The End of the Beginning

April 3, 1972

They say that the truth is sometimes best left unspoken. 

But if you do so, when will you ever speak?

 -------------------------

Although thirty years have lapsed since I first stepped into the Manzanar desolation, a queer familiarity echoes throughout the uninhabited despondence. Yet, a fragile hope suspends itself on the thinnest  tenacious cobweb, as if alluding to the precarious fate isolated in this now forgotten memory. Listen, the wind cries feebly, listen for me. Only even the memories reluctantly elude my defeated vicinity. Time has become decrepit  in an interim too brief, revering the only bond that I had once shared with venerable sky and earth, perpetual wind and water.

But then I see the shadows, the silhouettes of laughing men and women, walking an endless breadth of hope.They are like the ghosts of the living dead, a sentry of a realm beyond recognition. 

Silence steals the air. 

I had chased a dream once, but the revelation of its utter futility came at a turning point too late. Yet, I gathered a solace within me, that perhaps someday I would unclasp my bitter restraints, and life would undo itself for me to follow the fate that was meant to be.

Too late, too late.

Little did I know of the lamentable truth, that when time evades a flippant grasp, it will never reincarnate again.

-------------------------

"Mama?" I whisper desperately. "Papa?"

Gazing across the empty firebreak, a wave of remorse rages spontaneously within me. I lie in a bed of wayward mist - of distinct nothingness. The throne hovers above me again, so wretchedly close to my palm, yet so hopelessly far away.

"Jeanne?" A timid voice flutters in the breeze.

"Mama?"

Then I see them, an image of yesterday, but the inextinguishable flower of tomorrow. A silver baton lurches gracefully across a glittering blue sky, and laughter rings from the nearby cafeteria hall.Children swarm about the Manzanar internment school, conversing passionately of their future ideals, their hopes and desires.

But most importantly, I see the daunting figure of Papa, an unnatural smile curled dolefully across his lips. Even when submerged beneath his unbreakable oblivion, he held his streak of defiance, his cane of indefatigable conduct. And it was this that eventually led to my understanding of Manzanar and what it truly stood for.

I know what you can only say when you've come to truly know a place...

...Farewell.

 

The Door that Links Dream and Reality

 

April 18, 1951

As the years wore on, heritage continued to trod upon my toes, sometimes to overwhelm me completely. Unlike middle school, high school poised itself on a more elevated podium, and the term "belonging" often forced you to quickly undermine the righteous path.

Before long, the intimate friendship between Radine and I crumpled and fell apart.  While she began to enter sororities and become a part of a whole, I had the pleasure of observing the sidelines, waiting for the miracle that would never unfurl to the alienated Japanese.

In my senior year, Papa moved the family to San Jose and returned to his farming expertise. For me, it symbolized a chance to rewrite old stories, untie obstinate knots, and live by my own accord once more.

By spring, I had received the acclaim of the entire student body, and became one of the fifteen girls nominated for Carnival Queen on voting day.

Playing a demure smile, I had walked along the procession in a flower-print sarong, only to be greeted by a thunderous encore. Yet, the teachers bristled at the idea of an Oriental queen and attempted to stuff the ballot before my friend Leonard caught them in the midst of their act.

However, the moment my name echoed on the intercom for the Carnival Queen announcement, my eyes turned somber, and I became a callous statue amongst my cheering classmates. Somehow, the
memories had caught my footsteps once again.

Papa seethed with rage when I mentioned the news that night, admonishing me for portraying my body in such an un-Japanese like fashion. Mama, however, understood my need for belonging, and immediately bought me a gown to don for the Carnival Queen procession.

Soon, I found myself walking the length of bedsheets stretching across the auditorium floor in a frilly uniform that withheld every inch of my body.

Suddenly, my feet slurred with every painful step. The throne appeared to be a mere landmark signaling the distance, an utopia I could never reach.

In my revelation, I witnessed the hopelessness of my situation. I had become a dream that I did not possess, and now it was too late.

Too late for the daydreams of youth, too late to become an odori dancer for Papa. In the near distance, the throne never sidled any closer, but I did not know of a truer destination to follow.

 The Manzanar internment camp memorial.

Into the Wild

 

August 29, 1944

After the bombing of Hiroshima, Japan, World War 2 closed it curtains, and  Papa took the initiative to finally echo good-byes to our Manzanar lifestyle.

At Lone Pine, he committed his final act of defiance; a purchase of a car with the only paucity of funds we had retained throughout the Manzanar years. Yet, as we jolted through the Mojave Desert, a smile played upon my lips, for Papa's secret audacity had now found a corner in my heart.

However, the truth revealed itself as we settled into the unmaintained Cabrillo Homes, Los Angles. Unlike the threats that had struck or fears before, we now faced an isolation between the Americans that shared our community; and at school, people treated me not with disrespect, but with an attitude that showered an aura of invisibility. Although I had participated in just about every organization existing at our school, I wished to be known as an individual, an unparalleled identity.

Soon, with my friend, Radine, I became the lead majorette for the Boy Scout bugle corps and began to truly link myself to a name, a unique voice above the thousands that caressed me. For by abandoning a childhood marred with my cultural flaws, I gave people a new outlook into my life, one that projected only the images I wanted them to see.

Yet, my ethnicity continued to trail my footsteps, like a phantom of the living dead. In spite of the veil that now obscured my genuine identity, many could still only discern a Japanese girl, for in their eyes, they perceived a given object and not the animate mind beneath.

A Turning Point

 

August 14, 1944

 

Much to Papa's disappointment, Woody has allowed himself to be drafted into military service. Despite the anxiousness I feel for my older brother, I believe he deserves the chance to prove himself a loyal citizen of the United States; and I hope he discovers the purpose of his existence through this weighed endeavor.

Yet, matters are becoming increasingly perplexing on our hands as well. Due to Ex Parte Endo, a Supreme Court ruling that lawfully stated the government cannot detain loyal citizens against their will, all internment camps will be closed within the next twelve month, leading to the liberation of all imprisoned internees.

Beneath the truth, two diaphanous questions lie in solitude, for they own no answer.

What home is there to return to? After two years of seclusion, how can we face society once more?

Explorations and Outcomes

  A Manzanar classroom in procession.

March 5, 1943

Mama has recently relocated our family to block 28, where the barracks  rim the outer perimeter of the Owens Valley apple orchards. I suppose life has become more tolerable since this move, for I now can smell the sweetness of a new beginning.

With the start of school, I have begun to touch the feathers of new hobbies, with the hope that the explorations may give me the chance to restore my pre- Manzanar lifestyle. Of course, I do not believe I can ever start over, but perhaps I can relive the light of freedom once more.

My first project landed in baton twirling, an art I relished for  its unmistakable American tempo and march.  In a sense, I glimpsed the baton as a dream, for though it rises and falls, you can always anticipate the catch - the moment when fate finally brings the destiny that will rule above all.

Although I also attempted odori, a Japanese dance, and ballet, I never confronted another activity that could quite compete with my natural affinity for the silver bar. The endeavors that linked to a Japanese heritage did not appeal to me, for I wanted to shed my foreign appearance and become fitted for a culture greater than that of Japan.

1943 marked the high school publishing of the yearbook "Our World." Throughout the pictures and documentations, there strives a single message: even in a time of distrust, people stow their cares away, hoping that they will make turmoil more livable.

An Inevitable Confrontation

 An overall layout of the Manzanar internment camp.

December 29, 1942

As the crook of December wears on, we find ourselves a year from the blossomings if Pearl Harbor. Yet, I now find it difficult to believe that the bombing occurred in a time so far away, for it seems like yesterday we waved good-bye to the fishermen harbored at Long Island.

Yet, the December Riot brought a sense to the distance we have encompassed since that time, for it marked an anniversary for those who had been brewing concoctions to facilitate the final revenge.

On December 5, after Fred Tayama of the JACL (the Japanese American Citizens League) was reportedly beaten by six unidentified men, a young cook who had participated in the incident unjustly entered arrest after proclaiming a Caucasian had plundered sugar and meat from Manzanar warehouses to sell on the black market.

The riot did not prove to be on the scale I had expected. Although my parents prohibited me to witness the excitement, tension kissed the air the morning before the emotions accumulated between then and Pearl Harbor combusted into flames. Like a bubble, we only withhold a limited capacity for what we could consume, and sooner or later, the strifes will corrupt into violence.

The mob swarmed the blocks that night, and like a shadow, it rose and fell with the phases of the moon. By midnight, noise became an assault too weak for persuasion. The men began to thirst for blood.

An army captain soon deterred the mob as they purged onward with their "inu" chant. When the men did not abide the officer's final warning, gunshots fired into the night,

I listened to the bells that continued to ring along the sound of whistling bullets. Their chimes echoed through noon the next morning.

Some disputes cannot be settled by the shedding of blood, for they only create a hunger for more.

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As Christmas came to a close, the government issued a Loyalty Oath to all Japanese men seventeen or older. The outcomes become predictable; if you doubted your allegiance to the United States, you would be shipped back to Japan. If you agreed to serve the army at any given time, you would drafted into the infantry.

This often seemed like the rebound after the December Riot, a renewal of feuds all alike. For the Oath became an inevitable factor of life; whether you answered or not, you would either be corralled to Japan, the infantry, or relocation.

While Papa often attended the meetings that discussed the best approach toward the Loyalty Oath, his "inu" background forced him to linger on the unforgiving sidelines. After every rendezvous, the songs of his native country would swell our constrained barrack, and he would be lost in a distant nostalgia; immersed in the memories of a more beautiful childhood.

Of Crimes and Oddments

November 26, 1942

Ever since Papa’s return to our family hierarchy, he has culminated a determinate lust for wine. No matter what day it comes to be or what hour of revolution, he perches a thin vile on the brink of his lips, and sips until he drowns into absolute oblivion.

With the number of women that claim attendance in Manzanar, an everlasting stream of gossip slips from one mouth to another, until the line between truth and tale merges into one incredulous story. Yet, lately the rumors of the "Manzanar runs" have shifted to another bauble, only this time Papa finds himself esconced in the hushed whispers. 

In the derogatory comments directed toward him, Papa is often identified as an "inu", or a collaborator sidled with the United States. Since Papa had been released from Fort Lincoln earlier than most of the Japanese men convicted of treason, many believed he had leaked access information about his fellow Isseis in an attempt to propel his release.


When Mama casually informed Papa of the accusations aimed toward his background, his temper flared even when she tried to placate the threats that spontaneously spilled from his mouth.


"I'm going to kill you this time!" He cried deafeningly.


"Why don't you?" Mama sobbed hysterically, "No one can live like this."


As Mama gradually calmed and regained her wits, her composure plagued me with a sudden strike of fear; it seemed as if her anguish had overcome what she dreaded of death, and that her heart had finally decided to capitulate to the man she had once trusted and endeared. 

The moment of suspense hung limply in midair, and though I watched, my eyes disbelieved the truth behind this moment and what the end would bring.


At this turning point, Kiyo tore the covers off his cot and plunged straight toward Papa, his eyes widened with shock and a queer spark of sadness. In spite of our struggles to stay together, were we not a family? Did we not fight for our dreams as a whole?

When I heard the resounding crack reverberate throughout the steps of our threshold, I tilted my head up to see Papa's nose crimson with rippling blood and the tail of Kiyo's shirt as he sprinted hastily out the door. 

When the world begins to fall apart, who do you look towards? In reality, you have been isolated, and you can only weigh the impressing burdens upon yourself.

Often taunted by the Japanese as "inu," a JACL member carries cabbage from the farming fields.