of decision making.
Papa has returned.
Before our arrival at Manzanar, Mama had received a letter from Bismarck, North Dakota, in which Papa delineated his imprisonment at Fort Lincoln, an all-male camp for alien internees. Yet, despite the fact that we gained a measure of understanding in this subject matter, life moved on without the presence of our chief executor; and we traipsed by our own standards and intuition.
When I reached his gaunt figure at the foot of the Greyhound bus, his eyes caught me by surprise.The memories that tormented his very existence brought shadows to an extinguished spark, and his face sagged with not wisdom, but blatant age. In his hand, a sinuous maple limb crept unobtrusively from a withered sleeve, and its heavily polished sheen radiated with a bitter glow.
To see him brought only pain, not bliss, for what had rendered him human now made him a subject of the living dead. By contrast, he had become cold and unfeeling, and for once, even his pride failed to exalt him any higher.
At Manzanar, I had indulged in the stories of catechism with the Maryknoll nuns, for they brought me a greater sense of female resistance, of feminine opposition. Yet, the imposing demeanor of Papa gives me an inlet for discouragement, for his defiant rage has stolen the prerequisite freedom that subsists within the breath of every individual.
I now recall memories of my family as a whole, the times when we used to laugh together and cry in unison. For it is only in these recollections that I can relive gaiety and sorrow without a disparaging regret, and gather the secrets that have long been forgotten.
There will be countless tomorrows, but I pine only for the one taste of yesterday.
To see him brought only pain, not bliss, for what had rendered him human now made him a subject of the living dead. By contrast, he had become cold and unfeeling, and for once, even his pride failed to exalt him any higher.
At Manzanar, I had indulged in the stories of catechism with the Maryknoll nuns, for they brought me a greater sense of female resistance, of feminine opposition. Yet, the imposing demeanor of Papa gives me an inlet for discouragement, for his defiant rage has stolen the prerequisite freedom that subsists within the breath of every individual.
I now recall memories of my family as a whole, the times when we used to laugh together and cry in unison. For it is only in these recollections that I can relive gaiety and sorrow without a disparaging regret, and gather the secrets that have long been forgotten.
There will be countless tomorrows, but I pine only for the one taste of yesterday.
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