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1Introduction 
2An Uncommon Spirit 
3 
4In a brief May 1982 letter to artist Miné Okubo, Yoshiko Uchida writes that she is 
5pleased Okubo enjoyed Desert Exile, which had been published a few months ear- 
6lier. She asks whether Okubo recognized herself in the humorous account of the 
7artist at Tanforan who placed a quarantine sign on her door in order to be left alone 
8to draw and paint. Uchida then continues: 
9 
10It’s hard to believe 40 years have elapsed since those incredible horse stall 
11days! The passage of time and the knowledge now of our gov’t leaders’ betrayal 
12has increased my anger. I’m hoping many young people will read my book, as I 
13know they have read and enjoyed your wonderful “Citizen 13660.” Your book 
14was and will continue to be a great pictorial record for future generations.¹ 
15 
16From what we can glean based on their work and anecdotes about the two 
17women, Uchida and Okubo had very different personalities, Okubo often being de- 
18scribed as “gruff” and “a commanding personality,” though one leavened with 
19humor and kindness.² Uchida’s work and letters, by contrast, seem to suggest a 
20cheerful, outgoing, though steadily determined personality. What the two artists— 
21both of whom were incarcerated at Tanforan and Topaz—shared and recognized in 
22each other, however, was a certain political alignment. Both felt an absolute cer- 
23tainty about the injustice of Japanese American incarceration during World War II, 
24a need to witness what the Nikkei had endured, and a commitment to ensuring 
25through their work that subsequent generations of Americans—and particularly 
26Japanese Americans—would understand what the Issei and Nisei had learned 
27through hard experience: that citizenship is no guarantor of rights and that the gov- 
28ernment and its actions can all too easily contradict and undermine the Consti- 
29tution and the rhetoric of democracy.³ 
30One of the accepted truisms about Nisei and Japanese American incarceration 
31during World War II is that shame and silence have generally been the response of 
32a generation who learned early that being Japanese was a carceral offense. The San- 
33sei and Yonsei generations are largely given the credit for pushing their elders to- 
34ward remembrance and reparations, informed as their generations were by the civil 
35rights movement and the growth of ethnic studies during the third world student 
36strikes. But this widely accepted gloss on the Nisei response to the war is inac- 
37curate in large part, if not completely, and too easily occludes a wholly different 
38reaction from a significant number of Nisei both during and after the war. The very 
39existence of the Tule Lake concentration camps and the Department of Justice in- 
40ternment camp at Santa Fe—locations where those determined to be incorrigibly 
41noncompliant, among other reasons, were incarcerated—attests to a substantial 
42amount of anger and dissent among both Issei and Nisei. At the Poston camp, a 
43widely circulated, anonymous, Nisei-authored poem, “That Damned Fence,” an- 
44grily referred to the barbed wire that surrounded the camp: “We’re trapped like rats 
45in a wired cage, / To fret and fume with impotent rage.”⁴ Other Nisei resisted 
46through legal routes, contesting the constitutionality of curfew, removal, and incar- 
47ceration. While it is generally known that three Nisei men (Gordon Hirabayashi, 
48Fred Korematsu, and Minoru Yasui) filed suit against the U.S. government between 
491942 and 1944, it is far less known that a twenty-two-year-old Nisei woman, Mit- 
50suye Endo, filed a habeas corpus petition in 1942. The writ demanded that Endo be 
51released from camp so that she could pursue legal avenues to protest being fired 
52from her job and incarcerated solely because of her Japanese ancestry. After a legal 
53process that lasted more than two years while Endo remained in the Tule Lake con- 
54centration camp, the Supreme Court unanimously ruled in Endo’s favor in Decem- 
55ber 1944. Ex parte Mitsuye Endo was foundational in the decision to allow Nikkei to 
56return to the West Coast. 
57Endo is just one of a group of extraordinary Nisei women—among them Mon- 
58ica Sone, Yuri Kochiyama, Hisaye Yamamoto, Mitsuye Yamada, Janice Mirikitani, 
59Toyo Suyemoto, Wakako Yamauchi, Michi Weglyn, Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston, 
60Violet Kazue (Matsuda) deCristoforo, and, of course, Miné Okubo—who refused the silence that too easily has come to characterize the Nisei generation. Some, like 
61Okubo, Sone, and Yamamoto, produced work centered around the experience of 
62incarceration shortly after the war’s end; others recounted that experience from the 
63distance of years. 
64Among this group of Nisei women, Yoshiko Uchida occupies a singular place. 
65Unlike the others, Uchida addressed her work primarily to children and young 
66adults. Uchida virtually created the field of Japanese American juvenile writing, 
67publishing books for young readers steadily between 1949 and 1993. Only three of 
68her more than thirty books were written for adults, including Desert Exile.⁵ How- 
69ever, it would be a mistake to see Uchida’s writing for adults as somehow more 
70sophisticated or important than her work for juveniles, or to see these two bodies 
71of work as separate rather than continuous. Indeed, Uchida’s books for children 
72and young adults set the landscape for what Uchida would later accomplish in her 
73work for adults. 
74In 1949, Uchida’s first book, The Dancing Kettle and Other Japanese Folk Tales, 
75was published.⁶ A retelling of several folktales, the book was the result of Uchida’s 
76two years (1952–54) as a Ford Foundation Foreign Area Fellow in Japan. While 
77there, she studied various Japanese folk art and craft forms, as well as Zen philos- 
78ophy, steadily gaining an appreciation for Japan and Japanese culture. Of this pe- 
79riod, Uchida wrote, “My experience in Japan was as positive and restorative as the 
80evacuation had been negative and depleting.”⁷ Uchida’s time in Japan had a pro- 
81found effect on her process of healing and on her writing: subsequent books also 
82introduced the Japanese folktales that, with other folk art forms, had helped her to 
83see her own Japanese heritage more positively. These collections could evoke a 
84similar sense of pride in young Japanese Americans, as well as introduce Japanese 
85culture to a non-Nikkei audience. 
86This was only one of Uchida’s purposes with regard to her young readers, how- 
87ever. Her second book, New Friends for Susan, published in 1951, introduces a 
88young Japanese American protagonist through whose point of view the story is nar- 
89rated. While the plot focuses on the largely generic, and prewar, difficulties of 
90starting out in a new school, the very presence of a Japanese American main char- 
91acter was itself significant. It provided a point of identification for young Japanese 
92American readers, and the narrative created an imagined space wherein interracial 
93friendships were both possible and normative. 
94Uchida’s works for children and young adults fall roughly into four groups, in 
95addition to her work on Nikkei incarceration during the war: Japanese folktales, sto- 
96ries about Japanese protagonists in Japan, stories about Japanese American protag- 
97onists in the United States, and narratives that explore the relationship between 
98Issei, or immigrant Japanese, and Nisei young people. This last group is partic- 
99ularly important, as Uchida foregrounds the misunderstandings or miscommu- 
100nications between Japanese elders and Japanese American youngsters, but always 
101with an eye toward rendering the Issei as fully and complexly human, rather than 
102just as signs of foreignness and difference. That is due, in part, to Uchida’s two 
103years in Japan, which she credited for her “new respect and admiration for the cul- 
104ture that had made my parents what they were.”⁸ Uchida’s respect and admiration 
105for her parents and for the Issei resonate in her subsequent writing, and nowhere 
106are both clearer than in her work focusing on the war years and their immediate 
107aftermath. 
108In the wake of her mother’s death in 1966, Uchida turned for the first time to 
109writing about the wartime incarceration of her family. One can surmise that Uchida 
110may have waited to write about the events of the war until her parents could not 
111read her books and have to revisit a difficult, humiliating, and painful time in their 
112lives. Journey to Topaz, published in 1971, the same year as her father’s death, is 
113dedicated, “In memory of my mother and father and for my Issei friends.” Written 
114for young adults, Journey to Topaz and its sequel, Journey Home (1978), are fiction- 
115alized accounts based on Uchida’s family’s experiences just before, during, and 
116immediately after the war. They feature a protagonist named Yuki who is eleven 
117years old, nearly half the age Uchida was when she was sent to Tanforan and Pos- 
118ton.⁹ Both books have received national acclaim and are among the most widely 
119read of Uchida’s works for young adults. The texts are striking in their level of detail and the extent to which Uchida is able to register complex forces in narra- 
120tives whose momentum is determined both by the genre of fiction for younger 
121readers and by the exigencies of the historical events portrayed. Equally striking, 
122and moving, are Uchida’s depictions of Yuki’s Issei parents, who are never offered 
123up as examples of either exotic or abject Japaneseness. Rather, they are shown to 
124be kind, compassionate, capable human beings—complete with the quirks of indi- 
125vidual personalities—who must deal with the irrational, disorienting, and destruc- 
126tive forces of wartime hysteria twinned with racism. 
127Writing the two Journey books seems to have spurred Uchida to pen a fully 
128autobiographical account for an adult audience. Additionally, the redress and 
129reparations movement, which resulted in the establishment of the Committee on 
130Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (CWRIC) in 1980 and the testi- 
131mony of hundreds of former detainees in 1981, had collectively reawakened painful 
132memories and reignited anger at governmental abuse of power. The social and 
133political climate had also shifted, largely due to the civil rights movement and var- 
134ious ethnic power movements. Thus, the context in which Uchida wrote Desert 
135Exile was markedly different from that in which, for instance, Monica Sone wrote 
136Nisei Daughter (1953), another well-known autobiographical account of a Nikkei 
137family’s forced removal and imprisonment during World War II.¹⁰ While the two 
138texts share some similarities in terms of approach and narrative strategy, Uchida’s 
139text is more explicitly political and pointed in its purpose.¹¹ Uchida makes refer- 
140ence to the changed political and social landscape in the epilogue to Desert Exile: 
141“If my story has been long in coming, it is not because I did not want to remember 
142our incarceration or to make this interior journey into my earlier self, but because it 
143took so many years for these words to find a home.”¹² 
144Uchida’s evocation of home here is significant, as Desert Exile is a text in which 
145homes are dismantled, lost, packed away, taken, and recalled in absence. Indeed, 
146critic Sau-ling Wong writes that Uchida’s book is about “the un-doing of home- 
147founding,” and that the photographs throughout the text are “a graphic rendition of 
148this process.”¹³ The photographs Uchida includes visually outline the trajectory of 
149the narrative: the parents’ early adulthood in Japan, the growing community of 
150Nikkei and the establishment of social and religious organizations, and the Uchida 
151family’s home life in Berkeley, California. Then, after Uchida’s account of the 
152bombing of Pearl Harbor, the personal photos give way to file photographs that, as 
153Wong notes, “are striking in their exteriorization and objectification of the Japanese 
154Americans.”¹⁴ Instead of the likenesses of Mr. and Mrs. Uchida, and of Yoshiko 
155and her older sister, Keiko, we see crowds of people standing amid luggage piled 
156on the sidewalk or waiting en masse to board buses under armed guard. The 
157photograph of the Uchidas’ Berkeley home gives way to one of the horse stalls at 
158Tanforan and a wide-angle shot of the rows upon rows of barracks at Topaz. Wong 
159observes that once the narrative of the war years begins, “There are no more photo- 
160graphs of houses: home has been undone, and having to salvage from its ruins is 
161not the same thing as home-founding.”¹⁵ In a similar vein, literary scholar Helena 
162Grice argues that, in contrast to the tendency for autobiographical writing to “docu- 
163ment formative moments” in the writer’s life, Desert Exile “charts the deformative 
164moments of the internment experience and its aftermath.”¹⁶ 
165While it is true that Uchida’s narrative and inclusion of photographs attest to 
166the deconstruction of notions of home and normative trajectories of self- 
167formation, Uchida’s discursive and visual texts also suggest, if not a counternar- 
168rative, a parallel narrative that combines a critique of the Nikkei’s wartime treat- 
169ment with a deep appreciation for her parents and for Issei culture. Uchida’s re- 
170spect for the Issei comes through clearly in a late passage from Desert Exile: 
171 
172A Japanese American recently asked me how the fourth generation Japanese 
173Americans could be proud of their heritage when their grandparents and great 
174grandparents had been incarcerated in concentration camps. I was stunned by 
175the question, for quite the contrary, I think they should be proud of the way in 
176which their grandparents survived that shattering ordeal. It is our country that 
177should be ashamed of what it did, not the Japanese Americans for having been 
178its victims.¹⁷ Uchida here links the affirmation of Issei strength with the unconstitutional context 
179in which that courage became legible. She further characterizes that context as 
180shameful, a powerful indictment given the resonances of shame in Japanese cul- 
181ture. Uchida’s very vocabulary reflects the trend, beginning in the late 1970s, to 
182refuse to adopt governmental euphemisms that had entered into the general par- 
183lance in the decades following the war. Thus, Uchida does not use the phrase “in- 
184terned in relocation camps.” Rather, she uses the more forceful and legally accu- 
185rate phrase “incarcerated in concentration camps.” Of note, also, is Uchida’s use 
186of the word victim, which she does not deploy as an identity but as a signal of the 
187Nikkei’s subjugation to a series of governmental edicts and orders over which they 
188had no control. As her narrative makes clear, from beginning to end, her parents— 
189and by extension, the Issei as a group—did not fall into passive lassitude, as the 
190often misunderstood phrase shikata ga nai (“it cannot be helped”) might indicate. 
191We might better understand the phrase to register something more akin to “it is 
192what it is.” Coupled with the foundational concept of gaman, which is often simply 
193translated as “perseverance” but which has deeper resonances as a way of endur- 
194ing what seems unbearable with dignity, patience, and quiet strength, Uchida’s par- 
195ents, like so many other Issei, carried on as best they could. Absence of victimized 
196complaint should not be taken for compliance. 
197Uchida’s parents, Dwight Takashi and Iku Uchida, were fifty-eight and forty- 
198nine years old, respectively, in 1942. Both had been in the United States for at least 
199twenty-five years (Uchida’s father for thirty-six years) and might have expected to 
200enter into a well-earned retirement, having raised to young adulthood their two 
201daughters, at that point twenty-one and twenty-five years old. However, Uchida’s 
202father was taken for questioning by the FBI the afternoon of the Pearl Harbor 
203bombing, not to be reunited with his family until they had been in Topaz for some 
204time. Uchida’s mother and the two daughters were left to deal with the chaos of 
205selling, storing, and packing their belongings for their forced removal to the hastily 
206converted horse stalls at the Tanforan racetrack in San Bruno, California. 
207Throughout Uchida’s description of these ordeals, her parents emerge as 
208steady, warmly dignified, and gracious with regard to their daughters’ and their 
209community’s well-being. Indeed, in a letter written to Uchida in May 1982 (clearly 
210the letter to which Uchida replies in her 29 May 1982 letter quoted above), Miné 
211Okubo focuses a great deal on the similarities between their parents. She writes: 
212 
213Your story of your family is important and valuable because it brings out and 
214explains the strong human ties and relationships between the Japan born and 
215educated Issei parents and their American born and educated nisei children. 
216The values, learning, understanding and respect which can only come by living 
217together. The parents hard work, struggles and [?] and dedication for a better 
218life for their children. . . . I liked the dignity and humor that your parents radi- 
219ated.¹⁸ 
220 
221In addition to the political commitments the two artists shared, they also both felt 
222enormous respect for their parents and the generation of immigrants they repre- 
223sented. Both believed that the American population at large, and the Sansei and 
224Yonsei generations in particular, did not have an appreciation for the cultural back- 
225ground, struggles, and legal limitations within which the Issei founded Japanese 
226America. Okubo, in fact, takes the Sansei generation to task. Many, in light of the 
2271981 CWRIC hearings, had begun to criticize what they saw as Issei and Nisei 
228wartime compliance and passivity: 
229 
230Your family story can help explain some of the whys of the evacuation which 
231the sansei the 3rd generation-children can’t seem to comprehend because they 
232are living entirely a different time with liberated thoughts but have not lived or 
233experienced the reality of people and life. 
234 
235This is a more straightforward and acerbic version of Uchida’s own shock that later 
236generations would ask how they could be proud of their background, given the his- 
237tory of removal and incarceration. But the force of Okubo’s feelings is evident throughout the whole of Uchida’s Desert Exile. The descriptions of her parents and 
238the care with which she draws a portrait of the prewar Nikkei community implicitly 
239make the argument that the Nisei and subsequent generations owe the Issei a great 
240debt. “Because we Nisei were still relatively young at the time, it was largely the 
241Issei who had led the way, guiding us through the devastation and trauma of our 
242forced removal. . . . The evacuation was the ultimate of the incalculable hardships 
243and indignities they had borne over the years.”¹⁹ 
244Desert Exile progresses to a close with two last photographs, the only ones of 
245the Uchida family since those depicting their prewar life in Berkeley. In one, taken 
246at Topaz, Uchida and her older sister are dressed in suits on the day they are to 
247leave camp to begin the fall term at their respective colleges on the East Coast. The 
248barracks form the pictorial backdrop, a reminder of what the daughters are leaving 
249and what the parents must return to. It is a photograph that perhaps epitomizes 
250the ethos of the Issei parents: to subordinate their own desires for their children’s 
251presence to the necessity of supporting them so that they can physically, and hope- 
252fully psychically, leave the space of the camp. The final photograph, taken in 1950, 
253shows the family gathered to celebrate Uchida’s grandmother’s eighty-eighth birth- 
254day. Thus, the sequence of photos representing removal and incarceration are 
255bookended by those that attest to the family’s survival and cohesion after the war. 
256However, the visual rhetoric that emblematizes the survival of the family 
257should not be taken as a habitual privileging of the heteronormative nuclear family, 
258or as an indication that the experience during the war had been a minor, character- 
259building blip. Uchida makes clear that her own family’s experience is neither 
260paradigmatic nor typical, noting that for many families, “the tensions of one-room 
261living proved more destructive. Many children drifted away from their par- 
262ents. . . . The concept of family was rapidly breaking down, adding to the growing 
263misery of life in camp.”²⁰ In order for families to remain intact, parents had to ac- 
264tively intervene to provide structure in an otherwise unstructured, though con- 
265stricted, environment. Uchida writes that her parents “helped my sister and me 
266channel our anger and frustration. . . . Our anger was cathartic, but bitterness 
267would have been self-destructive.”²¹ The perceptive reader will note the presence of 
268this anger throughout, and it is this same anger that Uchida registers in her 1982 
269letter to Okubo when she writes, “The passage of time and the knowledge now of 
270our gov’t leaders’ betrayal has increased my anger.”²² However, rather than fully ar- 
271ticulating and performing that anger in the text, Uchida’s anger subtly motivates 
272and shapes Desert Exile. She molds her anger to a pedagogical purpose, seeking to 
273effect change rather than simply to tell a personal story of what she and her family 
274endured. 
275As she recounts in Desert Exile, Uchida served as an elementary school teacher 
276while incarcerated at Topaz and upon her release attended Smith College, where 
277she obtained a master’s degree in education. Though she taught for only a couple 
278of years before deciding to devote herself to writing full time, that pedagogical im- 
279pulse runs through all of Uchida’s work, though in an imaginative and artistic 
280rather than pedantic way. Her body of work is animated by several related key pur- 
281poses: introducing Japanese culture and folk practices to non-Nikkei audiences; 
282creating a Nikkei presence in children’s and young adult literature, whether through 
283Japanese characters in Japan, Japanese Americans in the United States, or Issei and 
284Nisei relationships; affirming the dignity and strength of the Issei generation; and 
285writing about the wartime incarceration of Japanese and Japanese Americans. 
286Though Uchida began writing directly about Nikkei incarceration during the 
287war only in the latter part of her career, she was motivated from the very beginning 
288by what had happened to the Issei and Nisei, the denigration of Nikkei identity and 
289culture, the need for later generations of Japanese Americans to find “a sense of 
290continuity with their past,” and the belief that all Americans should not forget that 
291the United States ran government-sanctioned concentration camps into which 
292innocent civilians and American citizens were forced.²³ 
293However, we should also remember that Uchida was not a polemicist; she was 
294a writer and artist. Her tools were not the manifesto, treatise, or tract but rather 
295narrative, plot, and dialogue—all underpinned and shaped by the complex interplay 
296between memory and imagination. In this, we might well look to the influence of Uchida’s mother, Iku Uchida, who throughout her life wrote tanka (thirty-one- 
297syllable poems) under the pen name Yukari. Uchida includes several of her moth- 
298er’s tanka in Desert Exile, three of which close the main body of the narrative. Like 
299the photographs, Yukari’s tanka provide a counternarrative that both registers and 
300transforms raw experience. Uchida’s mother continued to compose tanka during 
301her incarceration, and her poems note the stark, barren landscape, the dust 
302storms, and the loneliness and isolation of those around her, even as her lyrical 
303eye includes the wide-open sky and the beauty of the desert sunset. This combi- 
304nation of perspicacious observation and gentle lyricism seem to emblematize Iku 
305Uchida’s personality. Though of an artistic bent and a gentle nature, she had never- 
306theless, as a twenty-four-year-old, crossed the Pacific by herself to marry Dwight 
307Uchida, a man she had yet to meet. Uchida writes admiringly of her mother, as well 
308as of all the Issei women, who “must have had tremendous reserves of strength 
309and courage. . . . Theirs was a determination and endurance born, I would say, of 
310an uncommon spirit.”²⁴ 
311It seems appropriate to pay the same tribute to Yoshiko Uchida, who, over a 
312body of work spanning more than forty years, affirmed Nikkei culture and gave 
313voice to an experience that had threatened to permanently fracture Japanese Amer- 
314ica. But Uchida’s purposes extended beyond the Nikkei community: she wanted to 
315use her writing to educate people so that what happened during World War II 
316would not happen again to anyone, and she particularly founded her hopes in edu- 
317cating young people through her writing and frequent talks to primary and sec- 
318ondary school groups. 
319In a June 1983 postcard to Okubo, congratulating her on the reissue of Citizen 
32013660, Uchida sends busy greetings: “I know exactly what you mean about having 
321no time. I’m feeling the same pressures from ‘walking the dedicated road.’ Did 
322have a wonderful trip to Hawaii, however, where I spoke at a conference and some 
323schools.”²⁵ An artist, writer, and teacher at heart, Yoshiko Uchida was truly an 
324uncommon spirit who walked the dedicated road. 
325 
326Traise Yamamoto 
327University of California, Riverside.
328
329Chapter 1. The House above Grove Street.
330WHENEVER I AM IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD, I FIND MYSELF drawn back to Stuart 
331Street, to drive once more past the stucco bungalow just above Grove, where my 
332older sister, Keiko, and I grew up. 
333I remember the sunny yard in back with the peach and apricot and fig trees. I 
334remember the sweetpeas that grew higher than my head, and the enormous 
335chrysanthemums that measured seventeen inches around. There was a blackberry 
336bush that rambled wild along the back fence, and there was rhubarb that sprang up 
337near the fenced enclosure where we kept a succession of three dogs. When we 
338were little there were swings and a sandbox, and later a hammock my father had 
339bought to console us when our first dog died of distemper. 
340I remember my father in his gardening clothes, raking the yard and filling the 
341dusky evening air with the wonderful smell of burning leaves, and my mother 
342standing at the back porch, wearing her big apron, ringing a small black bell be- 
343cause she didn’t like calling out to bring us in for supper. 
344It was a sunny, pleasant three-bedroom house we rented, and there was noth- 
345ing particularly unusual about our living there except that we were Japanese Amer- 
346icans.¹ And in those days before the Second World War, few Japanese families in 
347Berkeley, California, lived above Grove Street with the exception of some early set- 
348tlers. It seemed the realtors of the area had drawn an invisible line through the city 
349and agreed among themselves not to rent or sell homes above that line to Asians. 
350The finer homes in east Berkeley and on the hills overlooking San Francisco Bay 
351belonged to another world into which we rarely ventured, except on our way to 
352church to pick up a Japanese “school boy” or “school girl” who worked for a white 
353family while attending the university. 
354I’m not sure how my father found a homeowner willing to ignore the realtors’ 
355tacit agreement and rent us the house on Stuart Street. I do know, however, how he 
356handled an earlier difficulty when he and my mother rented their first home in 
357Oakland in 1917. 
358Newly married, they had just furnished the house with carpets, curtains, and 
359furniture, when three men who professed to represent “The Santa Fe Improvement 
360Association” called on them. They came not to welcome my parents to the neigh- 
361borhood, but to tell them to get out. 
362“Can you tell me who complained about us?” my father asked. 
363“The members of the association,” the men answered. 
364My father had just joined the San Francisco branch of Mitsui and Company, 
365one of Japan’s major import-export firms, where he eventually became assistant 
366manager. He gave the men one of his business cards and informed them the 
367owner of the house had assured him there would be no objection to my parents’ 
368presence in the neighborhood. 
369“I’d like to meet those members of your association who object to us,” he told 
370the men. “If they can bring proof that we are undesirable elements in this neigh- 
371borhood, we will leave immediately. Otherwise I feel their request is unreasonable. 
372How would you feel,” he asked, “if you went to Tokyo and were treated like this?” 
373The men could not reply. “We only represent the other members,” they ex- 
374plained lamely. 
375“Then send those members to me,” my father insisted. “I would like to meet 
376them face to face and get acquainted.” 
377Those members never came and their three representatives never returned. My 
378father had won, and my parents remained in the house, but it was only a small vic- 
379tory, for those were days of such intense anti-Asian sentiment, there were bill- 
380boards bearing signs that read, “Japs, don’t let the sun shine on you here. Keep 
381moving.” 
382Although such racism had not abated by the time my parents began to raise a 
383family, my sister and I had a happy childhood, wrapped in the love and affection of 
384our parents and in the gentle innocence of our environment. We grew up during 
385the depression but were fortunate enough to be unaware of it, even though my par- 
386ents were thrifty and self-denying, as they continued to be for their entire lives. My father, Dwight Takashi Uchida, came to California in 1906 at the age of twenty- 
387two, after having taught Japanese in a small school in Hawaii for about three years. 
388He arrived on a small cargo boat and landed in San Francisco just three months 
389after the great earthquake to find the tower of the ferry building still askew and Mar- 
390ket Street piled high with ash.
391He had hoped to go to Yale and eventually to become a doctor, but he went 
392first to Seattle where his mother, having just lost a daughter to leukemia, had 
393immigrated to be with another of her daughters. There he found work in a general 
394merchandise store owned by a successful Japanese entrepreneur, M. Furuya, and 
395abandoned his earlier ambitions. A year later he was sent to manage Furuya’s Port- 
396land store where he stayed for nine years, earning enough to send boat fare to his 
397two remaining sisters in Japan, so they could join their mother in Seattle. 
398While he was manager of the Portland Furuya, it doubled in size and became 
399one of the first Japanese stores to have a branch of the United States Post Office 
400on its premises. It was as an employee of Furuya that my father learned to wear a 
401white shirt and black bow tie every day, always to be punctual, and to answer the 
402telephone before it rang twice. These habits became so thoroughly ingrained, they 
403remained with him the rest of his life. 
404His work at Furuya brought him to the attention of the manager of the San 
405Francisco branch of Mitsui and Company, and in 1917 he went to San Francisco to 
406become one of its employees. In the same year he married Iku Umegaki, who had 
407come from Japan the previous year to marry him. 
408They had never met, but had corresponded for over a year at the suggestion of 
409professors who knew them both while they were students at Doshisha University in 
410Kyoto, one of Japan’s foremost Christian universities. 
411It seems incredible to me that my mother—a shy, reticent, and sheltered 
412woman—could have taken so enormous a leap across the Pacific Ocean, leaving 
413behind her family and friends and all that was dear to her. And yet many Japanese 
414women did the same in those days. I believe those early Issei (first generation Japa- 
415nese immigrant) women must have had tremendous reserves of strength and 
416courage to do what they did, often masked by their quiet and unassertive de- 
417meanor. They came to an alien land, created homes for their men, worked beside 
418them in fields, small shops, and businesses, and at the same time bore most of the 
419responsibility for raising their children. Theirs was a determination and endurance 
420born, I would say, of an uncommon spirit. 
421My mother was twenty-four when she came to the United States and was the el- 
422dest of five children. Her father, once a samurai, had been a prefectural governor, 
423but died when my mother was twelve. It was a harsh struggle for her mother to raise five children alone, and it became necessary for her to send the youngest boy 
424to a temple to be raised as a priest, although some years later she herself became a 
425Christian. 
426My mother worked for her room, board, and tuition at Doshisha University and 
427also did such chores as mending and ironing for some of her American missionary 
428instructors. Her favorite teacher once asked her to embroider two and a half yards 
429of scallops around one of her petticoats. It was a task my mother could accomplish 
430only by staying up every night long after all the other girls had gone to bed and 
431working for many hours beside the small light left burning in her dormitory. And it 
432was only after several weeks that she finally finished the tedious chore. In those 
433early years, there existed such a close bond between student and teacher, and my 
434mother’s admiration for her teachers was so great, that rather than feeling exploited 
435she considered it a privilege to work for them. IMAGE AND CAPTION. My father (left) with two college friends. Kyoto, Japan, about 1902.
436ANOTHER IMAGE AND CAPTION. My father with his mother (center front) and four sisters. Japan, about 1902.
437It was the same respect and trust that led her to come to America to marry my 
438father, following the advice of the Japanese professors who knew both my parents 
439and urged their union. 
440I imagine her decision to leave Japan was a much more difficult one than my fa- 
441ther’s, for while he came to join his mother and sister, she had no one except him. 
442She left behind her mother, three brothers, and a sister, and the day she sailed she 
443cried until her eyes were so swollen she could scarcely see. I know how much my 
444mother must have missed her family in Japan, but I also know she never regretted 
445having come to America to marry my father. 
446Because my father was a salaried man at Mitsui, our lives were more secure 
447and somewhat different from many of our Japanese friends, especially those whom 
448we knew at the small Japanese church we attended. For them life in the 1930s was a 
449dark desperate struggle for survival in a country where they could neither become 
450citizens nor own land. Many spoke little English. Some of the mothers took in 
451sewing or did day work in white homes. Others operated home laundries, washing 
452clothes in damp cold basements, drying them on ropes strung across musty attics, 
453and pressing them with irons heated on the kitchen stove. Most of the fathers 
454struggled to keep open such small businesses as dry cleaners, laundries, groceries, 
455or shoe repair shops, and they sometimes came to ask my father for advice and 
456help. 
457IMAGE AND CAPTION. My mother on her graduation from Doshisha University. She stands between two of her favorite instructors, both of whom remained lifelong friends. Kyoto, Japan, 1914.
458My father understood their struggles well, for he too had grown up in poverty 
459in Japan. His father, a former samurai turned teacher, had died when he was ten. 
460His mother, married at sixteen and widowed at thirty, sent her five children to live 
461with various relatives, and my father never forgot the sadness of those long snow- 
462covered roads he walked to reach the home of the uncle who took him in. 
463His mother went to Kyoto to work as a housekeeper in the home of American 
464missionaries who taught at Doshisha University and was converted by them to 
465Christianity. My father was later given the name of the master of the household, 
466Dwight. 
467His mother saved every yen she earned and was eventually able to call her chil- 
468dren, one by one, to live with her in a small house at the rear of her employer’s 
469home. Often all they had for supper was rice and daikon (long white radish). “There 
470were days when the daikon tasted especially good,” my father used to recall, “and 
471that was when my mother had cooked it with the liquid she’d saved from the 
472canned salmon eaten by the white folks.” 
473My father worked his way through Doshisha University by delivering milk in the 
474mornings, working as a telephone operator at night, and later serving as a clerk in a 
475bank. 
476Because both my parents had learned to be frugal in their youth and had 
477worked hard for a living, they were never wasteful or self-indulgent even when they 
478had the means. They also felt much compassion for anyone in need. When one of 
479our neighbors on Stuart Street lost his job during the depression, and his wife sold 
480homemade bread, my mother not only bought her bread, but arranged to learn 
481French from her as well, to give her the additional income. I remember my mother 
482waking us in those days calling, “Levez-vous, Kei Chan, Yo Chan! Levez-vous!” 
483My parents also provided solace and frequent meals to lonely homesick stu- 
484dents from Japan who were studying at the University of California or the Pacific 
485School of Religion. These students seemed to come to our home in an unending 
486procession, much to the dismay of my sister and I who found them inordinately 
487dull. They came pressed and polished in their squeaky shoes, their hair slicked 
488down with camellia hair oil whose sharp sweet scent I identified as the smell of 
489Japan. They crowded around our table on most holidays, on frequent Sundays, and 
490they often dropped in uninvited for a cup of tea. 
491These students were only part of the deluge from Japan. There were also vis- 
492iting ministers, countless alumni from Doshisha University, and sometimes the president of the university himself. I felt as though our house was the unofficial 
493alumni headquarters for Doshisha and I one of its most reluctant members. 
494Some of the Japanese ministers who visited us were humble and kind, but oth- 
495ers were pompous and pedantic. One could sing all the books of the Bible to the 
496tune of a folk song, while another left his dirty bath water in the tub for my mother 
497to wash out. Most of them stayed too long, I thought, and talked too much. 
498These importunate callers, it seemed to me, were intrusive and boring, not only 
499causing my mother to work long hours in the kitchen, but depriving me on occa- 
500sion of her attention. 
501There was the time I came home from school bursting with news. “Mama, I 
502found a dead sparrow! Come help me give it a funeral!” But Mama was imprisoned 
503in the living room over a tray of tea, as she so often was, entertaining a visitor from 
504Japan. 
505There was one frequent caller, a seminary student, who would come on cold 
506wintry days and spend long silent hours sitting by our fireplace. My mother gave 
507up trying to engage him in conversation and usually sat opposite him knitting or 
508crocheting. 
509I would cast hateful glances at him through the crack at the kitchen door, hear- 
510ing the sputtering of the oak logs and my mother’s occasional sighs. More than 
511once I tried to be rid of him by standing a broom upside down in the kitchen and 
512covering its bristles with a dustcloth. This was an old Japanese belief, my mother 
513had once told me, that would cause unwanted visitors to leave. Sometimes it 
514worked, and sometimes it didn’t. But the time I set up the broom at the crack of the 
515doorway, the somber seminarian left immediately. In my great and utter delight, it 
516never once occurred to me that our visitor might have known a few old Japanese 
517beliefs himself. 
518My father had a permanent dock pass that enabled him to board the ships of 
519the Nippon Yusen Company when they berthed in San Francisco, and he often 
520spent hours shepherding visitors from Japan through customs, showing them the 
521sights of the city, and then driving them to our house for dinner. He thrived on 
522company and welcomed these opportunities. But my sister and I complained 
523shamelessly. 
524“Company again?” we would groan. “Those people from the seminary again?” 
525we would object. 
526But we knew all the proper motions required to help prepare for a dinner. We 
527would flutter dust cloths over the furniture, pull open the dining room table to add 
528extra boards, get out my mother’s white linen tablecloth and napkins, and set the 
529table with her good silverplate service. If we felt particularly helpful, we would pick 
530nasturtiums or sweetpeas from the backyard and stuff them in the hollow back of a 
531china swan for the centerpiece. If it was close to a holiday, we would try to have 
532appropriate decorations, and I loved the delicate silver deer that grazed on our mir- 
533ror centerpiece at Christmas time. 
534In spite of our grumbling, sometimes my sister and I enjoyed ourselves. Both 
535my parents had a lively sense of humor, and there was often much laughter as well 
536as after dinner singing at our parties. We sang everything from “Old Black Joe” to 
537“In the Good Old Summertime.”
538IMAGE AND CAPTION. One of our early portraits taken in Berkeley when I was about three and my sister about seven.
539Sometimes Keiko and I would have our own private jokes that would trigger 
540such a spate of giggles one of us would have to leave the table. At one of our din- 
541ners, a very serious bespectacled seminarian suddenly rose from the table in the 
542middle of dinner and disappeared for several minutes into the kitchen. When he re- 
543turned to the table he seemed much happier. 
544“It was so warm, I took the liberty of removing an extra pair of wool under- 
545wear,” he explained rather sheepishly. “I feel much better now.” 
546My sister and I exchanged a quick glance, before both of us rushed into the 
547kitchen to explode in helpless laughter, and it was quite a while before either of us 
548could go back again to the dinner table. 
549We had another group of guests, more sophisticated and worldly, who were my 
550father’s associates at Mitsui. They were the “Company people” sent from Japan to 
551live and work temporarily in the United States. They drank and smoked, neither of 
552which my father did, and knew little of the depression or the anxieties of the Japa- 
553nese who had immigrated to this country. My father played golf with the men, and 
554my mother entertained their well-dressed ladies at teas. 
555She also invited them to elaborate dinners in our home. Sometimes my father 
556would cook sukiyaki at the table on a small cooker with gas piped in from our 
557stove. He would begin with thick white chunks of suet, add thin slices of beef, then 
558onions, scallions, bamboo shoots, mushrooms, tofu (bean curd cake), and other 
559vegetables, all of which my mother had sliced and arranged carefully on enormous 
560serving platters. By the time he added soy sauce, sugar, and sake, the wonderful 
561aroma that filled our house was almost unbearable. At other times my mother 
562would serve a totally Western meal, beginning with shrimp cocktail, olives, and cel- 
563ery, then some sort of roast with vegetables, and usually topped off with one of her 
564famous banana cream cakes. 
565We in turn were invited to their homes and to the manager’s mansion in San 
566Francisco each year for a fancy Christmas party. But I never felt comfortable with 
567these people. Their “haut monde” outlook, far removed from our own simple life 
568style made me ill at ease. On the other hand, we didn’t seem to fit in with the group 
569that comprised our Sunday world either, and I felt constrained with them in a to- 
570tally different way. My mother, sensitive and empathic, felt guilty that circum- 
571stances enabled us to live in comfort when life for them was so difficult, and she 
572was always careful to restrain us in both dress and behavior on Sundays. 
573My sister and I never lacked for clothing, as my mother sewed most of our 
574dresses herself. Her years of apprenticeship at Doshisha, sewing and embroidering 
575for her teachers, had served her well, and now she lavished the same care and 
576attention on her own children. Our dresses were detailed with fine tucks, smock- 
577ing, hemstitching, rows of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons, and the most meticulous 
578of hand finished touches. 
579I still remember the white pongee dresses with red and blue belts that she 
580made for us to wear to the Olympic Games. And there were the flowered voiles 
581with matching capes and hand-rolled hems, a blue one for Keiko and a red one for 
582me. We must have begged to be allowed to wear them to Sunday School, but our 
583delicious joy in our finery was tempered by our awareness that our friends in Sunday School couldn’t have as many nice things as we had. 
584My mother was a giving and deeply caring person. “Don’t ever be indifferent,” 
585she used to say to us. “Indifference is the worst fault of all.” And she herself was 
586never indifferent. She cared and felt deeply about everything around her. She could 
587find joy in a drive to the park, a rainbow in the sky, a slim new moon, or an inter- 
588esting weed appearing among the irises. She so empathized with anyone in dis- 
589tress that on one occasion she sent herbs to a diabetic man she had just met in the 
590dentist’s waiting room. 
591There was seldom a gift to our family that she and my father didn’t share if they 
592could. Whenever we received a crate of oranges or avocados or fresh vegetables 
593from friends in the country, they would immediately distribute at least half the 
594bounty to our neighbors and friends. But Keiko and I sometimes found it hard to 
595share their generosity. “Don’t give it all away,” we would cry out. “Leave some for 
596us!” 
597My mother’s handiwork, too, was not confined just to our family. She embroi- 
598dered fancy guest towels for many of her friends, and she must have made at least 
599a hundred baby booties over the years for all the babies born into our church 
600community. 
601Because she was also an excellent cook, her giving often took the form of food. 
602She used to bake dozens of cream puffs sprinkled with powdered sugar and take 
603them to anyone who was in need of cheer. Sometimes she made an enormous 
604bowl of chirashi-zushi (a vinegared vegetable, chicken, and rice mixture) for us, but 
605a platter was usually shared with a lonely friend. She spent many hours chopping 
606and cooking the nine or ten ingredients and garnishes for it, and I would stand at 
607the table and fan the steaming rice for her to hasten its cooling before everything 
608could be mixed together. Chirashi-zushi was one of my favorite dishes, and Mama 
609usually made it for me on my birthday as an added gift. 
610Most of her Saturday nights seemed to be taken up with cooking as she pre- 
611pared large quantities of food for our Sunday guests. Long after I had gone to bed, 
612I would hear her knife chattering on the cutting board, and I would drift off to sleep 
613with delicious aromas swirling around my head. Mama’s cooking was as metic- 
614ulous as her sewing. She carefully removed every bruise on vegetables, washed 
615them with great care, and then cooked from the heart. It was no wonder everybody 
616loved to come have dinner with us. 
617 
618In spite of the time they devoted to other people, my parents managed to enrich 
619our lives in many ways. They took my sister and me almost everywhere they went— 
620to visit friends, to church, to occasional operas or theatrical performances, to the 
621Legion of Honor and the de Young museums in San Francisco, and to concerts to 
622hear such luminaries as Ignace Jan Paderewski and Mme. Ernestine Schumann- 
623Heink. It was probably my mother’s interest in art that led us to the museums and 
624my father’s love of music that took us to the concerts. I recall liking best the Cos- 
625sacks’ Chorus, whose ebullient singing so impressed me, I thought theirs was the 
626finest concert I had ever heard. 
627My father loved to sing and never lost an opportunity to gather our friends 
628around the piano for some dubious harmony in which he sang bass. He organized 
629a choir for the young people at church, and he sang frequent solos at the service, 
630although I don’t know whether he was asked to do so, or simply volunteered in his 
631usual forthright manner. 
632My sister and I both took piano lessons, and Keiko did the accompanying when 
633we sang at home. Practicing piano was one of my more painful chores, however, 
634and there were times when I never took the music out of my case from one lesson 
635to the next. I must have been a great trial to my piano teacher, a gracious southern 
636woman who never once showed the impatience she must have felt with me. 
637The four of us usually did everything together as a family, including going to 
638the movies. Those were days when the theaters gave away dinnerware and prizes to 
639entice people to come, and one night Papa had the lucky stub and won a prize. He 
640strode up to the stage, bowed to the manager as he accepted his prize, and waved 
641to the audience with what I thought was remarkable aplomb. 
642There were other times when Mama, Keiko, and I had our own special outings. 
643Sometimes we would take the streetcar on Grove Street and go downtown to Oak- 
644land to shop. Mama carried a small brown satchel for her purchases and we would 
645visit two or three department stores. I don’t recall what my mother bought, but 
646more important for me was our stop at the store restaurant where I always had a 
647toasted ham sandwich and a chocolate ice cream soda. The snack itself was a spe- 
648cial treat, but equally pleasant was having some private fun without fear of having an unwanted visitor arrive to spoil it by taking up Mama’s time. 
649My father’s railroad pass enabled us to take many trips, and each New Year’s 
650we took the Southern Pacific overnight sleeper to Los Angeles to spend the holiday 
651with my paternal grandmother who lived with my aunt, uncle, and six cousins. Al- 
652though there were five adults and eight children crammed into a small bungalow 
653with only one bathroom, my cousins obligingly doubled up and we somehow man- 
654aged and had great times together. 
655I believe we were among the few Nisei (second generation Japanese) who had 
656even one grandparent living in the United States, and I feel fortunate to have known 
657the spirited woman that my grandmother, Katsu Uchida, was. 
658She was a devout Christian from the days of her conversion in Kyoto, and as 
659busy as she was helping care for the house and children (my aunt was a semi- 
660invalid for many years), she found time to read her Japanese Bible every day. God 
661was, for her, an intimate friend and she spent at least thirty minutes every night sit- 
662ting on her bed, her legs folded beneath her, her eyes shut tight, rocking back and 
663forth as she poured out her supplications and gratitude to Him. 
664Her early years of hardship in Japan had instilled in her a vigorous frugality, 
665and she saw to it that no food was ever wasted. We never ate the best of the fruits 
666or vegetables, but ate those that were spoiling first. She had little interest in mate- 
667rial possessions and most of the money my father sent her each month was con- 
668tributed to her Japanese church on various occasions. She had only a few clothes 
669hanging in her closet, and in her later years she pinned a note to her best black 
670dress that read, “This is for my trip to Heaven.” 
671My grandmother (we called her Obah San) often suffered from back and shoul- 
672der aches, and one of the tasks of my younger cousins was to burn bits of moxa at 
673certain muscle points, first identified by a professional, on her back. 
674I remember seeing her sitting on a cushion on the floor, pinching out tiny 
675cones of the soft downy moxa which my cousins would then place on her back. 
676They would light the moxa with a stick of burning incense, watch the red glow flick- 
677er down the small cone, then brush the ash away with a long feather before apply- 
678ing the next cone. During the treatment, she had a continuous series of moxa 
679cones smoldering on her back, and often at the same time she herself would apply 
680other cones to her leg muscles. 
681The process sometimes took almost an hour, and I remember how the small 
682room in which she sat was filled with the smoky scent of the burning incense and 
683moxa, and the sounds of my grandmother sucking in her breath in pain. 
684Moxibustion (okyu, it was called) was commonly used in Japan as a counterir- 
685ritant for various aches and pains, and my parents in their later years also used it 
686from time to time. My mother especially found it helpful for her own back and 
687shoulder pains. 
688New Year’s was a special time in the early Issei households, for in Japan it is 
689considered a time of renewal and new beginnings. Houses were cleaned, out- 
690standing bills were paid before year’s end, and a fresh start made in life. It was a 
691time of joyous celebration and vast amounts of special holiday dishes were pre- 
692pared. 
693We began our New Year’s meal in Los Angeles with bowls of hot broth and 
694toasted rice cakes. In the center of the long table was a whole broiled lobster, 
695bright and colorful, symbolizing long life. There were tiered lacquer boxes filled 
696with shredded daikon and sesame seed salad, sweetened black beans and lima 
697beans (for good health), knots of seaweed (which I loved), and herring roe (which I 
698could have done without). There were great platters filled with chicken, bamboo 
699shoots, carrots, burdock, taro and lotus root, and hardboiled eggs cut into fancy 
700shapes. Most of the dishes had special symbolism and were prepared over several 
701days. 
702There was a strong sense of family at these three-generational gatherings and 
703to commemorate the occasion we often had a two-family portrait taken. 
704The Issei had a great propensity for taking formal photographs to commem- 
705orate occasions ranging from birthdays and organizational get-togethers to wed- 
706dings and even funerals. I suppose this was the only way they could share the 
707event with their families and friends in Japan, but it also resulted in many bulging 
708albums in our households. We had family portraits of all our relatives, most of my 
709parents’ friends and their families, and snapshots of every visitor who ever came to 
710our house. Before we sat down to any of our company dinners, Papa always lined 
711everybody up outside on our front lawn and took several snapshots with a succes- 
712sion of cameras from a Brownie box camera to a German Rolleiflex. 
713At one of our Los Angeles gatherings, because there were thirteen of us for our portrait, my mother suggested we include a doll as a fourteenth presence. Despite 
714her efforts to ward off bad luck, however, two of my cousins died too young and 
715too early—one a victim of the war while he was in Japan, and the other succumbing 
716to a heart condition aggravated by her forced move to the Heart Mountain camp 
717during World War II. In addition, my uncle became blind due to improper care fol- 
718lowing cataract surgery while interned in the same camp. 
719 
720My father’s railroad pass also enabled our family to take a long and memorable trip 
721one summer that combined his business with our pleasure. We saw the Grand 
722Canyon, New Orleans and its fabled French Quarter, and the great Mississippi 
723River, which our train crossed by barge. I was so impressed by the sight of the 
724magnificent river, I felt I had to do something and finally leaned over the barge rail- 
725ing and spit into the river to put a part of myself forever into its deep waters. 
726We visited several eastern cities, but most important to my mother was a spe- 
727cial trip we made to the small village of Cornwall, Connecticut, to visit one of her 
728former Doshisha instructors (the one whose petticoat she had embroidered) and 
729to meet for the first time two white women pen pals with whom she had corre- 
730sponded since college. Both my mother and father were great letter writers and 
731kept up a voluminous correspondence. They cherished their many friends and I 
732don’t believe either of them ever lost one for neglect on their part. 
733We were probably the first Asians ever to visit Cornwall and one of its resi- 
734dents, an elderly white woman, patted me on the head and said, “My, but you 
735speak English so beautifully.” She had looked at my Japanese face and addressed 
736only my outer person, and although she had meant to compliment me, I was thor- 
737oughly abashed to be perceived as a foreigner. On the other hand, I also met a 
738lovely auburn-haired young girl named Cathy and began a friendship and corre- 
739spondence with her that was to last a lifetime. 
740When I was about twelve and my sister sixteen, we took another major trip, this 
741time to Japan, and our Los Angeles grandmother came with us. Our ship, the 
742Chichibu Maru, took a leisurely two weeks to cross the Pacific, and unlike the 
743crowded and foul smelling one-class ships on which my parents had come to 
744America, this liner was quite luxurious. 
745My mother recalled how, on the small ship that brought her to this country, 
746she had been served a sweet bean dessert in a bowl still reeking of the morning’s 
747fish soup. This time we were able to travel first class, and for me the costume par- 
748ties, the sukiyaki parties on deck, and the bountiful afternoon teas were far more 
749enjoyable than anything I encountered once I was in Japan. 
750For my parents, of course, it was a joyous time of homecoming. I remember 
751when my mother, looking out the porthole of our cabin, first caught sight of her 
752own mother waiting for her on the crowded pier below. “Oka San! Mother!” she 
753cried out in a voice I had never heard before. Although she had made one earlier 
754visit to Japan, she was seeing her mother for the first time in over ten years, and 
755her cry held as much anguish over the long years of separation as her deep joy in 
756seeing her once more. I think that moment when I heard her cry was my first per- 
757ception of my mother as a person, with her own feelings as a daughter, and not 
758just as a mother to me. 
759For my sister and me, the long drawn-out visits with my parents’ friends, with 
760uncles, aunts, and cousins who were total strangers, were often boring and dull, 
761for although we understood some Japanese, many of the conversations were be- 
762yond our comprehension. I occasionally amused myself by counting the number of 
763times my parents exchanged bows with their friends during a single visit, and I 
764think the most was thirteen times. 
765For my grandmother, the homecoming must have held special meaning I could 
766scarcely understand then, for she was returning to her homeland where once she 
767had struggled so hard to exist, accompanied this time by her devoted son, now a 
768successful businessman in the United States. 
769 
770My father was indeed a businessman in every sense. He was practical and prag- 
771matic, and possessed tremendous energy, enthusiasm, and a joyful eagerness to 
772accomplish successfully any endeavor he undertook. He did everything quickly, 
773from working, to eating, to walking. He was always in a hurry to get wherever he 
774was going and, once there, left promptly when his mission was accomplished. My 
775mother, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite, and I think she found it diffi- 
776cult to feel constantly rushed by Papa. Being a Japanese woman, however, she be- 
777haved as a Japanese wife, and adjusted even to having Papa stride several paces 
778ahead of her, not from arrogance, but from impatience. For many years she sat in the back seat of the car, too self-conscious to take the seat up in front beside my 
779father. It is possible, however, that she felt safer there, for Papa was a terrible driv- 
780er, and caused Mama to clutch frequently at whoever sat next to her, calling out, 
781“Be careful, Papa San! Be careful!” 
782Papa often went sailing through intersections without bothering to look both 
783ways, and once, just two blocks from home, we were struck so hard by another car 
784(the only other one in sight) that it turned ours over on its side. My screams 
785brought people rushing to help us, and we were all pulled out through one of the 
786side windows, shaken but unhurt except for a few bumps and bruises. After that 
787accident, poor Mama was more nervous than ever about riding in Papa’s car. 
788My father was outspoken and so completely without guile that he often blurted 
789out remarks that would make my mother cringe. On seeing friends after an interval 
790of many years, he might blithely tell them how much weight they had put on or 
791how gray they had gotten, not with any meanness of spirit, but simply with com- 
792plete candor. 
793I suspect his forthright manner caused some to be hurt and some even to re- 
794sent him. But if this bothered Papa he never showed it. He had a sense of confi- 
795dence that sprang from a strong self-image. He was Japanese and proud of his 
796land and his heritage. Although both my parents loved America, they always held at 
797the core of their being an abiding love for their native land. 
798If my father was sometimes too candid, he was also thoughtful and tender at 
799heart. It was he who recorded in English the entries in my Baby Book with the flow- 
800ing graceful hand he had learned at night school, although my mother inserted her 
801own special message on the page with the tiny envelope containing wisps of hair 
802from my first haircut. He never came home from a business trip without some little 
803gift for each of us. He put much time and thought into looking for these special 
804gifts—a silver pin from Jensen’s in New York for Mama, a bejeweled flower pin or 
805silver charm bracelet for Keiko and me. We didn’t always appreciate his taste in 
806jewelry, but we knew he loved us and had thought of us on his trip. My sister even 
807now has a gold ring with her birthstone which my father presented to my mother 
808when Keiko was born, and he often brought a bouquet of freesias to my mother in 
809remembrance of the March birthday of their firstborn. 
810My mother was a dreamer—a gentle, sensitive, and creative person who, when 
811she found time for her own interests, wrote many tanka (thirty-one syllable Japa- 
812nese poems) using the pen name Yukari.² She felt too humble about her poems to 
813have them appear in anything other than the Japanese Women’s Christian Temper- 
814ance Union periodical published by one of her close friends, but many found her 
815tanka beautiful and moving. After her death, my father and I collected as many of 
816her poems as we could, some written on scraps of paper or on the backs of en- 
817velopes, and had them published in book form in Japan. 
818Mama loved to read and owned dozens of books, including the Japanese trans- 
819lation of Tolstoy’s entire works which she had hoped one day to read, but never 
820did. Her bureau was always piled high with periodicals and books, but they too 
821usually went unread. As she grew older, she put aside a half hour each morning to 
822read, but it was only the Bible she found time for. 
823She was studious by nature and kept many notebooks of new English words 
824she had learned or of quotations she liked. Unable to part with her college note- 
825books, she brought most of them with her to America in her big brown trunk, 
826along with the books she had read in her English literature courses at Doshisha. I 
827still have one of her notebooks, the ink now faded to the color of dust, in which 
828she copied with the precise hand learned from her missionary teachers quotations 
829from Bacon, Milton, Tagore, and Eliot and poems by Longfellow, Browning, and 
830Shelley. When she was in her seventies, she memorized again Wordsworth’s “Daf- 
831fodils” because, she said, she wanted to keep her mind alert. 
832On rare occasions when time permitted, she would get out her writing box, rub 
833the stick of sumi on the inkstone, and paint or practice calligraphy on a sheet of 
834soft rice paper that had come wrapped around a gift from Japan. 
835But most of the time, my mother’s own dreams and creative pursuits, pushed 
836aside for the needs and demands of her family, existed only in bits and pieces on 
837the fringes of her life. 
838The two of them, my mother and father, complemented each other well. My fa- 
839ther enjoyed working with figures and was extremely adept at using the abacus. He 
840checked the monthly bills from the Japanese grocer, kept all the accounts, and 
841never allowed a bill to remain unpaid on his desk for more than a day or two. 
842My mother, on the other hand, was quite indifferent to money matters, seldom 
843counted her change, and never wrote more than a handful of checks in her lifetime. My dreamer mother instilled in my businessman father an appreciation of the 
844creative aspects of life that sometimes escaped him, and brought out the tender- 
845ness close to the surface in him as well. He came to love plants and flowers, and 
846enjoyed growing them especially for the pleasure they gave my mother. He would 
847often come in from the garden carrying a particularly beautiful flower saying, 
848“Here, Mama, I dedicate this to you.” And she would smile and say, “Thank you, 
849Papa San,” and put it in her best cut-glass vase. 
850In later years, my father also wrote some tanka, and although he was not as 
851skilled as my mother at the craft, he learned to share that pleasure with her as well. 
852Throughout their life, they always shared a deep and abiding faith that was the 
853foundation of their marriage and of our life as a family as well. 
854Their marriage was an arranged one, as was the custom of their day. But I have 
855always thought the professors who planned the match must surely have taken great 
856pride in the glorious success of their endeavor. 
8571 I use the term “Japanese American” to include the first generation immigrant 
858Japanese, as well as the second and third generations. 
8592 Those of her poems included in this book are my translations from the orig- 
860inal Japanese. Since there is a great loss of grace and nuance when rendering tanka 
861into English, I have tried only to capture the spirit of her poems.
862Here are the poems.
863Pale smoke rises 
864From the leaves I burn, 
865The sight of my mother 
866I see in myself. 
867   
868I leave the path 
869To tread the fallen leaves, 
870And find in myself still 
871The heart of a child. 
872   
873Misty memories 
874Of Kyoto festivals 
875Drift through my evening kitchen 
876With the fragrance of fuki. 
877 
878                                           Yukari.
879Chapter 2. On Being Japaneses and American.
880“MAMA, BRING ME MY UMBRELLA IF IT RAINS.” 
881“I will, Yo Chan, don’t worry. Now be careful crossing the street.” Even when 
882the sky was blue and the sun was out, Mama and I completed this ritual in Japa- 
883nese every day. Only then did I trudge off to grammar school, secure in the knowl- 
884edge that my mother would come if I needed her. And she would stand at the door- 
885way in her apron, waving until she could no longer see me. 
886Perhaps my insecurity stemmed from being four years younger than my sis- 
887ter— seemingly insurmountable gap in childhood. My sister was the tomboy of the 
888family. She was bold and a daredevil, while I was cautious and careful, and I did 
889everything she told me to. 
890It seemed to me she could do everything better than I, from roller skating to 
891playing the piano, and later, to dancing and driving. But to her, I seemed to be the 
892one who garnered most of the attention and affection of my parents and their 
893friends because I was the youngest. Keiko and I played well together most of the 
894time, but we also had some good fights and once she chased me around the house 
895with a hairbrush. She could also exercise almost total control over me by saying 
896the magic words, “all right for you,” although I was never sure what they actually 
897meant. 
898“Don’t you tell Mama,” she would threaten, “or all right for you.” And my lips 
899were sealed forever. 
900By the time we were in college, we were good friends and have been very close 
901ever since. But I still suffer from the “little-sister syndrome” and even now seek her 
902advice about many things. 
903One thing we had in common even in our childhood, however, was being 
904Nisei—the one aspect of our selves that made us different from our white class- 
905mates. Perhaps it was the constant sense of not being as good as the hakujin 
906(white people), as well as being younger, that caused me to seek my mother’s reas- 
907surance each morning. No matter what happened to me at school or anywhere 
908else, I had to know Mama was always there for me. 
909Although our home was distinctly Japanese in mood, character, and structure 
910as compared to those of our white classmates, my parents were not strict tradition- 
911alists. Their close contact at Doshisha with white people who were both friends 
912and instructors had cultivated in both of them a more Western outlook than that 
913possessed by many of the Japanese who immigrated to this country. As a result, 
914our upbringing was less strict than that of some of my Nisei friends. 
915The dominant language in our home, however, was Japanese. My parents 
916spoke it to one another, to most of their friends and to my sister and me. But both 
917understood us when my sister or I answered in English, and they had many non- 
918Japanese friends with whom they conversed in English. There were days, however, 
919when my mother would say to her friends, “I’m so sorry, but my English just won’t 
920come out today,” and she struggled then, just as I do now with my fading Japanese. 
921Most of my father’s business at Mitsui was conducted in English, and he al- 
922ways read the San Francisco Chronicle on the ferry or the Southern Pacific trains that 
923took him to his office in San Francisco. The English language periodicals I recall in 
924our house were the old Literary Digest, and later, National Geographic, Reader’s Di- 
925gest, Life, and the Christian Century, which my father read from cover to cover. But 
926there were also dozens of books and magazines that came from Japan, and my par- 
927ents never missed reading both copies of the local Japanese newspapers. 
928When we were young, most of the stories my mother read to my sister and me 
929were Japanese folktales or children’s stories from books she had ordered from 
930Japan. She and my father also taught us many Japanese children’s songs, and at 
931night when Mama came in to say our prayers with us, she always prayed in Japa- 
932nese. Long after I became an adult, when it came to praying, I found it more natural 
933to use my mother’s native tongue. 
934There were also certain Japanese phrases that were an integral part of our daily 
935lives. We never began a meal without first saying to my mother, “Itadaki masu” (a 
936gracious acknowledgment to a hostess or whoever prepared the meal), and 
937“Gochiso sama” (a sort of thanks for the fine food) when we had finished eating. I 
938still long to say these words when I am a dinner guest, and indeed do so when I am 
939at my sister’s or at another Nisei home. “Itte maeri masu” (I’m leaving now) and 
940“Tadaima” (an abbreviated version of I’m home now) were also two Japanese 
941phrases my sister and I called out almost every day of our young lives. 
942Our daily meals, in contrast to our company dinners, consisted of simple fare, 
943and were often a mixture of East and West. We always had rice instead of potatoes, 
944however, and used soy sauce on our meat and fish rather than gravies and sauces. 
945My father, a hearty eater, could easily consume three or four bowls of rice for 
946supper, and he had a portly figure as evidence of his appetite. No matter what we 
947had for supper, however, he usually ended his meal with ochazuké—hot tea poured 
948over a bowl of rice and eaten with whatever pickled vegetable my mother had in her 
949large pickling bin. He had grown up on ochazuké in Japan, and my sister and I, too, 
950grew up with an appreciation and taste for its simple honest flavors. 
951 
952No Issei woman I knew could drive, and my mother was no exception. Most of our 
953food was ordered by telephone from a small Japanese grocery shop and a boy 
954delivered it with a bill written entirely in Japanese. It was probably just as well that 
955my mother never went there in person, for its casual attitude toward sanitation 
956might well have caused her to abandon it completely. 
957She was almost obsessive about cleanliness and always carried in her purse a 
958small metal case she had brought with her from Japan. In it she kept small wads of 
959cotton soaked in alcohol with which Keiko and I wiped fingers if we couldn’t wash 
960our hands before eating out. 
961Also in her purse was a packet of Japanese face powder that came in sheets in- 
962side a tiny booklet. Although my mother seldom used cosmetics and only waved 
963her hair with a curling iron heated on the stove, she did remove the shine from her 
964face on occasion by tearing a page from her powder booklet and rubbing it over her 
965forehead and nose. 
966Her purse was a storehouse of Japanese sundries. Besides a tiny Japanese 
967sewing kit, there was also a small bottle of pills that looked like tiny golden poppy 
968seeds. We called them “Kinbon San,” and I am not sure what they contained, but 
969they were a good cureall and Mama believed in them just as she did in the health- 
970ful properties of celery phosphate. 
971I was never very robust. I got carsick and seasick. I developed sudden temper- 
972atures that were no doubt psychosomatic, occurring as they did just before a trip. I 
973had nose bleeds that terrified me (I thought they would never stop), and my knees 
974ached from “growing pains” that I assumed were the price of growing tall. It seems 
975patently unfair that after enduring so many knee aches, I ended up not quite five 
976feet tall. My mother sometimes tried to ease my discomfort with her “hot hands,” a 
977“gift” passed on to her by a Japanese friend. She would rub her palms together 
978vigorously, hold them awhile as in prayer, and when she felt energy vibrating in her 
979hands, she would apply them to my knees. If that didn’t help, there was always the 
980magical “Kinbon San.” 
981Because she was not robust either, my mother was easy prey for any salesman 
982who came offering hope for better health. She once bought a strange contraption 
983made in Japan which I think was called an “OxHealer.” It consisted of strands of 
984wire issuing from a small box that probably contained a battery. The wires were at- 
985tached to the body at the wrists and ankles with small metal plates, and one day I 
986was entangled in them during an illness when the school nurse came to see me. Al- 
987though I was willing to submit in solitude to my mother’s Japanese ministrations, I 
988was not about to have the school nurse catch me enmeshed in this strange con- 
989traption. With some wild thrashing I was able to extricate myself and managed to 
990shove the wires to the foot of the bed just as the nurse walked into the room. 
991The “Ox-Healer” salesman was just one of many who came to our house, and 
992my mother seldom turned away anyone who needed to make a living by selling 
993things from door to door. This might very well have been because in Japan she had 
994been accustomed to purchasing many items, from groceries to charcoal from ped- 
995dlers who called at the back door. 
996She befriended the Realsilk saleswoman who came with a bulging black bag of 
997silken samples, and not only ordered hosiery and silk underwear from her, but al- 
998ways served her tea and cakes as she would to a friend. She also bought bottles of 
999vanilla and lemon extract from the Watkins man, ordered mops and furniture wax 
1000from the Fuller Brush man, and purchased Wearever pans from a Japanese sales- 
1001man. Once she bought a set of music books which she thought would be a fine 
1002addition to our Book of Knowledge set and might also encourage my sister and me 
1003to practice more between piano lessons. 
1004My father never questioned her smaller indulgences, but the music books 
1005proved to be another matter. They involved a sizable sum of money, and he in- 
1006formed Mama quite firmly that in the future he was to be consulted before she 
1007made any major purchases. I don’t think it was the money that bothered Papa as 
1008much as the fact that he felt his role as head of the house had been diminished by 
1009my mother’s impulsive purchase. 
1010Those were days when the cleaners still picked up and delivered clothes on 
1011wood hangers and the People’s Bread man came by in a wagon filled with buttery 
1012pastries and fresh baked bread. Buying a service or a product then meant dealing 
1013with a pleasant human being rather than dropping a coin in a slot or picking out a 
1014prepackaged item in a giant supermarket, and my mother thought of all these peo- 
1015ple as her friends. 
1016 
1017Besides the paintings, pottery, and other Japanese works of art in our home, there 
1018were certain Japanese customs that we observed regularly. Every year before March 
10193 (Dolls Festival Day), my mother, sister, and I would open the big brown trunk 
1020that had come with Mama from Japan. From its depths we would extract dozens 
1021and dozens of small wooden boxes containing the tiny ornamental dolls she had 
1022collected over the years. They were not the usual formal set of Imperial Court dolls 
1023normally displayed for this festival, but to me they were much more appealing. 
1024My mother’s vast and rambling collection included rural folk toys and charms, 
1025dolls of eggshell and corn husks, dolls representing famous Noh or Kabuki dances 
1026or characters in the folktales she had read to us, miniature dishes and kitchen uten- 
1027sils, and even some of the dolls she had played with as a child herself. It took well 
1028over an hour for us to open the boxes and put the collection out for display, but to 
1029Mama each doll was like an old friend. “My, how nice to see you,” she would say, 
1030welcoming their annual emergence, and she included the American dolls we played 
1031with at the foot of the display table so they wouldn’t feel left out. She usually in- 
1032vited friends to tea to share the pleasure of seeing her dolls as well as the peach 
1033tree that accommodated by blossoming at the same time. 
1034My mother put the dolls out faithfully each year until they were put in storage 
1035during the war. In later years, when she grew too old and the effort to display them 
1036was too great, she still opened her trunk, but took out only the Emperor and Em- 
1037press dolls and bowed to the others relegated to remain in the darkness of the 
1038trunk. 
1039“Gomen nasai, neh,” she would apologize. “I’m so sorry I can’t take you all out 
1040this year,” and she would pat the top of the trunk as she closed the lid in a small 
1041gesture of resignation and farewell. 
1042Now it is I who find pleasure in getting the dolls out once a year from their 
1043small boxes of paulownia wood. But it is not so much in remembrance of Dolls 
1044Festival Day that I display them as in remembrance of my mother and her Japanese 
1045ways. 
1046I also remember my parents on the anniversary day of their death by placing 
1047flowers beside their photograph, just as I had seen them do, perpetuating a Bud- 
1048dhist tradition that had been an intrinsic part of their early lives. The Issei were very 
1049close to their dead and their funerals were elaborate and lengthy affairs often at- 
1050tended by hundreds of people. In the early years, these funerals were held at night 
1051to accommodate those who worked and couldn’t take time off during the day, but 
1052even today many of my Nisei friends, following the traditions of their parents, still 
1053hold funeral services at night and perpetuate the custom of giving okoden (mone- 
1054tary gifts) to the family of the deceased. Our parents’ Japaneseness is still very 
1055much a part of us. 
1056 
1057The Japanese Independent Congregational Church of Oakland (now Sycamore 
1058Congregational Church) played a major role in the life of our family. Founded in 
10591904 by a small group of Japanese students, it was one of the first Japanese 
1060churches in the United States to free itself of the denominational Mission Boards 
1061and become self-supporting and self-governing. In its early years it operated a 
1062dormitory that housed young Japanese students who worked as they studied at the 
1063university or the seminary. The church not only enhanced their spiritual life but 
1064also filled their need for an ethnic community. As the Issei began to marry and 
1065raise families, it continued to be a focal point in their lives, providing support and a 
1066sense of community. Indeed it was almost an extended family, with each member 
1067caring and concerned about the lives of the others. 
1068My parents were among the earliest members of this Japanese church and 
1069never missed attending services on Sunday. Consequently, my sister and I never 
1070missed going to Sunday School unless we were sick. 
1071While Keiko and I were still having our toast and steaming cups of cocoa on 
1072Sunday mornings, Mama would cook a large pot of rice to be eaten with the food 
1073she had prepared the night before. When it was cooked, she took it to her bed and 
1074bundled it up in a thick quilt to keep warm until we got home from church with a 
1075carload of people who had no place to go for Sunday dinner. 
1076Sunday School began at 10:00 A.M., but we always left home at least an hour 
1077earlier, since my father was for many years its superintendent and my mother one 
1078of its teachers. On our way to church we would stop at four or five houses, picking 
1079up children here and there until our car spilled over with them. 
1080The Sunday School service was conducted in English, and all the children met 
1081together in the chapel to sing hymns, reading the words from large cloth pages that 
1082hung from a metal stand. “Open your mouths,” my father would encourage us. 
1083“Let me hear you sing as loud as you can!” And we would oblige by bellowing out, 
1084“Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so . . .” 
1085After the short service, we branched out to our classes to absorb whatever edi- 
1086fying thoughts our teachers could put into our heads. I can still recite half the 
1087books of the Bible and I can even sing some of them to the tune taught me by the 
1088minister from Japan who visited us. But more than anything I learned in class, what 
1089clings to my memory like frost on my bones is how cold I was in church during 
1090winter. 
1091My class usually met in the old wooden building behind the chapel that had 
1092once been the church dormitory and which we called “the Back House.” Its only 
1093provision for heat was a small fireplace that seldom had a fire, and I would sit on a 
1094wooden folding chair, bundled up in my winter coat, and shiver all through class. 
1095The chapel was heated by a coal furnace stoked by the first man who arrived at 
1096church. It produced a weak vapor of heat through two floor grills, and we would 
1097huddle around them before the Sunday School services trying to catch any faint 
1098wisps of heat that might emerge. My mother usually took a comforter to church to 
1099wrap around her legs in winter, but even then, she would emerge from the services 
1100looking bleak and stiff. 
1101The adult service was conducted entirely in Japanese and usually lasted well 
1102over an hour, as long hymns droned on and on to the accompaniment of a wheez- 
1103ing reed organ. The minister delivered lengthy sermons which my father admitted 
1104to finding extremely tedious. But he added to the length of the service himself 
1105since, as one of the deacons, he made the weekly announcements and, once he 
1106began talking, found it difficult to be brief. IMAGE AND CAPTION. The congregation and Sunday School of the Japanese Independent Congregational Church of Oakland, about 1928.
1107It was the dreary lot of my sister and me, and anyone else waiting for parents, 
1108to amuse ourselves outside until the service ended. Sometimes we sat in our car 
1109and read mystery stories. Sometimes we played marbles on the slotted metal door- 
1110mat, or invented games of our own, or threw pebbles in the slimy green fishpond 
1111in back. 
1112Often I was sent inside to check on the progress of the adult service. “Go see if 
1113they’re almost done,” my sister would say, and I would obligingly tiptoe to the 
1114chapel hoping to hear the singing of the Doxology. Instead, when I peeked in 
1115through the crack at the doorway, I would see the meager congregation sitting 
1116silent and patient—the men on one side of the center aisle, the women on the 
1117other, all dressed in their Sunday black clothes. One or two would be drowsing, their heads slumped on their chests after a weary week of labor, the others looking 
1118solemn and sad. I used to wonder why the minister always sounded so angry and 
1119what our parents had done to warrant such castigation. 
1120When at last the service ended, the congregation would slip out into the 
1121warmth of the sun, bowing and exchanging polite greetings. But still we were not 
1122released. My father would stay to count the offering and bolt the front door after 
1123everyone left. Sometimes he seemed more of a minister than the minister himself, 
1124and he gave much time to the church as it limped from one minister to another. 
1125He was among the first to offer help to a church family in crisis and always picked 
1126up the faithful few who went to the weekly prayer meetings. In later years, he some- 
1127times wrote and mailed the weekly bulletins, cleaned the building, and even mend- 
1128ed the aisle rug. 
1129My mother, too, gave much of her time and energy to the church. For a number 
1130of years she was president of the Women’s Society and she also undertook many 
1131silent, unseen chores, one of which was the laundering each week of the soiled 
1132roller towel that hung in the dingy church washroom. The children of the Sunday 
1133School usually left it in such filthy condition, I always used to shake my hands dry 
1134rather than use it. But my mother would take it home, soak it overnight in soap and 
1135disinfectant, and scrub it until it emerged as clean as the rest of her wash. 
1136Some Sundays, instead of serving lunch at home, Mama would pack a picnic 
1137lunch and we would go to Lake Merritt Park after church, taking with us five or six 
1138students and an elderly bachelor who lived a solitary existence in “the Back 
1139House.” We would spread our car blanket out on the grass and eat our rice balls 
1140and Japanese food on small red lacquer dishes, using black lacquer chopsticks. I 
1141always felt extremely self-conscious about eating Japanese food and using chop- 
1142sticks in public, for curious passersby would often stare coldly at our unusual pic- 
1143nic fare. Still, I had to admit it tasted better than sandwiches, even the thin cucum- 
1144ber sandwiches Mama made for her teas. 
1145On rare Sundays when we had no guests, we would sometimes stop on the way 
1146home to visit someone who hadn’t been able to come to church. We once stopped 
1147to see a woman who had just taken a steaming sponge cake from the oven and in- 
1148sisted we have a slice. I still recall how wicked I felt to be indulging in cake before 
1149lunch, for I had always thought Sundays were meant to be days of deprivation, 
1150when even small enjoyments were to be denied. It wasn’t until I was in high school 
1151that I dared go to a movie on a Sunday afternoon, and even then I was so con- 
1152sumed with guilt, I didn’t enjoy it very much. 
1153Our lives—my sister’s and mine—were quite thoroughly infused with the cus- 
1154toms, traditions, and values of our Japanese parents, whose own lives had been 
1155structured by the samurai code of loyalty, honor, self-discipline, and filial piety. 
1156Their lives also reflected a blend of Buddhist philosophy dominated by Christian 
1157faith. So it was that we grew up with a strong dose of the Protestant ethic coupled 
1158with a feeling of respect for our teachers and superiors; a high regard for such 
1159qualities as frugality, hard work, patience, diligence, courtesy, and loyalty; and a 
1160sense of responsibility and love, not only for our parents and family, but for our fel- 
1161low man. 
1162My parents’ Japaneseness was never nationalistic in nature. They held the 
1163Imperial family in affectionate and respectful regard, as did all Japanese of their 
1164generation. But their first loyalty was always to their Christian God, not to the Em- 
1165peror of Japan. And their loyalty and devotion to their adopted country was vig- 
1166orous and strong. My father cherished copies of the Declaration of Independence, 
1167the Bill of Rights, and the Constitution of the United States, and on national holi- 
1168days he hung with great pride an enormous American flag on our front porch, even 
1169though at the time, this country declared the first generation Japanese immigrants 
1170to be “aliens ineligible for citizenship.” 
1171Although my parents were permanent residents of the United States, they were 
1172never naturalized, even when it became possible by law in 1952. They attended 
1173classes and prepared themselves for the required tests, but when the time came, 
1174my mother was reluctant to go. At the time, Issei were being naturalized in great 
1175numbers at massive, impersonal ceremonies, and my mother couldn’t make her- 
1176self go, saying she didn’t want to be a part of anything where human beings were 
1177treated like a herd of cattle. 
1178She was as devoted to America as my father, but I think she sensed the dehu- 
1179manizing nature of the mass naturalization ceremonies, and also felt deep down 
1180that by becoming an American citizen, she was abandoning her native land. I think 
1181she couldn’t bear to give up that part of herself that was Japanese. And my father 
1182understood. He deferred to her feelings, and they both remained Japanese citizens for the rest of their lives. 
1183In spite of the complete blending of Japanese qualities and values into our 
1184lives, neither my sister nor I, as children, ever considered ourselves anything other 
1185than Americans. At school we saluted the American flag and learned to become 
1186good citizens. All our teachers were white, as were many of our friends. Everything 
1187we read was in English, which was, of course, our native tongue. 
1188Unlike many of our Nisei peers, my sister and I refused to go to Japanese lan- 
1189guage school, and our parents never compelled us to go. Instead, my mother tried 
1190to teach us Japanese at home every summer during vacation. We had many stormy 
1191sessions as Mama tried to inject a little knowledge of a difficult language into two 
1192very reluctant beings. Learning Japanese to us was just one more thing that would 
1193accentuate our “differentness,” something we tried very hard to overcome in those 
1194days. And despite my mother’s diligent efforts, we seldom progressed beyond the 
1195fourth or fifth grade Japanese Reader, for during the year we would regress so badly 
1196that each summer we would have to begin again at Book One or Two. Much to my 
1197present regret, I never got beyond the fifth grade Reader. 
1198I think the first time I became acutely aware of the duality of my person and the 
1199fact that a choice in loyalties might be made, was when I went with my cousins in 
1200Los Angeles to an event at the Olympic Games. Dressed in my red, white, and blue 
1201outfit, I was cheering enthusiastically for the American team when I became aware 
1202that my cousins were cheering for the men from Japan. It wasn’t that they were any 
1203less loyal to America than I, but simply that their upbringing in the tightly-knit Japa- 
1204nese American community of Los Angeles and their attendance at Japanese Lan- 
1205guage School had caused them to identify with the men who resembled them in 
1206appearance. But I was startled and puzzled by their action. As Japanese as I was in 
1207many ways, my feelings were those of an American and my loyalty was definitely to 
1208the United States. IMAGE AND CAPTION. We often had family portraits taken when my grandmother came to visit us from Los Angeles.
1209
1210As I approached adolescence, I wanted more than anything to be accepted as 
1211any other white American. Imbued with the melting pot mentality, I saw integration 
1212into white American society as the only way to overcome the sense of rejection I 
1213had experienced in so many areas of my life. The insolence of a clerk or a waiter, 
1214the petty arrogance of a bureaucrat, discrimination and denial at many estab- 
1215lishments, exclusion from the social activities of my white classmates—all of these 
1216affected my sense of personal worth. They reinforced my feelings of inferiority and 
1217the self-effacement I had absorbed from the Japanese ways of my parents and 
1218made me reticent and cautious. 
1219 IMAGE AND CAPTION. Our house on Stuart Street where we lived until our forced removal. IMAGE AND CAPTION. Left: I felt like a foreigner when I wore my kimono for a special school program. Right: Keiko and I with Laddie, whom we had to leave behind when we went.
1220IMAGE AND CAPTION. Our family with my grandmother on the day we sailed for a visit to Japan. Next to my mother is her close friend (second from left) who came to see us off. IMAGE AND CAPTION. My sister (waving) and I (bending), on a picnic with an uncle and cousin in Japan.
1221For many years I never spoke to a white person unless he or she spoke to me 
1222first. At one of my freshman classes at the university, I found myself sitting next to 
1223a white student I had known slightly at high school. I sat silent and tense, not even 
1224turning to look at her because I didn’t want to speak first and be rebuffed. Finally, 
1225she turned to me and said, “Yoshi, aren’t you going to speak to me?” 
1226Only then did I dare smile, acknowledge her presence, and become the friendly 
1227self I wanted to be. Now, my closest friend for the past twenty years has been a 
1228white person, but if I had met him in college, I might never have spoken to him, 
1229and I probably would not have gone out with him. 
1230When I was in junior high school, I was the only Japanese American to join the 
1231Girl Reserve unit at our school and was accepted within the group as an equal. On 
1232one occasion, however, we were to be photographed by the local newspaper, and I 
1233was among the girls to be included. The photographer casually tried to ease me out 
1234of the picture, but one of my white friends just as stubbornly insisted on keeping 
1235me in. I think I was finally included, but the realization of what the photographer 
1236was trying to do hurt me more than I ever admitted to anyone. 
1237In high school, being different was an even greater hardship than in my 
1238younger years. In elementary school one of my teachers had singled out the Japa- 
1239nese American children in class to point to our uniformly high scholastic achieve- 
1240ment. (I always worked hard to get A’s.) But in high school, we were singled out by 
1241our white peers, not for praise, but for total exclusion from their social functions. 
1242There was nothing I could do about being left out, but I could take precautions to 
1243prevent being hurt in other ways. When I had outgrown my father’s home haircuts 
1244and wanted to go to a beauty parlor, I telephoned first to ask if they would take me. 
1245“Do you cut Japanese hair?” 
1246“Can we come swim in the pool? We’re Japanese.” 
1247“Will you rent us a house? Will the neighbors object?” 
1248These were the kinds of questions we asked in order to avoid embarrassment 
1249and humiliation. We avoided the better shops and restaurants where we knew we 
1250would not be welcome. Once during my college years, when friends from Los 
1251Angeles came to visit, we decided to go dancing, as we occasionally did at the Los 
1252Angeles Palladium. But when we went to a ballroom in Oakland, we were turned 
1253away by the woman at the box office who simply said, “We don’t think you people 
1254would like the kind of dancing we do here.” That put enough of a damper on our 
1255spirits to make us head straight for home, too humiliated to go anywhere else to try 
1256to salvage the evening. 
1257Society caused us to feel ashamed of something that should have made us feel 
1258proud. Instead of directing anger at the society that excluded and diminished us, 
1259such was the climate of the times and so low our self-esteem that many of us Nisei 
1260tried to reject our own Japaneseness and the Japanese ways of our parents. We 
1261were sometimes ashamed of the Issei in their shabby clothes, their rundown trucks 
1262and cars, their skin darkened from years of laboring in sun-parched fields, their in- 
1263ability to speak English, their habits, and the food they ate. 
1264I would be embarrassed when my mother behaved in what seemed to me a 
1265non-American way. I would cringe when I was with her as she met a Japanese 
1266friend on the street and began a series of bows, speaking all the while in Japanese. 
1267“Come on, Mama,” I would interrupt, tugging at her sleeve. “Let’s go,” I would 
1268urge, trying to terminate the long exchange of amenities. I felt disgraced in public. 
1269Once a friend from Livingston sent my parents some pickled daikon. It had ar- 
1270rived at the post office on a Sunday, but the odor it exuded was so pungent, and 
1271repugnant to the postal workers, that they called us to come immediately to pick it 
1272up. When the clerk handed the package to me at arm’s length with a look of utter 
1273disgust, I was mortified beyond words. 
1274Unhappy in high school, I couldn’t wait to get out. I increased my class load, 
1275graduated in two and a half years, and entered the University of California in Berke- 
1276ley when I was sixteen, immature and naive. There I found the alienation of the 
1277Nisei from the world of the white students even greater than in high school. Asians 
1278were not invited to join the sororities or fraternities, which at the time were a vital 
1279part of the campus structure. Most of the Nisei avoided general campus social 
1280events and joined instead the two Japanese American social clubs—the Japanese 
1281Women’s Student Club and the Japanese Men’s Student Club. We had our own 
1282dances, picnics, open houses, and special events in great abundance. These activ- 
1283ities comprised my only social outlet and I had a wonderful time at them. 
1284My parents enjoyed the company of young people and always came out to meet 
1285and talk with whoever came by to pick up my sister or me. (We had by now be- 
1286come Kay and Yo.) “Where is your home town?” my father would often ask, and no matter where 
1287the young man was from—Brawley, Fresno, Guadalupe, Los Angeles, or 
1288wherever—Papa usually knew someone there because of his many friendships 
1289through the statewide federation of Japanese churches. He could keep us standing 
1290in the living room for quite a while carrying on a lively conversation, obviously hav- 
1291ing a fine time. Eventually he would ask, “Why don’t you people start your dances 
1292earlier so you can get home earlier? Nine o’clock is a ridiculous time to begin any- 
1293thing.” And at this point I would quickly interrupt with, “Oh Papa, for heaven’s 
1294sake!” and steer my date out the door. 
1295One of my sister’s dates once caused my mother to paint a unique message on 
1296our front steps, which were worn, slippery, and downright dangerous on a rainy 
1297night. When she learned that my sister’s friend had said goodnight and then 
1298slipped on our steps and slid ingloriously to the bottom, she took immediate ac- 
1299tion. She not only put black adhesive tape on the steps, she bought some white 
1300paint and printed the words, “Please watch your step,” one word to a step. The 
1301trouble was, however, that she had begun at the bottom and worked her way up, so 
1302as our friends departed they read the puzzling message, “Step your watch please.” 
1303Nobody ever slipped after that, and everybody left our house laughing. 
1304All during my college years I dated only Nisei and never went out socially with a 
1305white man until many years after the war. My girl friends, too, were almost exclu- 
1306sively Nisei. I retreated quite thoroughly into the support and comfort afforded by 
1307the Japanese American campus community, and in that separate and segregated 
1308world, I felt, at the time, quite content. 
1309Looking back today, our naiveté—my friends’ and mine—seems quite incred- 
1310ible. The world then was a simpler place and we had not developed the sophis- 
1311tication or the social consciousness of more recent college students. Often we 
1312were more concerned about the next dance or football game than we were about 
1313the world beyond our campus. But I believe this was true of the general college 
1314population as well as of the Nisei I knew. Our vision in those days was certainly 
1315limited and self-involved. I majored in English, history, and philosophy without a 
1316thought as to how I could earn a living after graduation. 
1317My contact with the white world was not totally closed off during my college 
1318years, however, for as a family we continued to have several close white friends. 
1319Two of my mother’s closest friends were, in fact, white women, and her relation- 
1320ships with them, unfettered by the strictures of Japanese etiquette, gave her plea- 
1321sure in an entirely different way than did her friendships with Issei women. 
1322The Nisei Christian community was another source of social contact for my 
1323sister and me. Once a year, a three-day Northern California Young People’s Chris- 
1324tian Conference was held and attended by hundreds of Nisei from various parts of 
1325the state. One or two out-of-town delegates usually stayed with us, and when my 
1326sister and I were in college, we became active in the group, sometimes chairing 
1327various committees. 
1328If we hadn’t had these ethnic organizations to join, I think few Nisei would 
1329have had the opportunity to hold positions of leadership or responsibility. At one 
1330time I was president of the campus Japanese Women’s Student Club, a post I know 
1331I would not have held in a non-Japanese campus organization. Similarly, my sister 
1332was vice-chairman of the Northern California Christian Conference, but she prob- 
1333ably would not have been named to such a post even in a Christian organization 
1334unless the group was exclusively Japanese. 
1335Although I went to the university in Berkeley, my sister decided to go to Mills 
1336College in Oakland and majored there in child development. On graduating in 
13371940, however, she could find no work in her field as a certified nursery school 
1338teacher. Eventually she found a job as a “governess” to a three-year-old white child 
1339in Oakland, but was little more than a nursemaid and was given her meals sepa- 
1340rately in the kitchen. It wasn’t until after the war that she finally found a job as a 
1341nursery school teacher in a private school in New York City. 
1342My sister, however, was certainly not alone in facing such bleak employment 
1343opportunities. Before World War II, most of the Nisei men who graduated from the 
1344university as engineers, pharmacists, accountants, or whatever seldom found em- 
1345ployment in their field of study. Many worked as clerks in the tourist gift shops of 
1346San Francisco’s Chinatown, or as grocery boys, or as assistants in their fathers’ 
1347businesses. Some turned to gardening, one area in which employers seemed 
1348happy to hire Japanese. A few found employment in the Japan-based business 
1349firms of San Francisco, but here too they were not fully accepted because they were 
1350Japanese Americans and not Japanese nationals. 
1351We Nisei were, in effect, rejected as inferior Americans by our own country and 
1352rejected as inferior by the country of our parents as well. We were neither totally 
1353American nor totally Japanese, but a unique fusion of the two. Small wonder that 
1354many of us felt insecure and ambivalent and retreated into our own special subcul- 
1355ture where we were fully accepted. 
1356It was in such a climate, at such a time, in December of 1941 that the Japanese 
1357bombs fell on Pearl Harbor.
1358
1359Chapter 3. Pearl Harbor.
1360IT WAS ONE OF THOSE RARE SUNDAYS WHEN WE HAD NO guests for dinner. My par- 
1361ents, sister, and I had just come home from church and were having a quiet lunch 
1362when we heard a frenzied voice on the radio break in on the program. The Japanese 
1363had attacked Pearl Harbor. 
1364“Oh no,” Mama cried out. “It can’t be true.” 
1365“Of course not,” Papa reassured her. “And if it is, it’s only the work of a fa- 
1366natic.” 
1367We all agreed with him. Of course it could only be an aberrant act of some 
1368crazy irresponsible fool. It never for a moment occurred to any of us that this 
1369meant war. As a matter of fact, I was more concerned about my approaching finals 
1370at the university than I was with this bizarre news and went to the library to study. 
1371When I got there, I found clusters of Nisei students anxiously discussing the 
1372shocking event. But we all agreed it was only a freak incident and turned our atten- 
1373tion to our books. I stayed at the library until 5:00 P.M., giving no further thought to 
1374the attack on Pearl Harbor. 
1375When I got home, the house was filled with an uneasy quiet. A strange man sat 
1376in our living room and my father was gone. The FBI had come to pick him up, as 
1377they had dozens of other Japanese men. Executives of Japanese business firms, 
1378shipping lines, and banks, men active in local Japanese associations, teachers of 
1379Japanese language schools, virtually every leader of the Japanese American 
1380community along the West Coast had been seized almost immediately. 
1381Actually the FBI had come to our house twice, once in the absence of my par- 
1382ents and sister who, still not realizing the serious nature of the attack, had gone out 
1383to visit friends. Their absence, I suppose, had been cause for suspicion and the FBI 
1384or police had broken in to search our house without a warrant. On returning, my fa- 
1385ther, believing that we had been burglarized, immediately called the police. Two po- 
1386licemen appeared promptly with three FBI men and suggested that my father check 
1387to see if his valuables were missing. They were, of course, undisturbed, but their 
1388location was thereby revealed. Two of the FBI men requested that my father accom- 
1389pany them “for a short while” to be questioned, and my father went willingly. The 
1390other FBI man remained with my mother and sister to intercept all phone calls and 
1391to inform anyone who called that they were indisposed. 
1392One policeman stationed himself at the front door and the other at the rear. 
1393When two of our white friends came to see how we were, they were not permitted 
1394to enter or speak to my mother and sister, who, for all practical purposes, were 
1395prisoners in our home. 
1396By the time I came home, only one FBI man remained but I was alarmed at the 
1397startling turn of events during my absence. In spite of her own anxiety, Mama in 
1398her usual thoughtful way was serving tea to the FBI agent. He tried to be friendly 
1399and courteous, reassuring me that my father would return safely in due time. But I 
1400couldn’t share my mother’s gracious attitude toward him. Papa was gone, and his 
1401abrupt custody into the hands of the FBI seemed an ominous portent of worse 
1402things to come. I had no inclination to have tea with one of its agents, and went 
1403abruptly to my room, slamming the door shut. 
1404Eventually, after a call from headquarters, the FBI agent left, and Mama, Kay, 
1405and I were alone at last. Mama made supper and we sat down to eat, but no one 
1406was hungry. Without Papa things just weren’t the same, and none of us dared voice 
1407the fear that sat like a heavy black stone inside each of us. 
1408“Let’s leave the porch light on and the screen door unlatched,” Mama said 
1409hopefully. “Maybe Papa will be back later tonight.” 
1410But the next morning the light was still burning, and we had no idea of his 
1411whereabouts. All that day and for three days that followed, we had no knowledge of 
1412what had happened to my father. And somehow during those days, I struggled 
1413through my finals. 
1414It wasn’t until the morning of the fifth day that one of the men apprehended 
1415with my father, but released because he was an American citizen, called to tell us 
1416that my father was being detained with about one hundred other Japanese men at 
1417the Immigration Detention Quarters in San Francisco. The following day a postcard 
1418arrived from Papa telling us where he was and asking us to send him his shaving 
1419kit and some clean clothes. “Don’t worry, I’m all right,” he wrote, but all we knew 
1420for certain was that he was alive and still in San Francisco. 
1421As soon as permission was granted, we went to visit him at the Immigration 
1422Detention Quarters, a drab, dreary institutional structure. We went in, anxious and 
1423apprehensive, and were told to wait in a small room while my father was sum- 
1424moned from another part of the building. As I stepped to the door and looked 
1425down the dingy hallway, I saw Papa coming toward me with a uniformed guard fol- 
1426lowing close behind. His steps were eager, but he looked worn and tired. 
1427“Papa! Are you all right?” 
1428He hugged each of us. 
1429“I’m all right. I’m fine,” he reassured us. 
1430But our joy in seeing him was short-lived, for he told us that he was among a 
1431group of ninety men who would be transferred soon to an army internment camp 
1432in Missoula, Montana. 
1433“Montana!” we exclaimed. “But we won’t be able to see you any more then.” 
1434“I know,” Papa said, “but you can write me letters and I’ll write you too. Write 
1435often, and be very careful—all of you. Kay and Yo, you girls take good care of 
1436Mama.” His concern was more for us than for himself. 
1437When it was time to say goodbye, none of us could speak for the ache in our 
1438hearts. My sister and I began to cry. And it was Mama who was the strong one. 
1439The three of us watched Papa go down the dark hallway with the guard and 
1440disappear around a corner. He was gone, and we didn’t know if we would ever see 
1441him again. There were rumors that men such as my father were to be held as 
1442hostages in reprisal for atrocities committed by the Japanese soldiers. If the Japa- 
1443nese killed American prisoners, it was possible my father might be among those 
1444killed in reprisal. 
1445It was the first time in our lives that Papa had been separated from us against 
1446his will. We returned home in silent gloom, my sister dabbing at her eyes and 
1447blowing her nose as she drove us back to Berkeley. When we got home, we com- 
1448forted ourselves by immediately packing and shipping a carton of warm clothing to 
1449Papa in Montana, glad for the opportunity to do something to help him. 
1450As soon as our friends heard that my father had been interned, they gathered 
1451around to give us support and comfort, and for several days running we had over 
1452fifteen callers a day. 
1453Upon reaching Montana, my father wrote immediately, his major concern 
1454being whether we would have enough money for our daily needs. He and my moth- 
1455er were now classified as “enemy aliens” and his bank account had been blocked 
1456immediately. For weeks there was total confusion regarding the amount that could 
1457be withdrawn from such blocked accounts for living expenses, and early reports 
1458indicated it would be only $100 a month. 
1459“Withdraw as much as you can from my account,” Papa wrote to us. “I don’t 
1460want you girls to dip into your own savings accounts unless absolutely necessary.” 
1461As the oldest citizen of our household, my sister now had to assume respon- 
1462sibility for managing our business affairs, and it was not an easy task. There were 
1463many important papers and documents we needed, but the FBI had confiscated all 
1464of my father’s keys, including those to his safe deposit box, and their inacces- 
1465sibility was a problem for us. 
1466We exchanged a flurry of letters as my father tried to send detailed instructions 
1467on how to endorse checks on his behalf; how to withdraw money from his ac- 
1468counts; when and how to pay the premiums on his car and life insurance policies; 
1469what to do about filing his income tax returns which he could not prepare without 
1470his records; and later, when funds were available, how to purchase defense bonds 
1471for him. Another time he asked us to send him a check for a fellow internee who 
1472needed a loan. 
1473My father had always managed the business affairs of our household, and my 
1474mother, sister, and I were totally unprepared to cope with such tasks. Our confu- 
1475sion and bewilderment were overwhelming, and we could sense my father’s frus- 
1476tration and anguish at being unable to help us except through censored letters, and 
1477later through internee telegrams which were permitted to discourage letter-writing. 
1478Papa’s letters were always in English, not only for the benefit of the censor, but 
1479for my sister and me. And we could tell from each one that he was carefully review- 
1480ing in his mind every aspect of our lives in Berkeley. 
1481“Don’t forget to lubricate the car,” he would write. “And be sure to prune the 
1482roses in January. Brush Laddie every day and give him a pat for me. Don’t forget to 
1483send a monthly check to Grandma and take my Christmas offering to church.” 
1484In every letter he reassured us about his health, sent greetings to his friends, 
1485and expressed concern about members of our church. 
1486“Tell those friends at church whose businesses have been closed not to be dis- 
1487couraged,” he wrote in one of his first letters. “Tell them things will get better be- 
1488fore long.” 
1489And he asked often about his garden. 
1490From the early days of my father’s detention, there had been talk of a review 
1491board that would hold hearings to determine whether and when each man would 
1492be released. Although Papa’s letters were never discouraging in other respects, he 
1493cautioned us not to be optimistic whenever he wrote of the hearings. We all as- 
1494sumed it would be a long, slow process that might require months or even years. 
1495It developed that hearings for each of the interned men were to be conducted 
1496by a Board of Review comprised of the district attorney, representatives of the FBI, 
1497and immigration authorities of the area in which the men had formerly resided. The 
1498recommendation of the review board plus papers and affidavits of support were to 
1499be sent to Washington for a final decision by the attorney general. As soon as we 
1500learned of this procedure, we asked several of our white friends to send affidavits 
1501verifying my father’s loyalty to the United States and supporting his early release. 
1502They all responded immediately, eager to do anything they could to help him. 
1503The interned men did not dare hope for early release, but they were anxious to 
1504have the hearings over with. As they were called in for their interviews, some were 
1505photographed full-face only, while others were photographed in profile as well, and 
1506it was immediately rumored that those photographed twice would be detained as 
1507hostages. Two of the questions they were asked at the interview were, “Which 
1508country do you think will win the war?” and “If you had a gun in your hands, at 
1509whom would you shoot, the Americans or the Japanese?” In reply to the second 
1510question, most answered they would have to shoot straight up. 
1511In accordance with Army policy, the men were never informed of plans in ad- 
1512vance and were moved before they became too familiar with one installation. One 
1513morning half the men in my father’s barrack were summoned, told that they were 
1514being shipped to another camp, and stripped of everything but the clothes on their 
1515backs. They were then loaded onto buses, with only a few minutes to say goodbye 
1516to their friends. Their destination was unknown. 
1517Fortunately, my father was one of those who remained behind. He was also 
1518one of those who had been photographed only once, and at the time this seemed 
1519to him a faint but hopeful sign of eventual release. 
1520Chapter 4. Evacuation.
1521WHEN THE WAR BROKE OUT, MY SISTER WAS STILL TAKING care of the three-year-old 
1522child in Oakland. Her employers called immediately to reassure her that they want- 
1523ed her to continue working for them, but she left to devote full time to her duties as 
1524head of our household. 
1525I continued to attend classes at the university hoping to complete the semester, 
1526but the Nisei population on campus was dwindling rapidly. Already rumors of a 
1527forced mass “evacuation”¹ of the Japanese on the West Coast were circulating, and 
1528many Nisei students hurried home to various parts of California to avoid sepa- 
1529ration from their families. Others returned because they had to take over the busi- 
1530nesses and farms abruptly abandoned when their fathers had been seized and in- 
1531terned. 
1532I wasn’t aware of any violence against the Japanese in Berkeley, but there were 
1533many reports of terrorism in rural communities, and the parents of one of my 
1534classmates in Brawley were shot to death by anti-Japanese fanatics. 
1535One evening when some friends and I were having a late snack at a Berkeley 
1536restaurant, we were accosted by an angry Filipino man who vividly described what 
1537the Japanese soldiers were doing to his homeland. His fists were clenched and his 
1538face contorted with rage. Fortunately, he had no weapon, and he left after venting 
1539his anger on us verbally, but he had filled us with fear. It was the first time in my 
1540life I had been threatened with violence, and it was a terrifying moment. 
1541We were already familiar with social and economic discrimination, but now we 
1542learned what it was to be afraid because of our Japanese faces. We tried to go on 
1543living as normally as possible, behaving as other American citizens. Most Nisei 
1544had never been to Japan. The United States of America was our only country and 
1545we were totally loyal to it. Wondering how we could make other Americans under- 
1546stand this, we bought defense bonds, signed up for civilian defense, and coop- 
1547erated fully with every wartime regulation. 
1548Still the doubts existed. Even one of our close white friends asked, “Did you 
1549have any idea the Pearl Harbor attack was coming?” It was a question that stunned 
1550and hurt us. 
1551As the weeks passed, rumors of a forced mass evacuation of the Japanese on 
1552the West Coast became increasingly persistent. The general public believed the 
1553false charges of sabotage in Hawaii, given credence by statements (with no basis 
1554in fact) from such government officials as Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox, who 
1555told the press he felt the Pearl Harbor attack was the result of espionage and sabo- 
1556tage by Japanese Americans. Rumors of fifth column activity in California were also 
1557allowed to circulate freely with no official denial, although they were later com- 
1558pletely refuted. 
1559At the time California already had a long history of anti-Asian activity, legit- 
1560imized by such laws as those that restricted immigration and land ownership. 
1561Racists and pressure groups of long standing, whose economic self-interests 
1562would be served by the removal of the Japanese, quickly intensified their cam- 
1563paigns of vilification against the Japanese Americans. 
1564They were aided in their shabby efforts by irresponsible and inflammatory 
1565statements by the radio and press, which usually referred to the Japanese Amer- 
1566icans as “Japs,” thus linking us to the enemy in the public mind. They also circu- 
1567lated totally unfounded stories. The Japanese Americans, they reported, had cut ar- 
1568rows in the sugar cane to guide the Japanese bombers to Pearl Harbor; they had 
1569interfered with vital United States communications by radio signals; they were 
1570treacherous, and loyal only to the Emperor of Japan; they had used their fishing 
1571boats to conduct espionage. So completely were these falsehoods accepted by the 
1572public that I have heard some of them repeated even today by those who still be- 
1573lieve the forced removal of the Japanese Americans was justified. 
1574Compounding the mounting hatred, fear, and suspicion of the Japanese Amer- 
1575icans on the West Coast were cynical manipulations of public opinion at many 
1576high levels of the government and the military. Earl Warren, then attorney general 
1577of California, testified that Japanese Americans had “infiltrated . . . every strategic 
1578spot” in California. He further made the appalling statement that there was no way 
1579to determine loyalty when dealing with people of Japanese ancestry, as opposed to 
1580those who were white. 
1581On the floor of the House of Representatives, Congressman John Rankin 
1582urged, “I’m for catching every Japanese in America, Alaska and Hawaii now and 
1583putting them in concentration camps . . . Damn them! Let’s get rid of them now!” 
1584We now know that in the fall of 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt and his 
1585secretaries of state, war, and the navy had read the report of Curtis B. Munson 
1586(special representative of the State Department) written after he had made an inten- 
1587sive survey of the Japanese Americans in Hawaii and on the West Coast. In this re- 
1588port Munson stated that he found “a remarkable, even extraordinary degree of loy- 
1589alty” among the Japanese Americans. Although this corroborated previous govern- 
1590ment findings, and although no evidence of disloyalty or sabotage on the part of 
1591Japanese Americans could be found, our government leaders were not persuaded. 
1592Overriding the concerns voiced by the attorney general and the justice department, 
1593they made the decision to forcibly evict all West Coast Japanese—“aliens and non- 
1594aliens”—under the guise of “military necessity.” Furthermore, this decision was 
1595sanctioned by the Supreme Court of the land. 
1596The fact that there was no mass eviction in Hawaii, which was closer to Japan 
1597and where the Japanese Americans constituted a third of the population, clearly 
1598invalidated the government’s claim that the evacuation was a military necessity. 
1599The confluence of all these factors, coupled with the fear and hysteria exacer- 
1600bated by severe United States losses in the Pacific war, eventually combined to 
1601make the evacuation a tragic reality for us. 
1602 
1603By the end of February my father’s letters and telegrams began to reflect his grow- 
1604ing concern over the matter as well. “Worrying about reported mass evacuation,” 
1605he wired. “Please telegraph actual situation there.” 
1606But we didn’t know what the actual situation was. None of us could believe 
1607such an unthinkable event would actually take place. Gradually, however, we began 
1608to prepare for its possibility. One night a friend came to see us as we were packing 
1609our books in a large wood crate. 
1610“What on earth are you doing?” he asked incredulously. “There won’t be any 
1611evacuation. How could the United States government intern its own citizens? It 
1612would be unconstitutional.” 
1613But only a few weeks later, we were to discover how wrong he was. 
1614By February 1942, there was no longer any doubt as to the government’s inten- 
1615tion. On the nineteenth of that month, President Roosevelt issued Executive Order 
16169066, authorizing the secretary of war and his military commanders to prescribe 
1617areas from which “any or all persons may be excluded.” Although use of the word 
1618“Japanese” was avoided in this order, it was directed solely at people of Japanese 
1619ancestry. The fact that there was no mass removal of persons of German or Italian 
1620descent, even though our country was also at war with Germany and Italy, affirmed 
1621the racial bias of this directive. 
1622By the middle of March, Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt began to execute 
1623the order and set in motion the removal from Military Area Number One, along the 
1624entire West Coast, of over 120,000 men, women, and children of Japanese ances- 
1625try, the majority of whom were American citizens.⁴ From his later testimony at a 
1626House Naval Affairs Sub-committee on Housing (April 13, 1943), it is apparent that 
1627he performed this task with undisguised enthusiasm. He is quoted as having said, 
1628“It makes no difference whether the Japanese is theoretically a citizen. He is still a 
1629Japanese. Giving him a scrap of paper won’t change him. I don’t care what they do 
1630with the Japs so long as they don’t send them back here. A Jap is a Jap.” 
1631 IMAGE AND CAPTION. In 1942, hatred against the Japanese Americans was fueled by newspapers that usually referred to us as "Japs". Courtesy of National Archives.
1632With such a man heading the Western Defense Command, it is not surprising 
1633that no time was lost in carrying out the evacuation order. 
1634Both the Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments to the Constitution providing for 
1635“due process of law” and “equal protection under the law for all citizens,” were fla- 
1636grantly ignored in the name of military expediency, and the forced eviction was car- 
1637ried out purely on the basis of race. 
1638Stunned by this unprecedented act of our government, we Nisei were faced 
1639with the anguishing dilemma of contesting our government’s orders and risking 
1640imprisonment (as a few courageous Nisei did) or of complying with the 
1641government edict. 
1642Because the FBI had interned most of the Issei leaders of the community, effec- 
1643tively decimating Issei organizations, the vacuum in leadership was filled by the 
1644Japanese American Citizens League, then led by a group of relatively young Nisei. 
1645The JACL met in emergency session attempting to arrive at the best possible solu- 
1646tion to an intolerable situation. Perceiving that a compromise with the government 
1647was impossible, and rejecting a strategy of total opposition, because it might lead 
1648to violence and bloodshed, the JACL leaders decided the only choice was to coop- 
1649erate “under protest” with the government. 
1650My sister and I were angry that our country could deprive us of our civil rights 
1651in so cavalier a manner, but we had been raised to respect and to trust those in au- 
1652thority. To us resistance or confrontation, such as we know them today, was un- 
1653thinkable and of course would have had no support from the American public. We 
1654naively believed at the time that cooperating with the government edict was the 
1655best way to help our country. 
1656The first mass removal of the Japanese began in Terminal Island, a fishing 
1657community near San Pedro, and because these people were close to a naval base, 
1658their treatment was harsh. With most of their men already interned as my father 
1659was, the remaining families had to cope with a three-day deadline to get out of their 
1660homes. In frantic haste they were forced to sell their houses, businesses, and prop- 
1661erty. Many were exploited cruelly and suffered great financial losses. 
1662We knew it was simply a matter of time before we would be notified to evacuate 
1663Berkeley as well. A five-mile travel limit and an 8:00 P.M. curfew had already been 
1664imposed on all Japanese Americans since March, and enemy aliens were required 
1665to register and obtain identification cards. Radios with short wave, cameras, binoc- 
1666ulars, and firearms were designated as “contraband” and had to be turned in to the 
1667police. Obediently adhering to all regulations, we even brought our box cameras to 
1668the Berkeley police station where they remained for the duration of the war. 
1669We were told by the military that “voluntary evacuation” to areas outside the 
1670West Coast restricted zone could be made before the final notice for each sector 
1671was issued. The move was hardly “voluntary” as the Army labeled it, and most 
1672Japanese had neither the funds to leave nor a feasible destination. The three of us 
1673also considered leaving “voluntarily,” but like the others, we had no one to go to 
1674outside the restricted zone. 
1675Some of our friends warned us to consider what life would be like for three 
1676women in a “government assembly center” and urged us to go anywhere in order 
1677to remain free. On the other hand, there were those who told us of the arrests, vio- 
1678lence, and vigilantism encountered by some who had fled “voluntarily.” Either deci- 
1679sion would have been easier had my father been with us, but without him both 
1680seemed fraught with uncertainties. 
1681In Montana my father, too, was worried about our safety. He wrote us of an 
1682incident in Sacramento where men had gained entrance to a Japanese home by 
1683posing as FBI agents and then attacked the mother and daughter. “Please be very 
1684careful,” he urged. We decided, finally, to go to the government camp where we 
1685would be with friends and presumably safe from violence. We also hoped my fa- 
1686ther’s release might be facilitated if he could join us under government custody. 
1687Each day we watched the papers for the evacuation orders covering the Berke- 
1688ley area. On April 21, the headlines read: “Japs Given Evacuation Orders Here.” I 
1689felt numb as I read the front page story. “Moving swiftly, without any advance no- 
1690tice, the Western Defense Command today ordered Berkeley’s estimated 1,319 Japa- 
1691nese, aliens and citizens alike, evacuated to the Tanforan Assembly Center by 
1692noon, May 1.” (This gave us exactly ten days’ notice.) “Evacuees will report at the 
1693Civil Control Station being set up in Pilgrim Hall of the First Congregational 
1694Church . . . between the hours of 8:00 A.M. and 5:00 P.M. next Saturday and Sun- 
1695day.” 
1696This was Exclusion Order Number Nineteen, which was to uproot us from our 
1697homes and send us into the Tanforan Assembly Center in San Bruno, a hastily con- 
1698verted racetrack. 
1699All Japanese were required to register before the departure date, and my sister, 
1700as head of the family, went to register for us. She came home with baggage and 
1701name tags that were to bear our family number and be attached to all our belong- 
1702ings. From that day on we became Family Number 13453. 
1703Although we had been preparing for the evacuation orders, still when they were 
1704actually issued, it was a sickening shock. 
1705“Ten days! We have only ten days to get ready!” my sister said frantically. Each 
1706day she rushed about, not only taking care of our business affairs, but, as our only 
1707driver, searching for old crates and cartons for packing, and taking my mother on 
1708various errands as well. 
1709Mama still couldn’t seem to believe that we would have to leave. “How can we 
1710clear out in ten days a house we’ve lived in for fifteen years?” she asked sadly. 
1711But my sister and I had no answers for her. 
1712Mama had always been a saver, and she had a tremendous accumulation of 
1713possessions. Her frugal upbringing had caused her to save string, wrapping paper, 
1714bags, jars, boxes, even bits of silk thread left over from sewing, which were tied end 
1715to end and rolled up into a silk ball. Tucked away in the corners of her desk and bu- 
1716reau drawers were such things as small stuffed animals, wooden toys, kokeshi 
1717dolls, marbles, and even a half-finished pair of socks she was knitting for a teddy 
1718bear’s paw. Many of these were “found objects” that the child in her couldn’t bear 
1719to discard, but they often proved useful in providing diversion for some fidgety vis- 
1720iting child. These were the simple things to dispose of. 
1721More difficult were the boxes that contained old letters from her family and 
1722friends, our old report cards from the first grade on, dozens of albums of family 
1723photographs, notebooks and sketch pads full of our childish drawings, valentines 
1724and Christmas cards we had made for our parents, innumerable guest books filled 
1725with the signatures and friendly words of those who had once been entertained. 
1726These were the things my mother couldn’t bear to throw away. Because we didn’t 
1727own our house, we could leave nothing behind. We had to clear the house com- 
1728pletely, and everything in it had either to be packed for storage or thrown out. 
1729We surveyed with desperation the vast array of dishes, lacquerware, silverware, 
1730pots and pans, books, paintings, porcelain and pottery, furniture, linens, rugs, 
1731records, curtains, garden tools, cleaning equipment, and clothing that filled our 
1732house. We put up a sign in our window reading, “Living room sofa and chair for 
1733sale.” We sold things we should have kept and packed away foolish trifles we 
1734should have discarded. We sold our refrigerator, our dining room set, two sofas, 
1735an easy chair, and a brand new vacuum cleaner with attachments. Without a sen- 
1736sible scheme in our heads, and lacking the practical judgment of my father, the 
1737three of us packed frantically and sold recklessly. Although the young people of our 
1738church did what they could to help us, we felt desperate as the deadline ap- 
1739proached. Our only thought was to get the house emptied in time, for we knew the 
1740Army would not wait. 
1741Organizations such as the First Congregational Church of Berkeley were ex- 
1742tremely helpful in anticipating the needs of the panic-stricken Japanese and pro- 
1743vided immediate, practical assistance. Families of the church offered storage space 
1744to those who needed it, and we took several pieces of furniture to be stored in the 
1745basement of one such home. Another non-Japanese friend offered to take our 
1746books and stored more than eight large cartons for us. In typical Japanese fashion, 
1747my mother took gifts to express her gratitude to each person who helped us. 
1748Our two neighboring families, one Swiss and the other Norwegian, were equal- 
1749ly helpful. We had grown up with the two blond Norwegian girls, whose ages nearly 
1750matched my sister’s and mine. We had played everything from “house” to “cops 
1751and robbers” with them and had spent many hot summer afternoons happily sip- 
1752ping their father’s home-made root beer with them. 
1753The two boys in the Swiss family were younger, and I had taken one of them to 
1754grammar school every day when he was in kindergarten. In loving admiration, he 
1755had offered to marry me when he grew up. We were close to our neighbors and 
1756they both extended the warmth of their friendship to us in those hectic days. We 
1757left our piano and a few pieces of furniture with one, and we piled all the miscel- 
1758laneous objects that remained on the last day into the garage of the other. 
1759The objects too large to leave with friends, such as beds, mattresses and 
1760springs, extra quilts, and rugs, we stored in a commercial storage house, whose 
1761monthly statements never failed to reach us even in the stalls of Tanforan or, later, 
1762in the sandy wastes of Utah. 
1763Not knowing what crude inadequate communal facilities we might have in 
1764camp, we also took the precaution of getting typhoid shots and lost a day of pack- 
1765ing, which we could ill afford, as we nursed sore arms and aching heads. 
1766Two problems that remained unsolved until very near our departure deadline 
1767were what to do with Laddie, our pet collie, and our almost new Buick sedan. A 
1768business associate of my father’s offered to store the car in his garage for us, but a 
1769few months after we entered Tanforan he needed the space and sold it for us for 
1770$600. 
1771Our pedigreed Scotch collie was a gentle friendly dog, but our friends didn’t 
1772want to take him because of his age. In desperation, I sent a letter to our 
1773university’s student newspaper, the Daily Californian. 
1774 
1775I am one of the Japanese American students soon to be evacuated and have a 
1776male Scotch collie that can’t come with me. Can anyone give him a home? If 
1777interested, please call me immediately at Berkeley 7646W. 
1778 
1779I was quickly deluged with calls, one of which was from a fraternity that wanted 
1780a mascot. But we decided on the first boy who called because he seemed kind and 
1781genuinely concerned. 
1782“I’ll pay you for him,” he offered, trying to be helpful. 
1783But how could we accept money for our old family pet? We eventually gave the 
1784boy everything that belonged to Laddie, including his doghouse, leash, food bowl, 
1785and brushes. 
1786It was a particularly sad day for my sister, who was the avid animal lover of our 
1787family. It was she who had begged, cajoled, and coerced my parents into getting all 
1788of our dogs. But once they became our pets, we all loved them, and Mama used to 
1789cook a separate pot of vegetables to feed our dogs along with their cans of Dr. 
1790Ross’s dog food. 
1791Although the new owner of our pet had promised faithfully to write us in camp, 
1792we never heard from him. When, finally, we had a friend investigate for us, we 
1793learned that the boy hadn’t the heart to write us that Laddie had died only a few 
1794weeks after we left Berkeley. 
1795By now I had to leave the university, as did all the other Nisei students. We had 
1796stayed as long as we could to get credit for the spring semester, which was crucial 
1797for those of us who were seniors. My professors gave me a final grade on the basis 
1798of my midterm grades and the university granted all Nisei indefinite leaves of ab- 
1799sence. 
1800During the last few weeks on campus, my friends and I became sentimental 
1801and took pictures of each other at favorite campus sites. The war had jolted us into 
1802a crisis whose impact was too enormous for us to fully comprehend, and we need- 
1803ed these small remembrances of happier times to take with us as we went our 
1804separate ways to various government camps throughout California. 
1805The Daily Californian published another letter from a Nisei student that read in 
1806part: 
1807 
1808We are no longer to see the campus to which many of us have been so at- 
1809tached for the past four years. . . . It is hoped that others who are leaving will 
1810not cherish feelings of bitterness. True, we are being uprooted from the lives 
1811that we have always lived, but if the security of the nation rests upon our leav- 
1812ing, then we will gladly do our part. We have come through a period of hysteria, 
1813but we cannot blame the American public for the vituperations of a small but 
1814vociferous minority of self-seeking politicians and special interest groups. We 
1815cannot condemn democracy because a few have misused the mechanism of 
1816democracy to gain their own ends. . . . In the hard days ahead, we shall try to 
1817re-create the spirit which has made us so reluctant to leave now, and our wish 
1818to those who remain is that they maintain here the democratic ideals that have 
1819operated in the past. We hope to come back and find them here. 
1820 
1821These were brave idealistic words, but I believe they reflected the feelings of 
1822most of us at that time. 
1823As our packing progressed, our house grew increasingly barren and our garden 
1824took on a shabby look that would have saddened my father. My mother couldn’t 
1825bear to leave her favorite plants to strangers and dug up her special rose, London 
1826Smoke carnations, and yellow calla lilies to take to a friend for safekeeping. 
1827One day a neighboring woman rang our bell and asked for one of Papa’s prize 
1828gladiolas that she had fancied as she passed by. It seemed a heartless, avaricious 
1829gesture, and I was indignant, just as I was when people told me the evacuation was 
1830for our own protection. My mother, however, simply handed the woman a shovel 
1831and told her to help herself. “Let her have it,” she said, “if it will make her happy.” 
1832Gradually ugly gaps appeared in the garden that had once been my parents’ de- 
1833light and, like our house, it began to take on an empty abandoned look. 
1834Toward the end, my mother sat Japanese fashion, her legs folded beneath her, 
1835in the middle of her vacant bedroom sorting out the contents of many dusty boxes 
1836that had been stored on her closet shelves. 
1837She was trying to discard some of the poems she had scribbled on scraps of 
1838paper, clippings she had saved, notebooks of her writings, and bundles of old 
1839letters from her family and friends. Only now have I come to realize what a heart- 
1840breaking task this must have been for her as her native land confronted in war the 
1841land of her children. She knew she would be cut off from her mother, brothers, and 
1842sister until that war ended. She knew she could neither hear from them nor write to 
1843tell them of her concern and love. The letters she had kept for so long were her last 
1844link with them for the time being and she couldn’t bear to throw them out. She put 
1845most of them in her trunk where they remained, not only during the war, but until 
1846her death. In the end, it fell to me to burn them in our backyard, and I watched the 
1847smoke drift up into the sky, perhaps somewhere to reach the spirit of my gentle 
1848mother. 
1849Our bedrooms were now barren except for three old mattresses on which we 
1850slept until the day we left. But in one corner of my mother’s room there was an 
1851enormous shapeless canvas blanket bag which we called our “camp bundle.” Into 
1852its flexible and obliging depths we tossed anything that wouldn’t fit into the two 
1853suitcases we each planned to take. We had been instructed to take only what we 
1854could carry, so from time to time we would have a practice run, trying to see if we 
1855could walk while carrying two full suitcases. 
1856Having given us these directions, the Army with its own peculiar logic also in- 
1857structed us to bring our bedding, dishes, and eating utensils. Obviously the only 
1858place for these bulky items was in the “camp bundle.” Into it we packed our blan- 
1859kets, pillows, towels, rubber boots, a tea kettle, a hot plate, dishes and silverware, 
1860umbrellas, and anything else that wouldn’t fit in our suitcases. As May 1 drew near, 
1861it grew to gigantic and cumbersome proportions, and by no stretch of our imagi- 
1862nation could we picture ourselves staggering into camp with it. 
1863“Mama, what’ll we ever do with that enormous thing?” my sister worried. 
1864“We obviously can’t carry that thing on our backs,” I observed. 
1865But all Mama could say was, “I’m sure things will work out somehow.” 
1866There was nothing to be done but to go on filling it and hope for the best. In 
1867the meantime, we watched uneasily as it continued to grow, bulging in all direc- 
1868tions like some wild living thing. 
1869We could have been spared our anxiety and agonizing had we known trucks 
1870would be available to transport our baggage to camp. But it is entirely possible the 
1871omission of this information in our instructions was intentional to discourage us 
1872from taking too much baggage with us. 
1873The night before we left, our Swiss neighbors invited us to dinner. It was a fine 
1874feast served with our neighbors’ best linens, china, and silverware. With touching 
1875concern they did their best to make our last evening in Berkeley as pleasant as pos- 
1876sible. 
1877I sat on the piano bench that had been in our home until a few days before and 
1878thought of the times I had sat on it when we entertained our many guests. Now, 
1879because of the alarming succession of events that even then seemed unreal, I had 
1880become a guest myself in our neighbors’ home. 
1881When we returned to our dark empty house, our Norwegian neighbors came to 
1882say goodbye. The two girls brought gifts for each of us and hugged us goodbye. 
1883“Come back soon,” they said as they left. 
1884But none of us knew when we would ever be back. We lay down on our mat- 
1885tresses and tried to sleep, knowing it was our last night in our house on Stuart 
1886Street. 
1887Neat and conscientious to the end, my mother wanted to leave our house in 
1888perfect condition. That last morning she swept the entire place, her footsteps echo- 
1889ing sadly throughout the vacant house. Our Swiss neighbors brought us a cheering 
1890breakfast on bright-colored dishes and then drove us to the First Congregational 
1891Church designated as the Civil Control Station where we were to report. 
1892We were too tense and exhausted to fully sense the terrible wrench of leaving 
1893our home, and when we arrived at the church, we said our goodbyes quickly. I 
1894didn’t even turn back to wave, for we were quickly absorbed into the large crowd of 
1895Japanese that had already gathered on the church grounds. 
1896 IMAGE AND CAPTION. Baggage was a major problem, for we were told to take into camp only what we could carry. Courtesy of National Archives.
1897It wasn’t until I saw the armed guards standing at each doorway, their bayonets 
1898mounted and ready, that I realized the full horror of the situation. Then my knees 
1899sagged, my stomach began to churn, and I very nearly lost my breakfast. 
1900Hundreds of Japanese Americans were crowded into the great hall of the 
1901church and the sound of their voices pressed close around me. Old people sat qui- 
1902etly, waiting with patience and resignation for whatever was to come. Mothers tried 
1903to comfort crying infants, young children ran about the room, and some teenagers 
1904tried to put up a brave front by making a social opportunity of the situation. The 
1905women of the church were serving tea and sandwiches, but very few of us had any 
1906inclination to eat. 
1907 IMAGE AND CAPTION. From the moment we boarded the buses for Tanforan, every move we made was under armed guard. Courtesy of National Archives.
1908Before long, we were told to board the buses that lined the street outside, and 
1909the people living nearby came out of their houses to watch the beginning of our 
1910strange migration. Most of them probably watched with curious and morbid fasci- 
1911nation, some perhaps even with a little sadness. But many may have been relieved 
1912and glad to see us go. 
1913Mama, Kay, and I climbed onto one of the buses and it began its one-way 
1914journey down familiar streets we had traveled so often in our own car. We crossed 
1915the Bay Bridge, went on beyond San Francisco, and sped down the Bayshore High- 
1916way. Some of the people on the bus talked nervously, one or two wept, but most 
1917sat quietly, keeping their thoughts to themselves and their eyes on the window, as 
1918familiar landmarks slipped away one by one. 
1919As we rode down the highway, the grandstand of the Tanforan racetrack grad- 
1920ually came into view, and I could see a high barbed wire fence surrounding the en- 
1921tire area, pierced at regular intervals by tall guard towers. This was to be our tempo- 
1922rary home until the government could construct inland camps far removed from 
1923the West Coast. 
1924The bus made a sharp turn and swung slowly into the racetrack grounds. As I 
1925looked out the window for a better view, I saw armed guards close and bar the 
1926barbed wire gates behind us. We were in the Tanforan Assembly Center now and 
1927there was no turning back. 
19281 The term “evacuation” was the Army’s official euphemism for our forced re- 
1929moval, just as “non-alien” was used when American citizen was meant. “Assembly 
1930center” and “relocation center,” terms employed to designate the concentration 
1931camps in which we were incarcerated, were also part of the new terminology devel- 
1932oped by the United States government and the Army to misrepresent the true na- 
1933ture of their acts. I use them in this book because these were the terms we used at 
1934the time. 
19352 Of these, some 10,000 made their own way outside the excluded zones, 
1936while the remaining 110,000 were incarcerated. 
1937Chapter 5. Tanforan: A Horse Stall for Four.
1938AS THE BUS PULLED UP TO THE GRANDSTAND, I COULD SEE hundreds of Japanese 
1939Americans jammed along the fence that lined the track. These people had arrived a 
1940few days earlier and were now watching for the arrival of friends or had come to 
1941while away the empty hours that had suddenly been thrust upon them. 
1942As soon as we got off the bus, we were directed to an area beneath the grand- 
1943stand where we registered and filled out a series of forms. Our baggage was in- 
1944spected for contraband, a cursory medical check was made, and our living quarters 
1945assigned. We were to be housed in Barrack 16, Apartment 40. Fortunately, some 
1946friends who had arrived earlier found us and offered to help us locate our quarters. 
1947It had rained the day before and the hundreds of people who had trampled on 
1948the track had turned it into a miserable mass of slippery mud. We made our way on 
1949it carefully, helping my mother who was dressed just as she would have been to go 
1950to church. She wore a hat, gloves, her good coat, and her Sunday shoes, because 
1951she would not have thought of venturing outside our house dressed in any other 
1952way. 
1953Everywhere there were black tar-papered barracks that had been hastily erected 
1954to house the 8,000 Japanese Americans of the area who had been uprooted from 
1955their homes. Barrack 16, however, was not among them, and we couldn’t find it 
1956until we had traveled half the length of the track and gone beyond it to the northern 
1957rim of the racetrack compound. 
1958Finally one of our friends called out, “There it is, beyond that row of eucalyptus 
1959trees.” Barrack 16 was not a barrack at all, but a long stable raised a few feet off the 
1960ground with a broad ramp the horses had used to reach their stalls. Each stall was 
1961now numbered and ours was number 40. That the stalls should have been called 
1962“apartments” was a euphemism so ludicrous it was comical. 
1963When we reached stall number 40, we pushed open the narrow door and 
1964looked uneasily into the vacant darkness. The stall was about ten by twenty feet and 
1965empty except for three folded Army cots lying on the floor. Dust, dirt, and wood 
1966shavings covered the linoleum that had been laid over manure-covered boards, the 
1967smell of horses hung in the air, and the whitened corpses of many insects still 
1968clung to the hastily white-washed walls. 
1969High on either side of the entrance were two small windows which were our 
1970only source of daylight. The stall was divided into two sections by Dutch doors 
1971worn down by teeth marks, and each stall in the stable was separated from the ad- 
1972joining one only by rough partitions that stopped a foot short of the sloping roof. 
1973That space, while perhaps a good source of ventilation for the horses, deprived us 
1974of all but visual privacy, and we couldn’t even be sure of that because of the 
1975crevices and knotholes in the dividing walls. 
1976Because our friends had already spent a day as residents of Tanforan, they had 
1977become adept at scrounging for necessities. One found a broom and swept the 
1978floor for us. Two of the boys went to the barracks where mattresses were being is- 
1979sued, stuffed the ticking with straw themselves, and came back with three for our 
1980cots. 
1981Nothing in the camp was ready. Everything was only half-finished. I wondered 
1982how much the nation’s security would have been threatened had the Army per- 
1983mitted us to remain in our homes a few more days until the camps were adequately 
1984prepared for occupancy by families. 
1985By the time we had cleaned out the stall and set up the cots, it was time for 
1986supper. Somehow, in all the confusion, we had not had lunch, so I was eager to get 
1987to the main mess hall which was located beneath the grandstand. 
1988The sun was going down as we started along the muddy track, and a cold pierc- 
1989ing wind swept in from the bay. When we arrived, there were six long weaving lines 
1990of people waiting to get into the mess hall. We took our place at the end of one of 
1991them, each of us clutching a plate and silverware borrowed from friends who had 
1992already received their baggage. 
1993Shivering in the cold, we pressed close together trying to shield Mama from the 
1994wind. As we stood in what seemed a breadline for the destitute, I felt degraded, 
1995humiliated, and overwhelmed with a longing for home. And I saw the unutterable 
1996sadness on my mother’s face. 
1997This was only the first of many lines we were to endure, and we soon discov- 
1998ered that waiting in line was as inevitable a part of Tanforan as the north wind that 
1999swept in from the bay stirring up all the dust and litter of the camp. 
2000Once we got inside the gloomy cavernous mess hall, I saw hundreds of people 
2001eating at wooden picnic tables, while those who had already eaten were shuffling 
2002aimlessly over the wet cement floor. When I reached the serving table and held out 
2003my plate, a cook reached into a dishpan full of canned sausages and dropped two 
2004onto my plate with his fingers. Another man gave me a boiled potato and a piece of 
2005butterless bread. 
2006With 5,000 people to be fed, there were few unoccupied tables, so we sepa- 
2007rated from our friends and shared a table with an elderly man and a young family 
2008with two crying babies. No one at the table spoke to us, and even Mama could 
2009seem to find no friendly word to offer as she normally would have done. We tried 
2010to eat, but the food wouldn’t go down. 
2011“Let’s get out of here,” my sister suggested. 
2012We decided it would be better to go back to our barrack than to linger in the de- 
2013pressing confusion of the mess hall. It had grown dark by now and since Tanforan 
2014had no lights for nighttime occupancy, we had to pick our way carefully down the 
2015slippery track. 
2016Once back in our stall, we found it no less depressing, for there was only a sin- 
2017gle electric light bulb dangling from the ceiling, and a one-inch crevice at the top of 
2018the north wall admitted a steady draft of the cold night air. We sat huddled on our 
2019cots, bundled in our coats, too cold and miserable even to talk. My sister and I 
2020worried about Mama, for she wasn’t strong and had recently been troubled with 
2021neuralgia which could easily be aggravated by the cold. She in turn was worrying 
2022about us, and of course we all worried and wondered about Papa. 
2023Suddenly we heard the sound of a truck stopping outside. 
2024“Hey, Uchida! Apartment 40!” a boy shouted. 
2025I rushed to the door and found the baggage boys trying to heave our enormous 
2026“camp bundle” over the railing that fronted our stall. 
2027“What ya got in here anyway?” they shouted good-naturedly as they struggled 
2028with the unwieldy bundle. “It’s the biggest thing we got on our truck!” 
2029I grinned, embarrassed, but I could hardly wait to get out our belongings. My 
2030sister and I fumbled to undo all the knots we had tied into the rope around our 
2031bundle that morning and eagerly pulled out the familiar objects from home. 
2032We unpacked our blankets, pillows, sheets, tea kettle, and most welcome of all, 
2033our electric hot plate. I ran to the nearest washroom to fill the kettle with water, 
2034while Mama and Kay made up the Army cots with our bedding. Once we hooked 
2035up the hot plate and put the kettle on to boil, we felt better. We sat close to its 
2036warmth, holding our hands toward it as though it were our fireplace at home. 
2037Before long some friends came by to see us, bringing with them the only gift 
2038they had—a box of dried prunes. Even the day before, we wouldn’t have given the 
2039prunes a second glance, but now they were as welcome as the boxes of Maskey’s 
2040chocolates my father used to bring home from San Francisco. 
2041Mama managed to make some tea for our friends, and we sat around our 
2042steaming kettle, munching gratefully on our prunes. We spent most of the evening 
2043talking about food and the lack of it, a concern that grew obsessive over the next 
2044few weeks when we were constantly hungry. 
2045 
2046Our stable consisted of twenty-five stalls facing north which were back to back with 
2047an equal number facing south, so we were surrounded on three sides. Living in our 
2048stable were an assortment of people—mostly small family units—that included an 
2049artist, my father’s barber and his wife, a dentist and his wife, an elderly retired cou- 
2050ple, a group of Kibei bachelors (Japanese born in the United States but educated in 
2051Japan), an insurance salesman and his wife, and a widow with two daughters. To 
2052say that we all became intimately acquainted would be an understatement. It was, 
2053in fact, communal living, with semi-private cubicles provided only for sleeping. 
2054 IMAGE AND CAPTION. Our family of four lived in a single horse stall in an old stable at the Tanforan racetrack. Courtesy of National Archives.
2055
2056eating at wooden picnic tables, while those who had already eaten were shuffling 
2057aimlessly over the wet cement floor. When I reached the serving table and held out 
2058my plate, a cook reached into a dishpan full of canned sausages and dropped two 
2059onto my plate with his fingers. Another man gave me a boiled potato and a piece of 
2060butterless bread. 
2061With 5,000 people to be fed, there were few unoccupied tables, so we sepa- 
2062rated from our friends and shared a table with an elderly man and a young family 
2063with two crying babies. No one at the table spoke to us, and even Mama could 
2064seem to find no friendly word to offer as she normally would have done. We tried 
2065to eat, but the food wouldn’t go down. 
2066“Let’s get out of here,” my sister suggested. 
2067We decided it would be better to go back to our barrack than to linger in the de- 
2068pressing confusion of the mess hall. It had grown dark by now and since Tanforan 
2069had no lights for nighttime occupancy, we had to pick our way carefully down the 
2070slippery track. 
2071Once back in our stall, we found it no less depressing, for there was only a sin- 
2072gle electric light bulb dangling from the ceiling, and a one-inch crevice at the top of 
2073the north wall admitted a steady draft of the cold night air. We sat huddled on our 
2074cots, bundled in our coats, too cold and miserable even to talk. My sister and I 
2075worried about Mama, for she wasn’t strong and had recently been troubled with 
2076neuralgia which could easily be aggravated by the cold. She in turn was worrying 
2077about us, and of course we all worried and wondered about Papa. 
2078Suddenly we heard the sound of a truck stopping outside. 
2079“Hey, Uchida! Apartment 40!” a boy shouted. 
2080I rushed to the door and found the baggage boys trying to heave our enormous 
2081“camp bundle” over the railing that fronted our stall. 
2082“What ya got in here anyway?” they shouted good-naturedly as they struggled 
2083with the unwieldy bundle. “It’s the biggest thing we got on our truck!” 
2084I grinned, embarrassed, but I could hardly wait to get out our belongings. My 
2085sister and I fumbled to undo all the knots we had tied into the rope around our 
2086bundle that morning and eagerly pulled out the familiar objects from home. 
2087We unpacked our blankets, pillows, sheets, tea kettle, and most welcome of all, 
2088our electric hot plate. I ran to the nearest washroom to fill the kettle with water, 
2089while Mama and Kay made up the Army cots with our bedding. Once we hooked 
2090up the hot plate and put the kettle on to boil, we felt better. We sat close to its 
2091warmth, holding our hands toward it as though it were our fireplace at home. 
2092Before long some friends came by to see us, bringing with them the only gift 
2093they had—a box of dried prunes. Even the day before, we wouldn’t have given the 
2094prunes a second glance, but now they were as welcome as the boxes of Maskey’s 
2095chocolates my father used to bring home from San Francisco. 
2096Mama managed to make some tea for our friends, and we sat around our 
2097steaming kettle, munching gratefully on our prunes. We spent most of the evening 
2098talking about food and the lack of it, a concern that grew obsessive over the next 
2099few weeks when we were constantly hungry. 
2100 
2101Our stable consisted of twenty-five stalls facing north which were back to back with 
2102an equal number facing south, so we were surrounded on three sides. Living in our 
2103stable were an assortment of people—mostly small family units—that included an 
2104artist, my father’s barber and his wife, a dentist and his wife, an elderly retired cou- 
2105ple, a group of Kibei bachelors (Japanese born in the United States but educated in 
2106Japan), an insurance salesman and his wife, and a widow with two daughters. To 
2107say that we all became intimately acquainted would be an understatement. It was, 
2108in fact, communal living, with semi-private cubicles provided only for sleeping. 
2109 IMAGE AND CAPTION. Long lines of internees, clutching their own plates and eating utensils, formed outside the Tanforan mess halls for each meal. Courtesy of National Archives.
2110
2111One Sunday our neighbor’s son fell asleep in the rear of his stall with the door 
2112bolted from inside. When his parents came home from church, no amount of 
2113shouting or banging on the door could awaken the boy. 
2114“Our stupid son has locked us out,” they explained, coming to us for help. 
2115I climbed up on my cot and considered pouring water on him over the parti- 
2116tion, for I knew he slept just on the other side of it. Instead I dangled a broom over 
2117the partition and poked and prodded with it, shouting, “Wake up! Wake up!” until 
2118the boy finally bestirred himself and let his parents in. We became good friends 
2119with our neighbors after that. About one hundred feet from our stable were two latrines and two washrooms 
2120for our section of camp, one each for men and women. The latrines were crude 
2121wooden structures containing eight toilets, separated by partitions, but having no 
2122doors. The washrooms were divided into two sections. In the front section was a 
2123long tin trough spaced with spigots of hot and cold water where we washed our 
2124faces and brushed our teeth. To the rear were eight showers, also separated by 
2125partitions, but lacking doors or curtains. The showers were difficult to adjust and 
2126we either got scalded by torrents of hot water or shocked by an icy blast of cold. 
2127Most of the Issei were unaccustomed to showers, having known the luxury of soak- 
2128ing in deep pine-scented tubs during their years in Japan, and found the showers 
2129virtually impossible to use. 
2130Our card-playing neighbor scoured the camp for a container that might serve 
2131as a tub, and eventually found a large wooden barrel. She rolled it to the showers, 
2132filled it with warm water, and then climbed in for a pleasant and leisurely soak. The 
2133greatest compliment she could offer anyone was the use of her private tub. 
2134The lack of privacy in the latrines and showers was an embarrassing hardship 
2135especially for the older women, and many would take newspapers to hold over 
2136their faces or squares of cloth to tack up for their own private curtain. The Army, 
2137obviously ill-equipped to build living quarters for women and children, had made 
2138no attempt to introduce even the most common of life’s civilities into these camps 
2139for us. 
2140During the first few weeks of camp life everything was erratic and in short sup- 
2141ply. Hot water appeared only sporadically, and the minute it was available, every- 
2142one ran for the showers or the laundry. We had to be clever and quick just to keep 
2143clean, and my sister and I often walked a mile to the other end of camp where hot 
2144water was in better supply, in order to boost our morale with a hot shower. 
2145Even toilet paper was at a premium, for new rolls would disappear as soon as 
2146they were placed in the latrines. The shock of the evacuation compounded by the 
2147short supply of every necessity brought out the baser instincts of the internees, and 
2148there was little inclination for anyone to feel responsible for anyone else. In the 
2149early days, at least, it was everyone for himself or herself. 
2150One morning I saw some women emptying bed pans into the troughs where 
2151we washed our faces. The sight was enough to turn my stomach, and my mother 
2152quickly made several large signs in Japanese cautioning people against such 
2153unsanitary practices. We posted them in conspicuous spots in the washroom and 
2154hoped for the best. 
2155Across from the latrines was a double barrack, one containing laundry tubs and 
2156the other equipped with clotheslines and ironing boards. Because there were so 
2157many families with young children, the laundry tubs were in constant use. The hot 
2158water was often gone by 9:00 A.M. and many women got up at 3:00 and 4:00 in the 
2159morning to do their wash, all of which, including sheets, had to be done entirely by 
2160hand. 
2161We found it difficult to get to the laundry before 9:00 A.M., and by then every 
2162tub was taken and there were long lines of people with bags of dirty laundry waiting 
2163behind each one. When we finally got to a tub, there was no more hot water. Then 
2164we would leave my mother to hold the tub while my sister and I rushed to the 
2165washroom where there was a better supply and carried back bucketfuls of hot water 
2166as everyone else learned to do. By the time we had finally hung our laundry on lines 
2167outside our stall, we were too exhausted to do much else for the rest of the day. 
2168For four days after our arrival we continued to go to the main mess hall for all 
2169our meals. My sister and I usually missed breakfast because we were assigned to 
2170the early shift and we simply couldn’t get there by 7:00 A.M. Dinner was at 4:45 
2171P.M., which was a terrible hour, but not a major problem, as we were always hun- 
2172gry. Meals were uniformly bad and skimpy, with an abundance of starches such as 
2173beans and bread. I wrote to my non-Japanese friends in Berkeley shamelessly ask- 
2174ing them to send us food, and they obliged with large cartons of cookies, nuts, 
2175dried fruit, and jams. 
2176We looked forward with much anticipation to the opening of a half dozen 
2177smaller mess halls located throughout the camp. But when ours finally opened, we 
2178discovered that the preparation of smaller quantities had absolutely no effect on 
2179the quality of the food. We went eagerly to our new mess hall only to be confronted 
2180at our first meal with chili con carne, corn, and butterless bread. To assuage our 
2181disappointment, a friend and I went to the main mess hall which was still in oper- 
2182ation, to see if it had anything better. Much to our amazement and delight, we 
2183found small lettuce salads, the first fresh vegetables we had seen in many days. We 
2184ate ravenously and exercised enormous self-control not to go back for second and 
2185third helpings. 
2186The food improved gradually, and by the time we left Tanforan five months 
2187later, we had fried chicken and ice cream for Sunday dinner. By July tubs of soapy 
2188water were installed at the mess hall exits so we could wash our plates and utensils 
2189on the way out. Being slow eaters, however, we usually found the dishwater tepid 
2190and dirty by the time we reached the tubs, and we often rewashed our dishes in the 
2191washroom. 
2192Most internees got into the habit of rushing for everything. They ran to the 
2193mess halls to be first in line, they dashed inside for the best tables and then rushed 
2194through their meals to get to the washtubs before the suds ran out. The three of us, 
2195however, seemed to be at the end of every line that formed and somehow never 
2196managed to be first for anything. 
2197One of the first things we all did at Tanforan was to make our living quarters as 
2198comfortable as possible. A pile of scrap lumber in one corner of camp melted away 
2199like snow on a hot day as residents salvaged whatever they could to make shelves 
2200and crude pieces of furniture to supplement the Army cots. They also made inge- 
2201nious containers for carrying their dishes to the mess halls, with handles and lids 
2202that grew more and more elaborate in a sort of unspoken competition. 
2203Because of my father’s absence, our friends helped us in camp, just as they 
2204had in Berkeley, and we relied on them to put up shelves and build a crude table 
2205and two benches for us. We put our new camp furniture in the front half of our 
2206stall, which was our “living room,” and put our three cots in the dark windowless 
2207rear section, which we promptly dubbed “the dungeon.” We ordered some print 
2208fabric by mail and sewed curtains by hand to hang at our windows and to cover our 
2209shelves. Each new addition to our stall made it seem a little more like home. 
2210One afternoon about a week after we had arrived at Tanforan, a messenger 
2211from the administration building appeared with a telegram for us. It was from my 
2212father telling us he had been released on parole from Montana and would be able 
2213to join us soon in camp. Papa was coming home. The wonderful news had come 
2214like an unexpected gift, but even as we hugged each other in joy, we didn’t quite 
2215dare believe it until we actually saw him. 
2216The fact that my father had retired from Mitsui two years before the war at the 
2217mandatory retirement age of fifty-five (many Japanese firms required early 
2218retirement to make room for their younger employees), his record of public and 
2219community service, and the affidavits from his friends were probably factors that 
2220secured his early release. As a parolee, he would have to account for every move he 
2221made until the end of the war and would not be able to leave government custody 
2222without a sponsor to vouch for him. But these restrictions didn’t seem important 
2223at the time. The main thing was that he was coming home. 
2224We had no idea when he would actually return, but the next day another mes- 
2225senger appeared to tell us that my father had already arrived and was waiting for us 
2226at the administration building. 
2227My sister and I couldn’t wait for Mama, and we ran ahead down the track to the 
2228grandstand. We rushed into the waiting room and saw my father waiting for us, 
2229looking thinner, but none the worse for wear. 
2230“Papa!” we screamed, and rushed into his arms. 
2231He had returned with two other men, and their families joined us in a grand 
2232and tearful reunion. We all had supper together at the main mess hall, and by the 
2233time we returned to our stall, word had spread that my father was home. Almost all 
2234of our many friends in camp stopped by that evening to welcome him home. It was 
2235pure joy and pandemonium as friends crowded into our tiny stall. 
2236My father, a lively conversationalist as always, was brimming with stories of his 
2237five-month internment, and as our friends listened eagerly, the light burned in our 
2238stall long after the adjoining stalls had grown quiet and dark. From their own stalls 
2239our neighbors were listening, and one of them came the next day to tell us how 
2240much she had enjoyed my father’s descriptions of life in Montana. She often lis- 
2241tened to conversations that took place in our stall, sometimes coming later to ask 
2242about a point she had missed, or hurrying out from her stall when our friends left 
2243to see the face of a voice that had aroused her curiosity. 
2244The night of my father’s return was the first of many evenings spent in conver- 
2245sation with our friends as a reunited family. We may have been in a racetrack 
2246“assembly center” with four cots now crowded into a stall that had housed a single 
2247horse, but we were together once more, and that was something to be grateful for. 
2248In the days following my father’s return, we gradually heard more of what had 
2249happened to him after we left him at the Immigration Detention Quarters the day of 
2250our last visit. He and the other men transferred to Missoula had boarded buses for 
2251Oakland and then entrained for Montana. As the train moved northward, cars from 
2252Portland and Seattle were added to those from Los Angeles and Oakland, and my 
2253father later found many old friends in each contingent. The oldest man in the 
2254group was eighty-two. 
2255It was a long forty-eight-hour ride on stiff straight-backed seats, with the blinds 
2256drawn day and night and armed guards at each exit. The men had been designated 
2257“dangerous enemy aliens” and every precaution was taken against their escape. 
2258They had been stripped of all their possessions, including handkerchiefs, and most 
2259of them traveled in the clothing they were wearing when so abruptly taken into cus- 
2260tody. Some of the men had been apprehended on golf courses, others as they 
2261worked in their fields or as they came off their fishing boats. One man who had 
2262just undergone surgery for cancer of the stomach four days earlier had been taken 
2263directly from his hospital bed. During the course of the journey another man suf- 
2264fered a breakdown and his friends had to force a pencil between his teeth to keep 
2265him from biting his tongue. 
2266Once they arrived in Missoula, the men were housed thirty to a barrack, with 
2267cots lining both sides of the room, Army fashion. Here all the men, whatever their 
2268station in life, were treated alike as prisoners of war. Each was required to take his 
2269turn cleaning the barracks and latrines and working in the kitchen as waiter, cook, 
2270or dishwasher. My father, who had often helped my mother with some of her 
2271household chores, slipped easily into these new roles, rather enjoying the chal- 
2272lenge they presented, but other men, who were more traditional Japanese hus- 
2273bands, found it difficult to perform what seemed to them demeaning tasks. 
2274The men were encouraged to become self-governing, and shortly after their ar- 
2275rival, elected a mayor and various committee chairmen. It was typical of my father 
2276that he should be elected chairman of the welfare committee since he had had so 
2277much experience caring for the sick, the aged, and those in need. He made ar- 
2278rangements for meetings and speakers, and one of his first acts was to establish a 
2279church. He also organized and personally attended classes in English compo- 
2280sition, grammar, American history, law, and even ballroom dancing, all of which 
2281were held daily and taught by internees versed in these subjects. In one of his let- 
2282ters he wrote, “You will be surprised to find me a good dancer when I come 
2283home!” 
2284It was also his task to arrange funeral services for the men who died in Mon- 
2285tana. The first was a seventy-four-year-old man who died of pneumonia. The sec- 
2286ond was the man who had been removed from the hospital following surgery. Be- 
2287cause the remains of those who died were shipped home directly from the morgue, 
2288the interned men were permitted only to hold memorial services for them. Al- 
2289though many of the internees were strangers to each other, the deaths drew them 
2290all closer. Out of the meager funds they were permitted to keep, they contributed 
2291generously to purchase flowers and candles for the services, sending the surplus 
2292to the families of the men who had died. Just as he often did at our church at 
2293home, my father sang a hymn at each of the services as his own special tribute. 
2294All the internees’ incoming and outgoing letters were subject to censorship, 
2295and many of my father’s letters arrived well-ventilated with the holes left by the cen- 
2296sor’s scissors. Outgoing mail was restricted to three letters a week and my father, a 
2297great letter writer, was one of the first to be reprimanded. “I’ve been warned,” he 
2298wrote us, “that I write too much and too long.” He soon located an old typewriter 
2299which he borrowed for his letter-writing to make life easier for the censors, and 
2300later had to limit his communications to brief telegrams which included such mes- 
2301sages as, “Please give Kay freesia bouquet and hearty greetings on her birthday.” 
2302All paper was stripped from incoming packages to prevent the entry of illegal 
2303messages. Labels were removed from canned goods, wrapping removed from fruit, 
2304and boxes of chocolates were emptied on the counter so the paper cups could be 
2305discarded. The only way the men were allowed to retrieve the candy was to scoop it 
2306up in their caps, and receiving it in such a manner so diminished the joy of having 
2307it that my father soon asked us not to send any more. 
2308It wasn’t until the day before Christmas that their personal effects were released 
2309and my father could at last write with his pen instead of with a pencil. He was also 
2310allowed to have up to $15 of his cash. The government issued candy and nuts to 
2311the men, but our package was the only one that arrived in time for Christmas at my 
2312father’s barrack, and he told us they saved every tag and string and scrap of wrap- 
2313ping paper to tack up on the walls for Christmas cheer. 
2314Soon after the men arrived in Missoula, the temperature plunged to thirty 
2315below zero. Windows were coated with ice and giant icicles hung from the roof to 
2316the ground. The men, with their California clothing, were scarcely prepared for this 
2317nd of harsh weather and finally after a month the Army issued them some basic 
2318winter clothing. We had also spent many of our evenings knitting in order to rush 
2319some wool gloves, socks, and caps to Papa and his Mitsui friends, along with 
2320books, games, and candy. He thanked us many times for everything, saying they 
2321had warmed his heart as well as his person. “The other men envy me,” he wrote, 
2322“and want me to stay here forever as long as I have such a nice family!” 
2323Early each morning, the men gathered for group calisthenics, then they worked 
2324at their assigned tasks, attended classes, and maintained a disciplined, busy life. In 
2325the evenings, when there were no meetings, they often gathered around the coal 
2326stove in the center of each barrack to socialize. 
2327On January 3, which was my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, we sent 
2328my father a wire with our love and good wishes. He immediately wired back, 
2329“Thanks for telegram. Extend my fondest greetings on our anniversary which al- 
2330most slipped my mind as I was busy arranging seventeen speakers for tomorrow’s 
2331services. Everybody well and happy. Regards to church friends. Love to all.” 
2332It sounded like Papa. We were glad to know he was keeping busy and well. Our 
2333wire, it seemed, had done more than remind him of his anniversary. It had also 
2334spread the news among his friends, and that night the men of his barrack gathered 
2335around their pot-bellied stove and had a fine party in his honor. They made Japa- 
2336nese broth by boiling water in an old kerosene can and then adding seasoning and 
2337squares of toasted rice cakes which had been sent to one of the men. Papa’s 
2338friends from other barracks came to join in the celebration, and the ensuing festiv- 
2339ities with much singing and speech-making touched and cheered my father im- 
2340mensely. He wrote us about the happy evening, and the fifty or more men who 
2341were at the party sent their greetings to my mother on the back of an old Christmas 
2342card. That card and news of the celebration in Montana gave my mother as much 
2343pleasure, I think, as the flowers from my sister and me. 
2344All during the war years my father never forgot his friends who were not as 
2345fortunate as he and had to remain in the prisoner of war camps. They were even- 
2346tually scattered to distant camps in New Mexico, Louisiana, North Dakota, and 
2347Ellis Island, and some men were moved so often that letters to them would return 
2348covered with forwarding addresses that had failed to locate them. The thought of 
2349their lonely lives in internment always saddened us. 
2350Here is some poetry.
2351Plate in hand, 
2352I stand in line, 
2353Losing my resolve 
2354To hide my tears. 
2355   
2356I see my mother 
2357In the aged woman 
2358 
2359who comes, 
2360And I yield to her 
2361My place in line. 
2362   
2363Four months have passed, 
2364And at last I learn 
2365To call this horse stall 
2366My family’s home. 
2367 
2368                               Yukari.
2369Chapter 6. Tanforan: City behind Barbed Wire.
2370
2371 
2372ON OUR THIRD SUNDAY IN CAMP, WE HAD OUR FIRST VISITORS from outside, one of 
2373my father’s business friends and his wife. A messenger came to notify us of their 
2374arrival, and we hurried to the administration building to meet them, since visitors 
2375were not permitted beyond that point. 
2376“What can we do to help?” they asked us. “Let us know if there is anything at all 
2377we can do.” 
2378They were the first of many non-Japanese friends who came to see us offering 
2379their concern, support, and encouragement. All of them came laden with such wel- 
2380come snacks as cookies, cakes, candy, potato chips, peanut butter, and fruit. We 
2381were enormously grateful for these gifts and for other packages that came through 
2382the mail (all examined before we received them), for they not only gladdened our 
2383hearts, they supplemented our meager camp diet. Some friends came faithfully 
2384every week, standing in line from one to three hours for a pass to come inside the 
2385gates. 
2386Packages from our friends outside enabled many of us to indulge in late 
2387evening snack parties which were popular and frequent. The heavy use of hot 
2388plates put such a strain on the circuits, however, that entire barracks and stables 
2389were sometimes plunged into sudden and total darkness, causing a hasty unplug- 
2390ging by all concerned. 
2391Every weekend and often even during the week, the grandstand visiting room 
2392was crowded with throngs of outside visitors. When we had no visitors of our own, 
2393my friends and I would sometimes go to the grandstand just to watch the people 
2394coming and going, for even though they were strangers to us, seeing them gave us 
2395a brief sense of contact with the outside world. 
2396Our own visitors included not only my father’s business associates, but our 
2397neighbors, my piano teacher, my mother’s former Doshisha teacher who now lived 
2398in California, and many church and university people we had known over the years. 
2399One day the head of the Northern California Congregational Conference came to 
2400see us, as did on other days the chairman of the Pacific Coast Committee on Amer- 
2401ican Principles and Fair Play, Dr. Galen M. Fisher (a good friend of my father’s); 
2402the associate dean of women at the University of California (she had been on the 
2403same ship with us when we returned from our trip to Japan); the secretary of the 
2404YWCA; and others associated with social action groups. They came because they 
2405were our friends, but also because they were vitally concerned over the incar- 
2406ceration of one group of American citizens on the basis of race, and the denial of 
2407our constitutional rights. 
2408When the evacuation took place, one of the first committees formed was the 
2409Committee on American Principles and Fair Play founded by Dr. Fisher. Its pur- 
2410pose was “to support the principles enunciated in the Constitution of the United 
2411States . . . and to maintain unimpaired the liberties guaranteed in the Bill of Rights, 
2412particularly for persons of Oriental ancestry.” The members of this committee real- 
2413ized that the deprivation of the rights of one minority undermined the rights of the 
2414majority as well, and set a dangerous precedent for the future. 
2415Dr. Fisher worked hard to dispel the false rumors of sabotage and to deny the 
2416many untruths that were circulating about Japanese Americans. He wrote several 
2417articles for the Christian Century as well as other publications, and along with many 
2418other educators and church leaders he realized the importance of getting the Nisei, 
2419particularly the students, back into schools as soon as possible in communities ac- 
2420ceptable to the War Department. To accomplish this, a Student Relocation Com- 
2421mittee was organized in Berkeley under the leadership of the YMCA-YWCA, several 
2422university presidents, other educators, and church leaders. This group was ex- 
2423tremely helpful in assisting students to leave the “assembly centers.” 
2424In May, the Student Relocation Committee merged with other groups working 
2425on this issue, and under the aegis of the American Friends Service Committee (a 
2426body that worked tirelessly for the Japanese Americans throughout the war) formed 
2427the National Japanese American Student Relocation Council, later headquartered in 
2428Philadelphia. 
2429Our visitors were not only those from outside the barbed wire. Just as Japanese 
2430American friends had frequently come to our home in Berkeley, we now had visits 
2431from fellow internees who stopped by our stall at all hours of the day. It would 
2432have been impossible to avoid anyone had I wanted to, and there were times when 
2433I felt smothered. Leaving our stall brought no relief, for wherever I went there were 
2434familiar faces, everyone eager to pass the time in conversation. Until recreational 
2435activities got under way, the internees had plenty of time and no place to go. 
2436Almost every night our stall was crowded with friends of all ages, and my moth- 
2437er served tea made on our hot plate and whatever food we had to share. When the 
2438neighboring stalls grew dark, however, we lowered our voices, and when Papa 
2439stood up and said, “Sah, it’s ten o’clock,” everyone left promptly. He was still very 
2440much the head of our house. 
2441 
2442As soon as we entered Tanforan, the need for certain institutions to serve the 
2443community of 8,000 people was immediately apparent, and an interdenom- 
2444inational Christian church and a Buddhist church were among the first to be estab- 
2445lished. The need for spiritual sustenance brought overwhelming numbers of peo- 
2446ple to the Tanforan churches, and the first few Sundays there was standing room 
2447only at both the Japanese and English services. 
2448A post office was opened quite early, and a hospital staffed by competent in- 
2449ternee doctors and nurses functioned immediately and was always filled. A library 
2450was also set up and at first contained only forty-one books, but through contri- 
2451butions from outside eventually housed over five thousand. We also had a camp 
2452newspaper called the Tanforan Totalizer, published by the internees. 
2453Another immediate and urgent need was for organized recreation and educa- 
2454tion programs, and a call for leaders and workers in these two areas was promptly 
2455answered. Within weeks, several recreation centers had been opened in the camp, 
2456and they developed a remarkable array of activities for the old as well as the young. 
2457Hundreds of players were organized into one hundred and ten softball teams and 
2458played to crowds of thousands, who had a ready-made grandstand from which to 
2459watch the games. There were also weekly musicales, talent shows, Town Hall dis- 
2460cussions, recorded classical music concerts, Saturday night dances, hobby shows, 
2461a music school, and an art school whose six hundred students sent their work out- 
2462side on exhibit. Special programs were planned for holidays, and by mid-August 
2463full length films were acquired. The first shown was “Spring Parade” with Deanna 
2464Durbin, which could be seen by anyone willing to stand in line to get in and sit on 
2465the floor to watch it. Hundreds were willing to put up with the discomfort in order 
2466to be entertained for an hour or two. 
2467The occasional hobby shows sponsored by the Recreation Department 
2468revealed more concretely than anything else the ingenuity, patience, and skill of the 
2469Japanese Americans. Working largely with discarded scrap lumber, metal, and nails 
2470that they found on the grounds, they handcrafted objects of great beauty. In addi- 
2471tion, they made such functional items as bookends, trays, chests, bath clogs, ash- 
2472trays, and hats woven from grasses that grew in the camp grounds. They also made 
2473good use of the manure-rich soil, cultivating flowers for pleasure and vegetables to 
2474supplement their camp diet. They built wooden boats to sail on the small lake in 
2475front of the grandstand, and the women knitted a variety of fancy sweaters and 
2476dresses with yarn ordered by mail. By September the hobby show had grown so 
2477large, a separate exhibit had to be organized for the garden and flower enthusiasts. 
2478My sister was asked to help organize a nursery school in a small four-room 
2479cottage at the southern end of camp, and for the first time since graduating from 
2480Mills College, she was able to put to use some of her professional skills. We never 
2481learned what purpose the small cottage had served at the racetrack, but it was filthy 
2482and in a state of terrible disrepair. My sister recruited several friends, and I joined 
2483them for an entire day to scrub the dirt and grime from the floors, walls, and win- 
2484dows. We put up pictures cut out from old magazines, installed hooks for the chil- 
2485dren’s coats, and somehow secured furniture suitable for the small children. 
2486The morning we opened, there was a downpour and the roads were a muddy 
2487mess. This school was to service only the children from nearby barracks and that 
2488stormy morning only ten made an appearance. Eventually, as more space was ac- 
2489quired and additional teachers recruited, three more nursery schools were opened 
2490throughout the center, and I eventually became an assistant at one of them. 
2491For many of the Japanese, this was the first exposure to a nursery school expe- 
2492rience, and the adults were often as difficult to handle as the children. The first few 
2493days at my nursery school were sheer bedlam. Nearly all twenty children present 
2494were crying, some lost their breakfast, some wet their pants, and others ran into 
2495the yard screaming for their mamas. As the din increased, nearby adults came to 
2496the fence to view our efforts with amusement or indignation. “Let the poor children 
2497go on home,” some shouted at us. 
2498After a few weeks, however, both children and adults took more kindly to the 
2499nursery school routine, and soon children were coming in increasing numbers. 
2500Their mothers must have been grateful to have them out from underfoot, and the 
2501children learned to share the few toys and play things that had been secured with 
2502the help of my sister’s professor at Mills College. Whenever the children played 
2503house, they always stood in line to eat at make-believe mess halls rather than cook- 
2504ing and setting tables as they would have done at home. It was sad to see how 
2505quickly the concept of home had changed for them. 
2506Although I worked hard at the nursery school, I never felt quite at ease with the 
2507crying children and the wet pants, and I was devastated when two children among 
2508a group I took for a morning walk decided to defect and run for home. It was 
2509apparent my talents were not suited to nursery school teaching, and as soon as ele- 
2510mentary schools were scheduled to open, I applied for a job as teacher in the ele- 
2511mentary school system at a salary of $16 a month for a forty-four-hour week. The 
2512pay scale for the Japanese internees working at Tanforan was $8, $12, and $16 a 
2513month, depending on the nature of the work performed. 
2514Three weeks after we had entered Tanforan, registration was held for school 
2515children aged six to eighteen, who by then were anxious to have some orderly rou- 
2516tine to give substance to their long days. Four schools for grades one through 
2517three were opened in various sections of the camp and an internee teacher with ele- 
2518mentary school credentials was in charge of each one. I was assigned to assist at 
2519one of these schools and our first classes were held on May 26. When I arrived at 
2520the school barrack at 8:30 A.M., the children were already clamoring to get in. Our 
2521first day went remarkably well, although we had no supplies or equipment for 
2522teaching and all we could do was tell stories and sing with the children. 
2523Classes were soon separated by grade, and because of the shortage of creden- 
2524tialed teachers, I was placed in charge of a second grade class. We taught classes 
2525in the morning and attended meetings in the afternoon, not only to plan lessons 
2526for the next day, but to put in our time for a forty-four-hour week. The day I took 
2527over my second grade, however, I had to dismiss the children early because the 
2528building we used was also occupied by the Buddhist church on Sundays and was 
2529needed that day for the first funeral to take place in camp. 
2530Although I had acquired some experience as an assistant, when I was on my 
2531own, my methods were of necessity empirical, and I taught mostly by instinct. The 
2532children, however, were affectionate and devoted, and it didn’t take them long to 
2533discover where I lived. Each morning I would find a covey of them clustered in 
2534front of my stall, and, like the Pied Piper, I would lead them to the school barrack. 
2535When school was over, many would wait until I was ready to leave and escort me 
2536back home. 
2537I loved teaching and decided I would like to work for a teaching credential, for I 
2538now had received my degree from the university. My classmates and I had missed 
2539commencement by two weeks and my diploma, rolled in a cardboard container, 
2540had been handed to me in my horse stall by the Tanforan mailman. The winner of 
2541the University Medal that year was a Nisei who also missed commencement be- 
2542cause, as the president of the university stated at the ceremonies, “his country has 
2543called him elsewhere.” 
2544Gradually, supplies and books for our schools trickled in from the outside. I 
2545wrote to a former teacher with whom I had kept in touch, and she responded im- 
2546mediately with materials to assist me in my new occupation. Old textbooks came in 
2547from schools of the surrounding area, and one day as I helped sort a box of newly 
2548arrived books, I came across one from my old junior high school containing my 
2549own name. It was a poignant moment to come upon this dim echo of the past as I 
2550searched for material for my strange racetrack classroom. 
2551Classes for grades four through six began soon after our school opened, and 
2552by mid-June classes through high school were in session, many of them meeting 
2553by the pari-mutuel windows beneath the grandstand. All of the classes were taught 
2554by internee instructors, as there was a sizable proportion of college graduates and 
2555a good sprinkling of Phi Beta Kappas in the Tanforan population. On the strength 
2556of their work while at Tanforan, 90 percent of the children were advanced to the 
2557next grade by the schools they had attended before the evacuation. 
2558By the end of June, 40 percent of the residents of Tanforan were either teaching 
2559or going to school, and the education department’s activities were extended to in- 
2560clude classes in flower arrangement and first aid, and academic courses for adults 
2561as well. 
2562During our school’s existence at Tanforan, we held several Open Houses (par- 
2563ent attendance was well over 75 percent), issued report cards, organized PTA 
2564groups, met with parents, took children to campwide activities, and participated in 
2565such programs as the Flag Day ceremony. For their part in the Flag Day program, 
2566the children of my class sang “America the Beautiful,” and many of them came 
2567combed, scrubbed, and wearing their best clothes for the occasion. A child led the 
2568audience in the pledge of allegiance to the flag, and just as they had done in school 
2569outside, the children recited the words eagerly, unaware of the irony of what they 
2570were saying. In spite of the circumstances under which the program was being 
2571held, I don’t think the children had any other thought than to do honor to the flag 
2572of their country. 
2573Other mass activities did not always go so smoothly. A marionette show to 
2574which I brought my class turned into an uproarious madhouse as three hundred 
2575school children were herded into one barrack and seated on the floor, where a few 
2576“did toilet right here,” as one of my startled youngsters informed me. Our motives 
2577were good, but the lack of proper facilities often resulted in chaos that very nearly 
2578obliterated our efforts to bring the children a happy occasion. 
2579Although we were not many miles from our old home in Berkeley, the weather 
2580at Tanforan seemed entirely alien to the usually mild Bay Area. Because of the 
2581openness of the 118 acres which constituted the racetrack and the lack of any pro- 
2582tective buildings around it, the north wind tore through the camp each day, sweep- 
2583ing with it the loose dirt of the track and its surrounding grounds. Even the sun 
2584seemed harsher and less benevolent than it had back home. There was much ill- 
2585ness and the schools were constantly staffed by substitute teachers as one or an- 
2586other of the regular teachers fell ill. 
2587I developed red splotches on my hands, diagnosed by the doctors as a Vitamin 
2588B deficiency, and finally caught a bad cold that kept me in my stall for several days. 
2589I knew what my unfortunate substitute had put up with when one of my children 
2590stopped by to visit me. He produced a large sheet of paper with the word “boy” 
2591scribbled all over it and told me proudly, “I was class monitor and wrote down 
2592‘boy’ every time one was bad.” 
2593All of us, especially my mother, were troubled by frequent stomach disorders, 
2594and my sister, who until now had always been the healthy one in the family, caught 
2595a bad cold from which she didn’t recover for over a month. For many days she had 
2596to stay in bed in the dark windowless half of our stall with just enough of a temper- 
2597ature to preclude her going out. 
2598On days when I was also sick, we shared the misery of “the dungeon” together, 
2599emerging into the front section for a half hour each evening when a small patch of 
2600sunshine entered our stall. Sometimes Issei friends would come to call on my sis- 
2601ter, offering home-made remedies and even unwanted massages. With no place to 
2602hide, she had to endure their well-meaning efforts, when more than anything she 
2603just wanted to be left alone. 
2604We carried all her meals to her from the mess hall on trays, but her greatest 
2605problem was in not being able to walk to the latrine. It was simple enough to find a 
2606makeshift bedpan, but it was embarrassing for her to use it, knowing the neighbors 
2607could hear everything but the faintest of sighs. We finally solved the problem by 
2608keeping newspapers on hand, and it was my function during her illness to rattle 
2609them vigorously and noisily whenever she used the bedpan. It was a relief to both 
2610of us when she finally recovered. 
2611Over the weeks the food improved considerably, and our mess hall workers, all 
2612internees also earning the minimal government pay, made special efforts to please 
2613us by making doughnuts for breakfast or biscuits for dinner. In appreciation, the 
2614families who shared our mess hall collected $83 to present to them. They, in turn, 
2615put flowers on the tables and baked a beautiful cake for dessert. While we were 
2616basking in this exchange of mutual regard at our mess hall, a friend told me that 
2617the Army had come to take films of her mess hall, removing the Japanese cooks 
2618and replacing them with white cooks for the occasion. She was so infuriated by this 
2619deception that she refused to go to her mess hall to eat while the films were being 
2620made. It was hard to understand just what the Army was trying to prove. 
2621As our physical needs were met, and recreational and educational programs 
2622organized, the internees proceeded to establish some form of self-government. A 
2623council was established, composed of representatives from the five precincts into 
2624which the “assembly center” was divided. Nineteen candidates filed petitions to 
2625run for the five council posts and a full-fledged political campaign ensued, with pa- 
2626rades, posters, campaign speeches, and door-to-door calls. 
2627This was the first opportunity for the Issei to cast a vote in the United States. 
2628Although there had been test cases, the Supreme Court had ruled that they were 
2629ineligible for citizenship, and it was not until 1952 that legislation was passed mak- 
2630ing it possible for them to become naturalized. The Issei did not waste the oppor- 
2631tunity that came their way inside the barbed wire. Much to their credit, they out- 
2632voted their Nisei children four to one, and elected the candidates of their choice. 
2633Franchise for the Issei, however, was short-lived, for only a month later the 
2634Army issued a directive that limited voting and office-holding to American citizens 
2635only. The Issei accepted this ruling stoically and calmly, just as they had borne 
2636every other restriction that had been placed on their lives since they had come to 
2637the United States. 
2638Toward the end of July, a constitution was approved and thirty-eight candidates 
2639were elected to a legislative congress in a quiet, orderly election. All of this proved 
2640to be quite meaningless, however, for soon thereafter the Army dissolved all 
2641“assembly center” self-governmental bodies. No one was particularly disturbed by 
2642this order, because by then interest in politics had subsided considerably. The first 
2643rumors of an impending inland move had already begun to circulate, and we knew 
2644our unique racetrack community would soon be defunct. 
2645On June 19 a “head count” was instituted and each day, at the sound of a siren, 
2646we were required to be in our quarters before breakfast and again at 6:30 P.M. It 
2647seemed an unnecessary irritation to add to our lives, unless it was designed to im- 
2648press on us the fact that we were under surveillance, for there was little opportunity 
2649or inclination for anyone to escape. A deputy was appointed in each barrack or sta- 
2650ble to knock on every door, and we were required to respond by calling out the 
2651number of occupants present. It was a ridiculous procedure, and I sometimes 
2652shouted “none” instead of “four” when our deputy came knocking. Our “head- 
2653counter” took his job very seriously, however, and never appreciated my flippant 
2654attitude. 
2655Two months after our arrival, lights were put up outside our barracks, giving 
2656the entire camp the air of a Japanese village and making the night seem more be- 
2657nign. It also made nighttime trips to the latrine and washroom safer, although we 
2658never made such trips alone. I often dreamed at night, and in my dreams I was al- 
2659ways home in Berkeley. I never dreamed of Tanforan, and it was always disap- 
2660pointing to open my eyes in the fading darkness, see the coarse stable roof over my 
2661head, and realize that the horse stall was my present reality. 
2662The FBI, which had already made its presence acutely felt in our family, now 
2663made an appearance in our camp. On June 23, FBI agents instituted a campwide 
2664search for contraband, turning some stalls inside out while scarcely disturbing oth- 
2665ers, depending largely on the mood and nature of the agent making the search. 
2666Whether cursory or thorough, however, the effect on morale was uniformly bad 
2667throughout the camp. 
2668Rumors of our removal to inland “relocation centers” continued to circulate, 
2669and there was much speculation as to where we would be sent. Although we knew 
2670that Tanforan was only a temporary home, we all worked constantly to make the 
2671windswept racetrack a more attractive and pleasant place. Dozens of small veg- 
2672etable and flower gardens flourished along the barracks and stables, and a corner 
2673of camp that once housed a junk pile was transformed into a colorful camp garden 
2674of stocks, sweetpeas, irises, zinnias, and marigolds. A group of talented men also 
2675made a miniature park with trees and a waterfall, creating a small lake complete 
2676with a wooden bridge, a pier, and an island. It wasn’t much, but it was one of the 
2677many efforts made to comfort the eye and heart. 
2678On July 11 we were issued our first scrip books with which we could buy any- 
2679thing sold at the camp Canteen. A single person was issued a book for $2.50, while 
2680a married couple received $4. This was our allotment for one month, but since 
2681scrip books hadn’t been issued in June, we were to receive a two-month supply. We 
2682stood in line for over two hours, and my sister and I each received $5 and my par- 
2683ents $8. It seemed a great windfall suddenly to have $5 to spend, but when Kay and 
2684I hurried to the Canteen there was nothing left to buy. The ice cream, Cracker Jack, 
2685candy, peanuts, and shoe laces were all sold out. 
2686Also in July we were each given $14 as a clothing allowance, and for the first 
2687time in my life, I was introduced to the fascination of poring through a Mont- 
2688gomery Ward catalogue to see what $14 could buy. 
2689In mid-July, paychecks covering the period from our first day of work to June 21 
2690were issued. Once more I stood in a long line and waited for hours to receive my 
2691check. It was from the United States Treasury Department for the sum of $6.38. I 
2692wondered how this miserly sum had been determined, but was hardly in a position 
2693to bargain for anything better. It was slightly better than nothing at all, and I was 
2694pleased to have my first paycheck. The next month my check climbed to $16, the 
2695maximum rate for professionals, and I also received another scrip book for $2.50. 
2696This time when I went to the Canteen, I was able to buy some Cracker Jack and 
2697candy. 
2698In late summer a laundry and barbershop were added to the services available, 
2699but by then we had become used to doing without such luxuries. Most people con- 
2700tinued to do their own wash, and my mother, who had ordered scissors and clip- 
2701pers by mail, gave my father all his haircuts, a service she continued to perform 
2702even after they left camp. 
2703As the summer days lengthened, my friends and I would often go for walks 
2704after supper. Following the curve of the racetrack, we would gravitate without 
2705thought to the grandstand where we would climb to the highest seats to get a 
2706glimpse of the world beyond the barbed wire. We could see the cars on Skyline 
2707Boulevard, over which we had traveled so many times, and we could see planes 
2708taking off from Moffett Field, soaring toward the Pacific with graceful precision. Be- 
2709yond were the coastline hills reflecting the warm glow of sunset before turning a 
2710deep, dark blue. For a while we would talk about our fun-filled prewar days, but 
2711eventually we would lapse into silence and sit in the growing darkness of evening, 
2712each of us nurturing our own private longings and hopes. 
2713All of us waited eagerly for mail, for many of our friends were in other “assem- 
2714bly centers” and some had moved to inland areas of California during the time 
2715when the so-called “voluntary evacuation” was permitted. Such “voluntary” moves 
2716within California had proved to be completely futile, however, for the Army prompt- 
2717ly extended its exclusion zones. Friends who had moved from Zone One to Din- 
2718uba, where they thought they would be safe, soon found themselves subject to re- 
2719moval after all, and were eventually sent to a camp in Arizona. Had they not at- 
2720tempted the first move at all, they could have been with their Bay Area friends in 
2721Tanforan, and later Topaz, and saved themselves considerable expense as well. 
2722Other friends joined four families and moved to Gridley in April, presuming 
2723they would be safe there from removal and internment. The men worked days on a 
2724Japanese American peach ranch and spent their evenings hastily constructing com- 
2725munal living quarters. In July, however, the exclusion zones were extended, and 
2726with time only to board up their newly built shelter, all the families, including the 
2727ranch owner, were forced to move to the Tule Lake camp. When, after the war, my 
2728friends returned to Gridley, they could find neither the house they had built nor 
2729anything the group had left inside. Everything had disappeared without a trace. 
2730Life at Tanforan was not without its comical aspects. One afternoon our neigh- 
2731bor rushed back from the Canteen and knocked on our door, beaming. 
2732“I found some paper napkins,” she explained with obvious delight. “There was 
2733a terrible crowd pushing and shoving to get them, but I picked up a box for you 
2734too.” 
2735My mother thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and they opened their packages 
2736together. It was only then that our neighbor learned she had purchased sanitary, 
2737not paper, napkins, and she told us through tears of laughter that most of the eager 
2738buyers had been men from the bachelor quarters. We hoped they had had time to 
2739examine their boxes before taking them to the mess hall for dinner, and I certainly 
2740wished I could have seen their faces when they did. 
2741 
2742After three months of communal living, the lack of privacy began to grate on my 
2743nerves. There was no place I could go to be completely alone—not in the wash- 
2744room, the latrine, the shower, or my stall. I couldn’t walk down the track without 
2745seeing someone I knew. I couldn’t avoid the people I didn’t like or choose those I 
2746wished to be near. There was no place to cry and no place to hide. It was impos- 
2747sible to escape from the constant noise and human presence. I felt stifled and 
2748suffocated and sometimes wanted to scream. But in my family we didn’t scream or 
2749cry or fight or even have a major argument, because we knew the neighbors were 
2750always only inches away. 
2751When a vacancy occurred in a stall a few doors down, my sister and I immedi- 
2752ately applied for permission to move into it. We all needed the additional space, for 
2753we had had just about all the togetherness we could stand for a while. My father 
2754and our friends helped us make shelves, a table, and a bench from scrap lumber, 
2755and my sister and I finally had a place of our own. Now each morning and evening 
2756it was our luxury to be able to call out “two” instead of “four” to the “headcounter.” 
2757The artist who lived a few stalls down tried to solve her need for privacy by 
2758tacking a large “Quarantined—Do Not Enter” sign on her door. But rather than 
2759keeping people away, it only drew further attention to her reluctant presence. 
2760“What’s wrong with you?” her friends would call. 
2761And she would shout back, “Hoof and mouth disease. Go away!” 
2762During the first few days in camp, my mother tried to achieve some privacy and 
2763rest by having us padlock the door from the outside as Kay and I went off with our 
2764friends. But we realized this was dangerous in case of fire, and she eventually 
2765resigned herself to the open communal life. It wasn’t easy for her, however, as she 
2766longed for quiet moments to rest and reflect and write her poetry. Such moments 
2767were difficult if not impossible to come by in camp, and the more sensitive a per- 
2768son was, the more he or she suffered. Knitting was one thing that could be done 
2769even with people around, so my mother did a great deal of it and made some beau- 
2770tiful sweaters for my sister and me. 
2771Although we worked hard at our jobs to keep Tanforan functioning properly, we 
2772also sought to forestall the boredom of our confinement by keeping busy in a num- 
2773ber of other ways. My sister and I both took first aid classes and joined the church 
2774choir, which once collaborated with the Little Theater group to present the works of 
2775Stephen Foster, complete with sets that featured a moving steamboat. We also 
2776went to some of the dances where decorations festooned the usually bleak hall at 
2777the grandstand and music was provided by a band made up of internee musicians. 
2778When I had time, I also went to art class and did some paintings so I would have a 
2779visual record of our life at Tanforan. I was surprised and pleased one day when I 
2780went to a hobby show and saw a second place red ribbon pinned to one of my 
2781paintings. 
2782One of the elementary school teachers was the first to be married at Tanforan. 
2783She wanted, understandably, to have the kind of wedding she would have had on 
2784the outside, and wore a beautiful white marquisette gown with a fingertip veil. For 
2785all of us who crowded into the church barrack that day, the wedding was a moment 
2786of extraordinary joy and brightness. We showered the couple with rice as they left, 
2787and they climbed into a borrowed car decorated with “just married” signs and a 
2788string of tin cans. They took several noisy turns around the racetrack in the car and 
2789then, after a reception in one of the recreation centers, began their married life in 
2790one of the horse stalls. 
2791On August 19 the supervisor of elementary education asked us to write sum- 
2792mary reports of our class activities for the War Relocation Authority in preparation 
2793for closing our schools. This was the first concrete indication we had that we 
2794would soon be leaving for inland “relocation centers,” and we were relieved that 
2795the endless speculation was about to end. Still, it was not an official announce- 
2796ment and we were not told where we would be going, although Utah had been 
2797mentioned most frequently. 
2798Three days later it was officially announced that we would be moved sometime 
2799between September 15 and 30. Now we knew the date, but we still did not know our 
2800destination. We were told we would be moved in small contingents, with mess hall 
2801areas as the basis for division, and new rumors began to float that our mess hall 
2802unit would be the first to leave. 
2803On August 24 our evening roll call period was extended, and we were required 
2804to remain in our quarters for over an hour while a camp-wide inventory of govern- 
2805ment property took place. Most of us had no government property in our stalls 
2806other than the cots, mattresses, and light bulbs that were there the day we arrived. 
2807Soon the ever present rumors began to take on a new shape. We heard our 
2808mess hall would not be leaving first after all; that our camp might be split up, sepa- 
2809rating us from our friends; and that we might be sent to Idaho instead of Utah. But 
2810we weren’t too concerned about our destination, for one place was as remote and 
2811unknown to us as the next. It was the uncertainty that made everyone nervous and 
2812anxious to trade rumors, and it wasn’t long before tempers began to flare over triv- 
2813ial matters. 
2814September 4 was the last day of school, and my final paycheck was for $13.76. I 
2815had been docked for being sick and for a two-day vacation given to all of us in Au- 
2816gust. We were also to be issued another scrip book, but when my father and I went 
2817to pick ours up, the line was so long, we decided it wasn’t worth the wait. 
2818On the final day of school we invited the parents to a special program of songs, 
2819recitations, and refreshments, and our custodian distributed a box of butterballs to 
2820the children as his parting gift. We said our brief farewells and then returned to our 
2821barracks to worry about the Army inspection for contraband that was scheduled for 
2822the following day. 
2823The inspection was to begin at 8:00 A.M., and we were told to remain in our 
2824quarters until it was completed. We waited in our stall until 11:00, but not one sol- 
2825dier made an appearance. Thinking it might be hours before they arrived, Kay and I 
2826risked a quick trip to the laundry to do a wash. We hurriedly hung it up on our out- 
2827side lines, but the wind covered everything with dust, leaving us ill-rewarded for 
2828our efforts and more frustrated than ever. We ate a hurried lunch and then returned 
2829once more to our stalls to wait. In the meantime, the inevitable rumors began to 
2830travel. The soldiers were late, people said, because they were confiscating all sorts 
2831of items throughout camp, and we grew increasingly jittery as we wondered what 
2832the soldiers would do when they finally arrived. 
2833At last, at 4:00 P.M., fifteen soldiers appeared and stood guard around our en- 
2834tire stable. They obeyed orders with such rigidity that two women who happened to 
2835be in the latrine when the soldiers arrived were not permitted to return to their own 
2836stalls. One MP and one plainclothesman then proceeded to enter each stall to 
2837make the search. By the time they finally reached us, however, they were so tired 
2838they made only a cursory survey of our possessions and left quickly after exchang- 
2839ing a few friendly words. “All that worry for nothing,” I grumbled. We had had noth- 
2840ing to hide or to be confiscated, but it was simply not knowing what to expect that 
2841had been the worst of it. And we had, by now, been conditioned to be apprehensive 
2842of anything the Army did. 
2843Since all camp activities had been suspended for the day, visitors too had been 
2844barred, and we learned later that our Swiss neighbors had come all the way from 
2845Berkeley and been turned away. They were determined to see us, however, and re- 
2846turned the next day laden with snacks and some of my mother’s London Smoke 
2847carnations, the stems carefully wrapped in wet cotton. Because their two boys were 
2848under sixteen, they were not permitted to enter the grounds, and when Kay and I 
2849went outside to look for them, we saw them standing disconsolately near the gate. 
2850“Teddy! Bobby!” I called out, and they came running toward us, thrusting their 
2851hands through the wire fencing. We tried to shake their hands and had just begun 
2852an eager exchange of news when an armed guard approached, shouting, “Hey, get 
2853away from the fence, you two!” 
2854My sister and I backed away quickly, and our brief visit came to an abrupt, frus- 
2855trating end. The boys later told me they had never forgotten the incident, for they 
2856thought at the time the guards were going to shoot us. 
2857With a departure date set, we began once more the onerous task of packing our 
2858possessions. Although we now had considerably fewer things than when we left 
2859Berkeley, the confusion and disarray were still massive. This time a canvas “camp 
2860bundle” wouldn’t do, for our belongings were to be shipped by train to Utah and 
2861required sturdier containers. But this time we had Papa, and he disassembled 
2862everything our friends had built for us when we first arrived. He saved every scrap 
2863of wood and every nail, and converted our shelves, tables, and benches into 
2864shipping crates. The sound of hammering filled the length of the stable as every- 
2865one felt once more the urgent need to be ready when the Army gave the word to 
2866move. 
2867On September 9 the first contingent from Tanforan was scheduled to leave for 
2868the Central Utah Relocation Center. I was glad we were not among this pioneering 
2869group for I was not eager to leave California. Our laundry barrack was designated 
2870as the point of departure, and the entire area surrounding it was fenced off to pro- 
2871vide a place for baggage inspection before the people boarded a train that was 
2872pulled up to a siding at the edge of camp. The departure had been timed for the 
2873dinner hour so the departing group could slip away without creating a major 
2874commotion, but most of us managed to rush through supper and hurry back to the 
2875barricade to say goodbye to our friends. 
2876We all wanted to do something to ease the pain of still another uprooting for 
2877those about to leave, and while we could only be supportive by our presence, one 
2878of the Japanese maintenance men found another way. He appeared with a wheel- 
2879barrow full of bright flowers from the camp garden, and gave bouquets to any who 
2880could reach out a hand through the barricade to accept his gift. A large crowd had 
2881gathered to watch the proceedings, but was temporarily dispersed when the siren 
2882signaled the 6:30 head count. The minute we were counted, however, we all ran 
2883back to watch for as long as we could, waving and shouting to give our friends a 
2884rousing send-off. 
2885It seemed everyone wanted to do a final wash before leaving for Utah and the 
2886washtubs were in constant use. My mother spent an entire morning washing 
2887clothes and sheets, not even bothering to eat breakfast because she would have 
2888lost the tub had she left it. Hot water was still scarce and we still had to carry buck- 
2889etfuls from the washroom, for the laundry barracks had shown no improvement 
2890since the early days of camp life. 
2891Gradually our life at Tanforan was drawing to a close. My father collected a 
2892fund from residents in our area for the mess hall crew, and they in turn converted it 
2893into cakes and ice cream for a farewell dinner in our small mess hall. 
2894Two days before we were to leave, an inspection of our freight baggage was 
2895scheduled. Again we waited for most of the day, but the inspector didn’t arrive until 
2896just before our 4:00 P.M. supper shift at the main mess hall. He stopped a 
2897frustrating four stalls away, and our inspection was put off until the following day. 
2898We should, by then, have been used to long waits and delays, but each time it 
2899was unnerving and unpleasant. When the inspection finally took place, it was a 
2900mere formality, and trucks then came to pick up our baggage for shipment to our 
2901new home. It wouldn’t be long before we, too, would be heading for what was then 
2902officially called the Central Utah Relocation Center. 
2903
2904Chapter 7. Topaz: City of Dust.
2905
2906ON THE SIXTEENTH OF SEPTEMBER, OUR FAMILY WAS assigned to Group IV of the 
2907four groups departing that day for Delta, Utah. We were to have supper at 4:00 
2908P.M. and be at the departure point by 5:00 P.M., but we had no appetite at such an 
2909early hour and were too nervous to eat. 
2910Friends who were leaving at a later date, came to help us carry our many suit- 
2911cases and bundles and to see us off at the departure area. Our bedding, which we 
2912had used until the night before and would need again as soon as we arrived in 
2913Utah, made up our bulkiest bundle. Stuffing last minute articles into knitting bags 
2914and purses, and feeling somewhat like refugees carrying our worldly possessions, 
2915we hurried to the departure point for the inspection of our baggage. 
2916Our bedding was checked first and tossed through a window into the laundry 
2917barrack, already crowded with earlier arrivals. After our hand baggage was checked 
2918we went inside, were told to sit in alphabetical order in Group IV, and waited for 
2919what seemed several hours. I stood on a bench and looked out the window hoping 
2920to catch a glimpse of the friends who had come to see us off, but I could see only a 
2921mass of faces. It appeared the entire camp had come to watch our departure. Fi- 
2922nally it was time to leave and we walked single file between a double row of MPs 
2923and were counted as we boarded the train. Invalids and disabled people were 
2924placed in two Pullman cars attached at the rear. 
2925About 8:00 P.M. the train, loaded with five hundred internees, was ready at last 
2926to begin its journey to Utah. We all clustered at the windows for a final look at Tan- 
2927foran, scanning the crowds for friends staying behind. There were people gathered 
2928along the fence, on rooftops, on barrack steps, any place where they could get a 
2929glimpse of the train. They shouted and waved as though they would not see us for 
2930a long time, although they knew they would be following us in just a few weeks. 
2931It had only been a crude community of stables and barracks, but it had been 
2932home for five months and we had grown accustomed to our life there. Now it was 
2933another wrench, another uprooting, and this time we were bound for an unknown 
2934and forbidding destination. Those who remained seemed to watch us go with the 
2935same apprehension we felt. Neither side quite wanted to let go. We waved to each 
2936other as long as we could, and those of us on the train pressed up to the windows, 
2937holding close the final sight of all that was familiar. The last thing we saw as the 
2938train pulled out was a group of teenagers who had climbed to the roof of one of the 
2939barracks. They were waving and holding aloft an enormous banner on which they 
2940had painted, “So long for a while, Utah bound.” 
2941Long after Tanforan disappeared, we were still staring out the windows, for now 
2942we were seeing all the things we had missed for five months—houses, gardens, 
2943stores, cars, traffic lights, dogs, white children—and of course no one wanted to 
2944miss seeing San Francisco Bay and the bay bridge. We were told the shades must 
2945be drawn from sunset to sunrise, and it had already grown dark. By the time we 
2946passed the bay, we could only look out from the edge of the drawn shades, but we 
2947could see the lights of the bridge sparkling across the dark water, still serene and 
2948magnificent and untouched by the war. I continued to look out long after the bridge 
2949had vanished into the darkness, unutterably saddened by this fleeting glimpse of 
2950all that meant home to me. 
2951The train was an old model, undoubtedly released from storage for wartime 
2952use. It was fitted with fixtures for gas lights, and the seats were as hard and 
2953straight-backed as old church pews. 
2954Sleep came only fitfully the first night, for the car was full of restless people, 
2955some of whom had never ridden on a train before. The water container was soon 
2956emptied, some people became trainsick, and the condition of the washroom was 
2957enough to discourage more than the fainthearted. We waited eagerly for morning, 
2958and breakfast cheered our sagging spirits. We ate at 7:00 on the first shift, and al- 
2959though the plates were paper, it felt good to sit once more at a cloth-covered table, 
2960on chairs instead of benches, and to use some nice silverware. The food was plen- 
2961tiful and tasted good. The waiters who served it were courteous and we took up a 
2962collection in our car to tip them properly. There were only two diners for five hun- 
2963dred people, however, so the last group, who didn’t breakfast until 11:00, may not 
2964have fared as well. 
2965By noon we were traveling through Nevada sagebrush country, and when we 
2966reached a properly isolated area, the train came to a stop. Our car captain then an- 
2967nounced that we could get off for a half hour break in the fresh air. As we stepped 
2968down from the car, we found that armed MPs had stationed themselves in a row 
2969parallel to the train. Only if we remained in the narrow corridor between them and 
2970the train were we allowed to stay outside. Some people ran back and forth, some 
2971did calisthenics, and others just breathed in the dry desert air. 
2972We were also permitted two daytime visits to other cars during one-hour vis- 
2973iting periods, and my father, sister, and I walked the length of the twelve cars as 
2974much for exercise as to find our friends, but my mother was too tired to join us. At 
29755:00 P.M. there was a head count and at 7:00 the lights were turned on and the 
2976shades drawn until dawn the following morning. 
2977By the second night, we were so stiff and numb, sleep was out of the question 
2978for all of us, and the heaters that had been activated added to our discomfort. I 
2979wasn’t anxious to get to Topaz, but I could hardly wait to get off that lumbering 
2980train. 
2981We crossed the Great Salt Lake about 9:30 P.M. and were given permission to 
2982turn out the lights and pull up the shades for a few minutes. The lake, shimmering 
2983in white moonlight, seemed an almost magical sight. Voices quieted down and the 
2984car became silent as we all gazed at the vast glistening body of water, forgetting for 
2985a few moments our tired, aching bodies. 
2986When we reached the Salt Lake City station about midnight, I opened my win- 
2987dow to look out and was astonished to see a former Nisei classmate standing on 
2988the platform. 
2989“Helen, what in the world are you doing here?” I asked. 
2990In a quick flurry of words she told me she had “evacuated voluntarily” to Salt 
2991Lake City and, hearing that the internee train would be passing through, had come 
2992to see if she could find any of her friends. 
2993We talked quickly, trying to exchange news of as many mutual friends as we 
2994could in the few minutes we had. But soon it was time for our train to move on, 
2995and she clasped my hand briefly. “Good luck, Yo,” she called out, and our train 
2996moved slowly out of the station with its strange cargo of internees. I envied her 
2997freedom, and it pained me to think I was about to be imprisoned, not because of 
2998anything I had done, but simply because I hadn’t been able to “evacuate volun- 
2999tarily” as she had done. 
3000I had slept only two hours when the car captain woke us for a 5:00 A.M. break- 
3001fast. I straggled after my family to the diner half asleep, but was rewarded with a 
3002fine meal, this time served on china. Dawn was breaking over the desert as our 
3003family sat together in the diner, just as we had done so many times on happier 
3004occasions. For a moment I felt the faint illusion that we were once more on a vaca- 
3005tion together, but this passed quickly. The presence of Japanese faces at every 
3006table, and the need to eat quickly and vacate our table for those still waiting, soon 
3007propelled me back to reality. 
3008As the train approached our destination we watched the landscape closely, 
3009hoping it would give us some indication of what the Topaz “relocation center” 
3010would be like. I felt cautiously optimistic as we reached the town of Delta for the 
3011land didn’t appear to be too unfriendly or barren. A cheerful man boarded the train 
3012and passed out copies of the first issue of The Topaz Times, which gave us instruc- 
3013tions regarding procedures at the new camp. I could tell a public relations man was 
3014already at work for the masthead contained a picture of a faceted topaz gemstone 
3015and in large print the words, “Topaz—Jewel of the Desert.” 
3016Once more we were counted as we got off the train and then were transferred 
3017to buses for the final leg of our journey to Topaz. As we rode along, I continued to 
3018feel fairly hopeful, for we were passing small farms, cultivated fields, and clusters 
3019of trees. After a half hour, however, there was an abrupt change. All vegetation 
3020stopped. There were no trees or grass or growth of any kind, only clumps of dry 
3021skeletal greasewood. 
3022We were entering the edge of the Sevier Desert some fifteen miles east of Delta 
3023and the surroundings were now as bleak as a bleached bone. In the distance there 
3024were mountains rising above the valley with some majesty, but they were many 
3025miles away. The bus made a turn into the heart of the sun-drenched desert and 
3026there in the midst of nowhere were rows and rows of squat, tar-papered barracks 
3027sitting sullenly in the white, chalky sand. This was Topaz, the Central Utah Relo- 
3028cation Center, one of ten such camps located throughout the United States in 
3029equally barren and inaccessible areas. 
3030In April of 1942, the director of the War Relocation Authority and a represen- 
3031tative of the Western Defense Command had met with the governors of the west- 
3032ern states to discuss the feasibility of assisting the Japanese internees to relocate in 
3033small groups throughout the intermountain and western states. All but one of the 
3034governors opposed this plan, however, and indicated that the internees could enter 
3035their states only under strict military guard. And this was precisely how we entered 
3036the state of Utah. 
3037As the bus drew up to one of the barracks, I was surprised to hear band music. 
3038Marching toward us down the dusty road was the drum and bugle corps of the 
3039young Boy Scouts who had come with the advance contingent, carrying signs that 
3040read, “Welcome to Topaz—Your Camp.” It was a touching sight to see them stand- 
3041ing in the burning sun, covered with dust, as they tried to ease the shock of our ar- 
3042rival at this desolate desert camp. 
3043A few of our friends who had arrived earlier were also there to greet us. They 
3044tried hard to look cheerful, but their pathetic dust-covered appearance told us a 
3045great deal more than their brave words. 
3046 IMAGE AND CAPTION. Topaz: a cluster of dusty tar-papered barracks in the bleak Sevier Desert. Hidden from view are the barbed wire fence and the guard towers. Courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Emil Sekerak.
3047IMAGE AND CAPTION. The arrival of baggage was a hectic, but eagerly awaited event in the early days at Topaz. Courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Emil Sekerak.
3048
3049We went through the usual arrival procedure of registering, having a brief med- 
3050ical examination, and being assigned living quarters. Our family was assigned to 
3051Apartment C of Barrack 2 in Block 7, and from now on our address would be 7-2-C, 
3052Topaz, Utah. We discovered that our block was located in the northeast corner of 
3053the camp, just opposite the quarters of the Military Police and not far from the 
3054camp hospital. 
3055The entire camp was divided into forty-two blocks, each containing twelve bar- 
3056racks constructed around a mess hall, a latrine-washroom, and a laundry. The 
3057camp was one mile square and eventually housed 8,000 residents, making it the 
3058fifth-largest city in the state of Utah. 
3059As we plodded through the powdery sand toward Block 7, I began to under- 
3060stand why everyone looked like pieces of flour-dusted pastry. In its frantic haste to 
3061construct this barrack city, the Army had removed every growing thing, and what 
3062had once been a peaceful lake bed was now churned up into one great mass of 
3063loose flour-like sand. With each step we sank two to three inches deep, sending up 
3064swirls of dust that crept into our eyes and mouths, noses and lungs. After two long 
3065sleepless nights on the train, this sudden encounter with the sun, the glaring white 
3066sand, and the altitude made me feel weak and light-headed. We were all worried 
3067about my mother, and I thought I might collapse myself, when we finally reached 
3068Block 7. 
3069Each barrack was one hundred feet in length, and divided into six rooms for 
3070families of varying sizes. We were assigned to a room in the center, about twenty 
3071by eighteen feet, designed for occupancy by four people. When we stepped into our 
3072room it contained nothing but four army cots without mattresses. No inner 
3073sheetrock walls or ceilings had yet been installed, nor had the black pot-bellied 
3074stove that stood outside our door. Cracks were visible everywhere in the siding and 
3075around the windows, and although our friends had swept out our room before we 
3076arrived, the dust was already seeping into it again from all sides. 
3077The instruction sheet advised us not to put up any shelves until the carpenters 
3078arrived from Tanforan to install the sheetrock walls. In fact, three paragraphs were 
3079devoted to reassuring us that plenty of scrap lumber was available and that a com- 
3080mittee had been organized to supervise its distribution. “A rough estimate of 
3081400,000 board feet of lumber is now available,” one paragraph stated. “Since suffi- 
3082cient wood is available, there will be no necessity for hoarding or nocturnal com- 
3083mando raids.” 
3084There was also a paragraph about words. “You are now in Topaz, Utah,” it read. 
3085“Here we say Dining Hall and not Mess Hall; Safety Council, not Internal Police; 
3086Residents, not Evacuees; and last but not least, Mental Climate, not Morale.” After 
3087our long and exhausting ordeal, a patronizing sheet of instructions was the last 
3088thing we needed. 
3089It also told us there would be four bathtubs for the women in each block, flush 
3090toilets and individual basins in all washrooms. This I had to see. On my quick tour 
3091of inspection I discovered the toilets had no seats, there was no water in the laun- 
3092dry, and the lights didn’t work in the showers or latrines. Our water was pumped 
3093up from nearby artesian wells almost 1,000 feet deep, and twice during our first 
3094day the water was shut off completely. 
3095The first lunch served in our mess hall seemed adequate, but our Japanese 
3096American chef felt he hadn’t prepared a meal worthy of a welcome. He came from 
3097the kitchen to apologize personally for the meager fare, explaining he couldn’t do 
3098better because he lacked provisions as well as help. Apparently everything, includ- 
3099ing food and personnel, was still in extremely short supply. 
3100We returned to our room after lunch, and although our mattresses hadn’t yet 
3101been delivered, we were so exhausted we lay down on the springs of our army cots 
3102and slept all afternoon. When I woke up, my mouth tasted of dust. 
3103That evening our project director, Charles F. Ernst, came to our block to speak 
3104to us. We met in the mess hall and he introduced several of the thirty white admi- 
3105nistrative heads (civil service employees) who were in charge of various camp 
3106functions. He seemed a kind and understanding man of considerable warmth and 
3107left us feeling sufficiently heartened to face the next day. 
3108The temperature the next morning was well below freezing. A thin layer of ice 
3109had formed in the kettle of water we kept in our room, and I found it hard to get out 
3110of bed even with the importunate banging of the cook’s spoon on a dishpan to tell 
3111us breakfast was ready. We soon discovered that the temperature variation in a sin- 
3112gle day could be as much as fifty degrees. Some days started at thirty degrees 
3113Fahrenheit and soared by midafternoon to the eighties and nineties, compelling us 
3114to wear winter wools in the morning and change to summer clothing by afternoon. 
3115When my sister and I went out to meet some incoming buses in the hot desert 
3116sun, we came home sunburned, covered with dust, and feeling like well-broiled 
3117meat. 
3118My father, with his usual energy, was quick to find our block’s most pressing 
3119needs and alleviate them where he could. He spent his first morning in Topaz with 
3120three men cleaning the latrines, which were in an appalling state of filth because 
3121many people had suffered food poisoning (there was no refrigeration in the 
3122kitchens) and a rash of diarrhea had resulted. Our conversations in those early 
3123days were often reduced to comparing the number of visits we had made to the la- 
3124trine, and we ate our food gingerly, smelling it carefully to make sure it wasn’t 
3125spoiled. 
3126On the afternoon of his first day, my father went to the gate to meet the incom- 
3127ing buses, and having discovered ice cream bars at the Canteen, he distributed 
3128them to the delighted Boy Scouts who were marching again in the dust and heat to 
3129greet the incoming internees. 
3130Although internees continued to arrive each day from Tanforan, the blocks to 
3131which they were assigned were increasingly ill-equipped to house them. People 
3132who arrived a few days after we did found gaping holes in the roof where the stove 
3133pipes were to fit, latrine barracks with no roofs at all, and mattresses filled only 
3134with straw. Those who arrived still later didn’t even have barracks to go to and were 
3135simply assigned to cots set up in empty mess halls, laundries, or the corridors of 
3136the hospital. Many internees found themselves occupying barracks where ham- 
3137mering, tarring, and roofing were still in progress, and one unfortunate woman re- 
3138ceived second degree burns on her face when boiling tar seeped through the roof 
3139onto the bed where she was asleep. 
3140It was inhumane and unnecessary to subject the internees to such discomfort 
3141after their grueling train ride from California, but it was too late to remedy matters. 
3142Once again the Army had sent the Japanese Americans into crude, incomplete, and 
3143ill-prepared camps. 
3144In those first few days, camp life was too disorganized for me to apply for a 
3145job, but wanting to do something constructive with my time, I volunteered to help 
3146our block manager as secretary. His duty was to function as liaison between the 
3147residents of our block and the administration, but he actually spent most of his 
3148time listening to the many people who flocked to him with complaints. No one was 
3149happy with the housing assignments and nearly everyone wanted to move. Had the 
3150Army waited to bring us in after the barracks were reasonably comfortable, much of 
3151this distress could have been forestalled. As it was, the general sense of malaise 
3152and despair funneled itself into the mistaken belief that a move to another block 
3153would bring some improvement. 
3154Committees mushroomed daily in the community of Topaz and one was soon 
3155created to deal specifically with housing adjustments. Its overworked members 
3156often met until 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning trying to find solutions to the over- 
3157whelming problems that inundated them. It was many weeks, however, before they 
3158even began to see any satisfactory results from their efforts. 
3159Daytime, with its debilitating heat and the stresses of camp life, was harsh and 
3160unkind, but early evening after supper was a peaceful time of day at Topaz. The 
3161sand retained the warmth of the sun, and the moon rose from behind dark moun- 
3162tains with the kind of clear brilliance seen only in a vast desert sky. We often took 
3163walks along the edge of camp, watching sunsets made spectacular by the dusty 
3164haze and waiting for the moon to rise in the darkening sky. It was one of the few 
3165things to look forward to in our life at Topaz. 
3166Sometimes as we walked, we could hear the MPs singing in their quarters and 
3167then they seemed something more than the sentries who patrolled the barbed wire 
3168perimeters of our camp, and we realized they were lonely young boys far from 
3169home too. Still, they were on the other side of the fence, and they represented the 
3170Army we had come to fear and distrust. We never offered them our friendship, al- 
3171though at times they tried to talk to us. 
3172If I thought the dust I had breathed and absorbed so far was bad, I had seen 
3173nothing yet. About a week after we arrived, I encountered my first dust storm. The 
3174morning began cold and brittle as always, but by afternoon a strange warm wind 
3175had begun to blow. I happened to be in another block walking home with a friend 
3176when the wind suddenly gathered ominous strength. It swept around us in great 
3177thrusting gusts, flinging swirling masses of sand in the air and engulfing us in a 
3178thick cloud that eclipsed barracks only ten feet away. 
3179My friend grabbed my hand and pulled me into the nearest laundry barrack, but 
3180even inside, the air was thick with dust. The flimsy structure shuddered violently 
3181with each blast of wind, and we could hear garbage cans and wooden crates being 
3182swept from the ground and slammed against the building. We waited more than an 
3183hour, silent and rigid with fear, but the storm didn’t let up. I was afraid the laundry 
3184barrack might simply break apart and the howling wind would fling us out into the 
3185desert, but I was too terrified even to voice my thoughts. When at last the wind 
3186wasn’t quite so shrill, we decided to run for our home barracks so we wouldn’t be 
3187trapped where we were until night. 
3188The moment I turned the knob, the wind flung the door from me, and leaning 
3189into the wind, I started off alone in the blinding dust storm. As I ran, I could feel 
3190the sand swirling into my eyes and nose and mouth. I couldn’t breathe and the 
3191dust was choking me. But fear gave me strength to fight the storm and I finally 
3192reached Block 7. When I stumbled into our room, I was covered with dust. My hair, 
3193my eyelashes, and my eyebrows were white with it, and my mouth was filled with 
3194its chalky taste. I found my mother sitting alone and frightened in our dust-filled 
3195room. The air looked smoky with dust. 
3196“Thank goodness you’re safe, Yo Chan,” she said. “Do you know where Kay 
3197and Papa are?” 
3198I didn’t and I wished they would get home. But I told her, “Don’t worry, Mama, 
3199they’re probably waiting out the storm in some safe place.” 
3200It was pointless trying to clean our room until the wind stopped blowing, so my 
3201mother and I shook out our blankets, lay down on our cots, and waited for the dust 
3202storm to subside. It was a long afternoon, and my father and sister didn’t get back 
3203until supper-time. Both of them returned covered with dust and looking just as I 
3204had when I had run home. 
3205The wind didn’t die down until long after the sun had set, and when I went out- 
3206side to look at the sky, it was almost as though the dust storm had been a bad 
3207dream. The air was calm and still, and the night sky was filled with a mass of stars 
3208that seemed to mock me with their piercing brilliance. 
3209My mother and I tried to do a wash in the morning, but all the tubs were taken 
3210and the water soon ran out. We swept out our room and wiped away what dust we 
3211could, but by afternoon another wind storm blew up, so we simply covered every- 
3212thing with newspapers and waited for the storm to blow itself out. 
3213Just as at Tanforan, we had to deal in our early days at Topaz with the matter of 
3214physical adjustment. Because of the daily extremes in temperature, the altitude 
3215(4,600 feet above sea level), and the ever pervasive dust, it took many weeks for us 
3216to become acclimated and to overcome the despondency caused by the inadequacy 
3217of everything from housing to food. We tried taking salt pills as the doctors sug- 
3218gested, but found that instead of helping matters, they simply nauseated us. 
3219Once more my sister grew ill and spent many long days in bed, prompting a 
3220well-meaning Issei friend to bring her a small container of clear broth. 
3221“Just take this, Keiko San,” she urged, “and you’ll be strong and healthy in no 
3222time at all. I guarantee it will work.” 
3223It wasn’t until after Kay was up and around that the friend came again to see 
3224her. “It worked, didn’t it—my broth?” she asked. 
3225“I guess it did,” my sister allowed. 
3226Only then did the woman reveal she had made the brew with earthworms. “It’s 
3227guaranteed to restore good health,” she said proudly. 
3228In a few days she came back again, this time with a small bottle of ink-black liq- 
3229uid. “It’s essence of egg yolk,” she explained. “I made it myself by rendering the oil 
3230from many egg yolks. Try it, Keiko San,” she urged, “and you’ll never be sick 
3231again.” 
3232But my sister had had enough of the woman’s nostrums. “Thanks, but not 
3233me,” she said shaking her head. And it was Mama, ever trusting and hopeful, who 
3234gave it a try. There was no great improvement in her health, but she faithfully swal- 
3235lowed the foul-smelling black oil for a long time before she gave up. 
3236None of us felt well during our incarceration in Topaz. We all caught frequent 
3237colds during the harsh winter months and had frequent stomach upsets. Illness 
3238was a nuisance, especially after we began to work, for memos from a doctor were 
3239required to obtain sick leave. Much of our energy simply went into keeping our 
3240room dusted, swept, and mopped to be rid of the constant accumulation of dust, 
3241and in trying to do a laundry when the water was running. 
3242We had no idea when the water would be turned on, for its appearance had no 
3243predictable pattern. Its stoppage was equally unpredictable, and people sometimes 
3244got caught in the shower covered with soap when the water trickled to a mad- 
3245dening stop. We simply had to help each other. When the water was running, a 
3246neighbor would bang on our door and shout, “The water’s running.” Then whoever 
3247was home at the time would rush with buckets and pans to the laundry and bring 
3248back enough water to provide an emergency supply in our room. Often we would 
3249just grab our soap and towel and run for the showers, and sometimes, in our 
3250haste, we forgot our towels and had to use our clothes to dry ourselves. 
3251If we were lucky, Mama and I would happen on an empty laundry tub when the 
3252water was running. If in addition it was hot, we would take everything in our laun- 
3253dry hamper and do an enormous wash. Hand washing the bed linens, towels, and 
3254clothing for four people using only a wooden washboard was an exhausting task. 
3255My mother and I felt completely depleted after we had finished, but we were also 
3256relieved of considerable frustration, at least until our hamper was full again. And in 
3257the meantime, there was also the ironing to be done. 
3258Water wasn’t the only thing in short supply. One day there was talk that a trans- 
3259former had blown out and that we must cut down on our use of electricity or the 
3260entire camp might be in darkness for three weeks. This rumor may have been a 
3261ploy to frighten us into cutting down on our use of hot plates, but if it was, it 
3262worked. We conserved with great care what little we had of the precious resources 
3263that gave us a few creature comforts. 
3264The shortage of barracks caused unhappiness, not only among the new ar- 
3265rivals, but among the groups trying to organize the camp’s activities. The 
3266Education Department, for instance, wanted barracks for schools, and the Recre- 
3267ation Department was equally anxious to secure barracks for its projects. The 
3268Placement Bureau also had its troubles. It had begun placing residents at various 
3269jobs throughout camp, but was accused by many of favoritism and patronage, and 
3270the administration, caught in the middle, quickly became the target of everyone’s 
3271ire. A call for sugar beet workers on outside farms was immediately filled, because 
3272there were any number of men who wanted to escape the confusion and disarray of 
3273life inside the barbed wire. 
3274We took frequent trips to the Canteen, hoping to find an outside newspaper, 
3275but usually found nothing more exciting than canned carrot juice, something I had 
3276never encountered before coming to Topaz. Finally, in desperation, we subscribed 
3277to the New York Times. 
3278On the advice of the government, the Canteen was one of the first enterprises 
3279to be turned over to the residents and was soon operated as a Consumers’ Cooper- 
3280ative. From its inception, my father served as chairman of the Board of Directors 
3281and as president of the Cooperative Congress, enabling him to keep busy and to 
3282help other people, the two essential ingredients in his life. 
3283It wasn’t long before the Coop had a paid-in resident membership capital- 
3284ization of close to $5,000, and in November the Canteen grossed over $20,000. It 
3285eventually included such services as a barber shop and a radio repair shop, and in 
3286later months it opened two movie houses and a dry goods store that grossed al- 
3287most $2,700 on its opening day. 
3288 
3289As mornings and nights grew colder, we looked with increased longing at the black 
3290iron stove that stood uselessly outside our barrack waiting for work crews to bring 
3291it inside and connect it. Although we had instructions not to install the stoves our- 
3292selves, many of our neighbors had disregarded the notice and done exactly that. 
3293Such were the ways of our camp bureaucracy that our neighbors’ independence se- 
3294cured them some heat, while our acquiescence to orders almost cost us our stove. 
3295One day almost a month after our arrival, a work crew composed of resident 
3296men appeared, not to install our stove, but to carry it off along with others that re- 
3297mained outside. Fortunately, my father was home at the time and quickly pointed 
3298out the injustice of the situation. “That’s not fair, is it?” he asked. “Why do you 
3299penalize only those who obeyed instructions?” The work crew knew he was right 
3300and not one man gave him an argument. They quietly carried our stove inside and 
3301installed it without further delay. At last, thanks to Papa, we had some heat in our 
3302room. Not only were we reasonably warm, there was some improvement in our 
3303food as well. The correlation between good food and rising spirits was, I discov- 
3304ered, pathetically simple. 
3305By now my sister had regained her health and was busy helping to organize a 
3306nursery school system for Topaz, while I applied for work in the elementary school 
3307system. We both earned a salary of $19 a month for a forty-hour work week. 
3308At the first meeting of the educational staff, we were addressed by Dr. John C. 
3309Carlisle, head of the Education Section, and by the assistant director of education 
3310and recreation of the War Relocation Authority. They both seemed sensitive to our 
3311special needs and presented plans for a community school with a flexible informal 
3312program appropriate to life in Topaz. There was to be no “Americanization” such 
3313as saluting the flag. A syllabus had been prepared by a Stanford University Summer 
3314Session class outlining the core curriculum we were to use, and Dr. Carlisle ex- 
3315pressed the hope that schools could open in a few days. 
3316The two elementary schools were to be located in Blocks 8 and 41, at the two 
3317opposite corners of camp, and the following day I went with one of the white teach- 
3318ers employed at Topaz to inspect Block 8. We were shocked to discover, however, 
3319that all the school barracks were absolutely bare. There were no stoves, no tables 
3320or chairs, no light bulbs, no supplies, no equipment of any kind. Nothing. The 
3321teacher invited me back to her quarters to write up our report, and I was astonished 
3322to see how comfortable a barrack could be when it was properly furnished. 
3323The white staff members at Topaz lived in special barracks located near the 
3324Administration Building. This woman and her husband had come as teachers, 
3325bringing with them a six-month-old baby who would be cared for by a resident 
3326worker earning $16 a month. They lived in half of a barrack (the area occupied by 
3327three internee families), with linoleum and carpeting on the floor, a houseful of 
3328comfortable furniture, a fully equipped kitchen, and all the usual household objects 
3329that make up a home. Furnished in this way, their quarters didn’t even look like an 
3330Army barrack. I was amazed at the transformation and realized this was the first 
3331time in six months I had been inside a normally furnished home. I was filled with 
3332envy, longing, and resentment. Until I had seen these comfortable and well- 
3333furnished quarters, I hadn’t realized how much I missed our home in Berkeley, and 
3334more than anything I longed to be back once more in our house on Stuart Street. 
3335I was assigned to register children and to teach the second grade at the school 
3336in Block 41, located at the opposite end of camp, farthest from the Administration 
3337Building. All the teachers there were resident Japanese, while the white teachers 
3338were all assigned to Block 8, close to the Administration Building and to their own 
3339home barracks. When we went to inspect the barracks of Block 41, the situation 
3340was even more alarming than was the case in Block 8. There were large holes in the 
3341roof where the stove pipes were to fit, inner sheetrock walls had not been installed, 
3342floors were covered with dust and dirt, and again there were no supplies or equip- 
3343ment for teaching. 
3344It seemed useless even to attempt opening the schools, but the administrator 
3345in charge of elementary school education, an insensitive and ineffectual white man, 
3346ordered the registration for classes to proceed as scheduled on Monday, October 
334719. The children flocked to school in great numbers, but it was too cold to work in- 
3348side the barracks, so we registered them outside at tables set up in the sun. 
3349The following day when the children arrived, we had to send them back home 
3350because the school barracks were still unusable and we still had no supplies. 
3351On Wednesday the barracks remained untouched, although construction of the 
3352guard towers and the barbed wire fence around the camp were proceeding without 
3353delay. When Dillon S. Myer, head of the War Relocation Authority, visited our 
3354camp, he was questioned about the need for a fence, but replied it was under the 
3355jurisdiction of the Army, which was free to do whatever it felt necessary for our pro- 
3356tection. 
3357It was impossible for the children to sit inside the unheated school barracks 
3358still frigid with nighttime temperatures of thirty degrees, so we tried moving our 
3359classes outside. But the feeble morning sun did little to dispel the penetrating cold, 
3360so once again, after half an hour, we sent the children home. As a solution, we 
3361switched the daily teachers’ meeting to the morning and tried to hold classes in the 
3362afternoon when the barracks, though still incomplete, were at least a little warmer. 
3363Before stoves or inner sheetrock walls were installed, we had another violent 
3364dust storm that brought to a head a long-simmering crisis in the entire school 
3365system. One day about noon, I saw gray-brown clouds massing in the sky, and a 
3366hot sultry wind seemed to signal the coming of another storm. I waited for word 
3367that schools would be closed for the afternoon, but none was forthcoming. 
3368I dreaded the long seven-block walk to school, but shortly after lunch, I set out 
3369with a scarf wrapped around my head so it covered my nose and mouth as well. By 
3370the time I was half way to Block 41, the wind grew so intense, I felt as though I were 
3371caught in the eye of a dust hurricane. Feeling panicky, I thought of running home, 
3372but realized I was as far from my own barrack now as I was from school, and it was 
3373possible some children might be at the school. 
3374Soon barracks only a few feet away were completely obscured by walls of dust 
3375and I was terrified the wind would knock me off my feet. Every few yards, I stopped 
3376to lean against a barrack to catch my breath, then lowering my head against the 
3377wind, I plodded on. When I got to school, I discovered many children had braved 
3378the storm as well and were waiting for me in the dust-filled classroom. 
3379I was touched, as always, to see their eagerness to learn despite the desolation 
3380of their surroundings, the meager tools for learning, and, in this case, the physical 
3381dangers they encountered just to reach school. At the time their cheerful resiliency 
3382encouraged me, but I’ve wondered since if the bewildering trauma of the forced re- 
3383moval from their homes inflicted permanent damage to their young psyches. 
3384Although I made an attempt to teach, so much dust was pouring into the room 
3385from all sides as well as the hole in the roof that it soon became impossible, and I 
3386decided to send the children home before the storm grew worse. “Be very careful 
3387and run home as fast as you can,” I cautioned, and the other teachers of Block 41 
3388dismissed their classes as well. 
3389That night the wind still hadn’t subsided, but my father went out to a meeting 
3390he felt he shouldn’t miss. As my mother, sister, and I waited out the storm in our 
3391room, the wind reached such force we thought our barrack would be torn from its 
3392feeble foundations. Pebbles and rocks rained against the walls, and the news- 
3393papers we stuffed into the cracks in the siding came flying back into the room. The 
3394air was so thick with the smoke-like dust, my mouth was gritty with it and my lungs 
3395seemed penetrated by it. For hours the wind shrieked around our shuddering bar- 
3396rack, and I realized how frightened my mother was when I saw her get down on her 
3397knees to pray at her cot. I had never seen her do that before. 
3398The wind stopped short of destroying our camp, and Papa came home safely, 
3399covered with dust, but I wondered what I would do if I had a roomful of children 
3400under my care during another such storm. The sobering reality was that I could do 
3401nothing. Although our barrack had held, I learned later that many of the camp’s 
3402chicken coops had been blown out into the desert. 
3403The following day the head of the elementary schools reprimanded us for hav- 
3404ing dismissed school without his permission. 
3405“But we have no telephones in the barracks,” we pointed out to him. “How 
3406could we have reached you at the Administration Building at the opposite end of 
3407camp?” 
3408We were infuriated by him. We could put up with all the physical inadequacies, 
3409abysmal as they were, but such insensitive arrogance and officiousness from a 
3410white employee were galling, and more than we could bear. By then we were so 
3411frustrated, angry, and despondent that the teachers of Block 41 were ready to resign 
3412en masse. The high school teachers with problems of their own were similarly 
3413demoralized. We all went to Dr. Carlisle with our troubles, and because he was 
3414wise enough to respect our dignity and accord us some genuine understanding, 
3415the mass resignation of the resident teaching staff was averted. Eventually a new 
3416and able elementary school head was appointed and we tried once more to resume 
3417classes. Here's some poetry. Someone named it 
3418Topaz . . . 
3419This land 
3420Where neither grass 
3421Nor trees 
3422Nor wild flowers grow. 
3423   
3424Banished to this 
3425Desert land, 
3426I cherish the 
3427Blessing of the sky. 
3428   
3429The fury of the 
3430Dust storm spent, 
3431I gaze through tears 
3432At the sunset glow. 
3433   
3434Grown old so soon 
3435In a foreign land, 
3436What do they think, 
3437These people 
3438Eating in lonely silence? 
3439 
3440                             Yukari.
3441
3442Chapter 8. Topaz: Winter's Despair.
3443
3444TOWARD THE END OF OCTOBER WE BEGAN TO SEE SNOW on the mountains that 
3445ringed our desert and even afternoons began to grow cold. A coal shortage soon 
3446developed and hot water was limited to the two hours between 7:00 and 9:00 P.M., 
3447bringing on a hectic scramble for the showers each evening. 
3448The sheetrock crews finally came to our block, but moved so slowly that they 
3449still had not reached our barrack when the first snows fell on Topaz. As though to 
3450compensate for this delay, small ten by twenty inch mirrors were installed over 
3451each basin in the washroom. But by this time, I had grown so accustomed to wash- 
3452ing my face without a mirror, I found it rather disturbing to look up and see my 
3453strange sun-browned face looking back at me. 
3454On October 30, over a month after our arrival, the sheetrock crew finally 
3455reached our room. “Hurray! About time! We’ve been waiting for you!” We greeted 
3456them with much enthusiasm, only to learn that as of the previous day they had 
3457been given orders to install ceilings only. It was a bitter disappointment, but a ceil- 
3458ing was better than nothing, and we quickly carried our belongings next door while 
3459the sheetrock crew worked on our room. The new ceiling made the room cozier, 
3460and sounds from the neighboring rooms were now muffled, much to our mutual 
3461relief. 
3462A week later, with no explanation at all, another work crew appeared to install 
3463our sheetrock walls. We didn’t ask any questions. We were by now prepared for any 
3464kind of irrational behavior from those in charge of our lives, and we simply carried 
3465all our possessions once more to our neighbors’ room, while the new crew put up 
3466our sheetrock walls. We now had our stove and we had our walls. My father was 
3467anxious to put up some shelves so we could make our room more comfortable, 
3468and we looked forward to being able to settle down at last. 
3469My mother immediately ordered some heavy monk’s cloth to make curtains 
3470separating our cots from the general “living area” near the stove. We needed this 
3471visual separation badly to give us a little privacy when one of us was ill or when 
3472someone came to talk Coop business with my father when the rest of us wanted to 
3473relax. Our friends continued to stop by in Topaz as they had in Tanforan, and we all 
3474gathered around the table near the stove where a kettle of hot water was always on 
3475hand for tea. Some were young people who came to see my sister and me, while 
3476others were Issei friends of my parents. Sometimes the gatherings were light- 
3477hearted, but sometimes they were somber and sad. Once an elderly Issei friend 
3478wept as he said to my father, “Uchida San, I’m old and I may die before the war 
3479ends. I don’t want to die and be buried in a place like this.” 
3480Because our family had always been close, it wasn’t too difficult for us to adjust 
3481to living at such close quarters. For other families, however, the tensions of one- 
3482room living proved more destructive. Many children drifted away from their par- 
3483ents, rarely bothering to spend time in their own barracks, even eating all their 
3484meals with friends at other mess halls. The concept of family was rapidly breaking 
3485down, adding to the growing misery of life in camp. 
3486Our friends on the outside continued to help make our lives bearable with their 
3487many letters and packages. My mother’s former teacher, still a cherished friend, 
3488now returned in kind the love my mother had given her as a young, admiring stu- 
3489dent. She wrote us often, and for my November birthday she sent a carton con- 
3490taining homemade cupcakes, candles, and two jars of chocolate frosting, all se- 
3491curely tied down so everything arrived in perfect condition. For my gift she sent an 
3492heirloom silver teaspoon that once belonged to her grandmother, and knowing 
3493how much my mother missed flowers, she also included a bouquet of flowers, 
3494each stem wrapped carefully in wet cotton. Throughout the war, white friends such 
3495as these supported and sustained us, and their letters followed us as we moved 
3496from camp to cities in the east and eventually back to California. 
3497Other Japanese, however, were not so fortunate in their friends. There were 
3498some farmers who entrusted their farms to white contractors and trustees, only to 
3499be systematically robbed of enormous wartime profits during their absence. Others 
3500who had given “power of attorney” to white “friends” also lost possessions that 
3501were sold without their knowledge. 
3502 
3503A succession of dust storms, rain squalls, and a severe snowstorm finally brought 
3504our limping schools to a complete halt in mid-November. The snowfall was beau- 
3505tiful, obliterating the ugliness of our camp with its pristine white, but within an 
3506hour the roads were trampled with footprints and the few perfect moments were 
3507gone. Snow blew in from the holes still remaining in our roof and it was impos- 
3508sible to endure the ten degree Fahrenheit temperatures even though we were bun- 
3509dled up in coats, scarves, and boots. My fingers and toes often ached from the 
3510cold. 
3511Finally it was officially announced that schools would close and not reopen 
3512until they were fully winterized with sheetrock walls and stoves. It was close to 
3513miraculous that we had been able to hold classes for as long as we had, and it was 
3514only because the children were so eager to come and the parents so anxious to 
3515have some order in their lives. 
3516My class had just begun a Thanksgiving project of cardboard cabins and pil- 
3517grims, and the children were reluctant to leave it half completed. 
3518“Never mind,” I told them. “It’ll keep. And when we get back, our rooms will be 
3519warm. Won’t that be wonderful?” 
3520The children agreed, but I think some of them would have been willing to en- 
3521dure the cold to keep coming to school, for there was little else in Topaz for them 
3522to do. Despite our limitations, we had had some good times together. We once got 
3523permission to go outside the gates to visit a nearby sheepherder; we had a pet fish 
3524in a glass jar whose death we mourned with a funeral; one day we experienced the 
3525excitement of finding a snake in our classroom; and we had small parties for holi- 
3526days and birthdays. But most important, the children had some sense of purpose 
3527in their lives as long as they were coming to school to learn. 
3528With the approach of the holiday season, a few rather touching attempts were 
3529made to bring some cheer into our drab lives. One afternoon the high school band 
3530from Delta came in their fine red uniforms to give us a concert. They played to a 
3531full house of appreciative residents, and the following week a group of entertainers 
3532from Topaz went to Delta in exchange. 
3533Through the determined efforts of the residents, our first Thanksgiving in camp 
3534was a relatively happy occasion. The men of our block had spent the entire day 
3535planting willow saplings that had been transported into camp from somewhere be- 
3536yond the desert. The young trees looked too frail to survive in the alkaline soil, but 
3537we all felt anything was worth trying. We longed desperately for something green, 
3538some trees or shrubs or plants so we might have something to look forward to 
3539with the approach of spring. There existed a master plan that called for the planting 
3540of one large tree in front of every mess hall and the lining of the two-hundred- 
3541foot-wide firebreaks between each block with trees as well. It was a nice thought, 
3542and efforts to make it a reality got under way in December, but were eventually de- 
3543feated by the harsh climate and the unfriendly soil. Our desert remained a desert, 
3544and not even the industrious Japanese Americans could transform it into anything 
3545else. 
3546During November, for some unexplained reason known only to the Army, many 
3547people who had property stored in government warehouses suddenly had their be- 
3548longings shipped out to them in the desert. We wondered if the Army was trying to 
3549tell us we could never return to California and that it wanted to be rid of our poss- 
3550essions as well as our presence. 
3551At any rate, this enabled some residents to wear clothing they hadn’t expected 
3552to use in camp. For our Thanksgiving dinner we all put aside our slacks and bulky 
3553jackets and dug into our suitcases for our good clothes. My sister and I wore 
3554dresses and heels for the first time since coming to Topaz, Mama put on her Sun- 
3555day clothes, and Papa wore his white shirt, black bow tie, and good suit. Even the 
3556cook wore a dark suit and tie. 
3557Our mess hall was decorated with streamers and a large sign reading, “Thanks- 
3558giving Greetings from Your Mess 7 Crew.” Instead of standing in line for our food 
3559as we usually did, we all sat down together and observed a moment of prayer. We 
3560were served a turkey dinner with the usual accompaniments, and to celebrate the 
3561completion of the sheetrocking of our block, we all chipped in for ice cream that 
3562was served with our pumpkin pie and coffee. 
3563It was a dinner vastly different from our plain daily fare, and it satisfied more 
3564than our physical hunger. We were pleasantly surprised to find several talented 
3565residents in our block who entertained us with musical numbers. My father, always 
3566happy to perform, sang his “Song of Topaz” adapted from the “Missoula Camp 
3567Song” which he had written in Montana. By now it had acquired some fame among 
3568the Issei, and they loved to hear it. When the entertainment was over, we walked 
3569back to our barrack feeling a warmth and sense of community we had not known 
3570since coming to Topaz. 
3571Occasionally we had our own private celebrations as well, such as my parents’ 
3572twenty-sixth wedding anniversary. My sister and I were anxious to make this an- 
3573niversary a special occasion since they had been separated on their twenty-fifth, 
3574and the limitations of our environment caused us to be imaginative. We made a 
3575scrapbook for them with photos cut from magazines of all the things we wished we 
3576could give them. There were pictures of a large baked ham, fresh fruits, bowls and 
3577bowls of fresh vegetables and salads, and an array of fancy desserts. We also in- 
3578cluded pictures of such gifts as crystals and a silver tea service. What we actually 
3579served at a tea for their friends were tuna sandwiches, cookies, and ice cream from 
3580the Canteen, but Mama and Papa seemed genuinely touched and pleased by our 
3581simple childlike efforts. 
3582 
3583Sometime in December, when stoves and sheetrock walls were finally installed, 
3584schools were able to reopen at last, this time for all-day sessions. It was a great re- 
3585lief to be warm in my classroom, and the atmosphere was further improved by 
3586bright colored curtains my mother had sewn for me by hand. Life settled down at 
3587last to a fairly stable routine, and this now included a weekly headcount of all resi- 
3588dents every Monday evening. 
3589Increasing numbers of outside visitors came to observe conditions in our 
3590camp, and one of them was the director of the International House at the Univer- 
3591sity of California in Berkeley. A group of former students and alumni gathered to 
3592hear him speak, as he told of the changes the war had brought to Berkeley—the 
3593blackouts, the food shortages, and the flood of defense workers into the city. We 
3594were saddened and frustrated to realize that when manpower was so badly needed 
3595in America’s war effort, we Japanese Americans were not only denied the right to 
3596serve our country, but had been made its unwilling victims. 
3597Among our visitors was Margaret G. Bondfield, a former British minister of 
3598labor who had served four times in Parliament. My parents were invited to a dinner 
3599in her honor at the home of an administrative officer, and my sister and I were able 
3600to meet her at a breakfast meeting. I found her to be a warm individual who 
3601seemed genuinely concerned about our plight, and I invited her to visit my class 
3602the next day. The children were thrilled to have her sign our guest book and to see 
3603the string of titles that followed her name. On another occasion, Governor and 
3604Mrs. Maw of Utah came to visit Topaz and were invited to participate in 
3605ceremonies to install our City Council. 
3606Some visitors were from church groups and came to provide spiritual comfort 
3607as well as to observe conditions in our camp. They occupied the pulpits of our 
3608churches, and their words often gave a temporary lift to the monotony of our days. 
3609Other visitors came not to provide solace, but to investigate whether the tax- 
3610payers’ money was being misused. One day I was startled to have the chairman of 
3611the City Council, several camp dignitaries, including my father, and five senators 
3612from the Utah State Legislature walk into my classroom while observing our 
3613school. The senators had come to tour Topaz to see for themselves whether we 
3614were being coddled, as had been reported in their newspapers. Although they came 
3615after winterization of the barracks had been completed, I doubt whether they found 
3616we were being pampered. We were subject to the same rationing restrictions that 
3617applied to civilians outside, and our food budget was approximately 39 cents per 
3618person, per day. This later dropped to 31 cents with stringent restrictions placed on 
3619coffee and milk. 
3620Representatives of the National Japanese American Student Relocation Council 
3621also came in to talk to students interested in leaving camp, and worked diligently to 
3622help them further their education. I had passed up an earlier opportunity to go to 
3623Smith College from Tanforan because I felt I should stay with my fellow internees 
3624and make some positive contribution to our situation. Now, however, I longed to 
3625get out of this dreary camp, return to civilization, and continue my education. I ap- 
3626plied for enrollment in the Education Department at Smith College in Northamp- 
3627ton, Massachusetts, but discovered the earlier opening there was no longer avail- 
3628able. I also discovered that the process for obtaining a leave clearance was long 
3629and tedious. One did not decide to leave and simply walk out the gates. I waited 
3630impatiently and with increasing frustration as the weeks passed. 
3631The policy of the War Relocation Authority was to encourage early depopu- 
3632lation of the camps, and qualified citizens were permitted to leave as early as July 
36331942. Permission was granted if (a) the applicant had a place to go and means of 
3634supporting himself or herself; (b) FBI and intelligence records showed that the 
3635applicant would not endanger national security; (c) there was no evidence that his 
3636or her presence in a community would cause a public disturbance; and (d) the 
3637applicant agreed to keep the War Relocation Authority informed of his or her 
3638address at all times. In October, aliens who met the above qualifications were also 
3639permitted to leave. 
3640Students were among the first internees to leave the camps, and others fol- 
3641lowed to midwestern and eastern cities where previously few Japanese Americans 
3642had lived. Government procedures for clearing colleges as well as students were so 
3643slow, however, that in March of 1943 there was still a logjam in Washington of 
3644three hundred requests for leave clearance. The National Japanese American Stu- 
3645dent Relocation Council eventually assisted some three thousand students to leave 
3646the camps and enter over five hundred institutions of higher learning throughout 
3647the country. 
3648 
3649As Christmas approached, the days grew sharp and brittle with cold. Morning tem- 
3650peratures hovered close to zero, and the ice-covered saplings looked like fragile 
3651crystal ornaments glistening at the edge of the firebreaks. We decorated small 
3652greasewood Christmas trees in our classrooms and held an Open House for the 
3653parents at our schools. I gave my children a party with apples and milk from the 
3654mess hall, and the two elementary schools tried to present a joint Christmas pro- 
3655gram at Block 1. But inadequate planning, a shortage of chairs, and the lack of a 
3656public address system combined to produce a near riot among the over- 
3657stimulated, excited children. I was greatly relieved when we adjourned early and 
3658sent the children home for Christmas recess. 
3659A special Christmas tea was held at the art school, and my parents were among 
3660the hosts and hostesses as they were at many of the camp’s social functions. I de- 
3661cided to stop by for a look, but left quickly when I discovered that all the women 
3662were in dresses and high heels and that my baggy slacks were very much out of 
3663place amid the rather formal festivities. 
3664The residents tried whenever they could to re-create some of the more gracious 
3665moments of their former lives, and a Christmas tea, even though held in a dusty 
3666barrack in the middle of a bleak desert, gave some small sense of dignity to the de- 
3667meaned lives they now led. 
3668On Christmas Eve, carolers from church came to our barrack to sing for us, 
3669and from early morning on Christmas day friends came from all parts of the vast 
3670camp to call on us. Christmas was a day for friends, and even in camp our family 
3671was fortunate to have them in abundance. It wasn’t until afternoon that we were 
3672able to make some calls of our own, taking with us some of the evergreen sprays 
3673shipped to us from my mother’s friends in Cornwall, Connecticut. 
3674“Ah, ureshii. I’m so happy,” Mama had said, burying her face in the fragrant 
3675branches when they arrived, and she couldn’t rest until she had shared them with 
3676those of our friends who were too old or ill to come visit us. She kept only a few 
3677branches for herself, taking the rest to more than ten families. 
3678Gifts had come into Topaz and to other camps from all over the United States, 
3679many collected by church groups and the American Friends Service Committee, 
3680which sent out a plea for 50,000 Christmas gifts for the internees. In many cases 
3681correspondences and friendships developed that lasted long after the war ended, 
3682and we were touched by the compassion and concern some Americans felt for us. 
3683After making our Christmas calls, the four of us went together to our church 
3684service, and by the time we walked home, it was growing dark and the wind was 
3685piercing cold. We had a pleasant dinner at the mess hall and settled down to a 
3686quiet evening beside our glowing stove. It wasn’t often that our family had an 
3687evening just to ourselves, and it was a pleasant change. 
3688 
3689As the year drew to a close, my sister and I redoubled our efforts to leave Topaz. I 
3690couldn’t face the thought of beginning another year without some hope of leaving, 
3691for by now many of my friends had gone out to schools throughout the United 
3692States. Those of us who remained in camp did our best to make life pleasant and 
3693productive, but it was mostly a time of suspended expectations. I worked hard to 
3694be a good teacher; I went to meetings, wrote long letters to my friends, knitted 
3695sweaters and socks, devoured any books I could find, listened to the radio, went to 
3696art school and to church and to lectures by outside visitors. I spent time social- 
3697izing with friends and I saw an occasional movie at the Coop. I also had a wisdom 
3698tooth removed at the hospital and suffered a swollen face for three days. I caught 
3699one cold after another; I fell on the unpaved roads; I lost my voice from the dust; I 
3700got homesick and angry and despondent. And sometimes I cried. 
3701No matter what I did, I was still in an artificial government-spawned commu- 
3702nity on the periphery of the real world. I was in a dismal, dreary camp surrounded 
3703by barbed wire in the middle of a stark, harsh landscape that offered nothing to 
3704refresh the eye or heal the spirit. 
3705I wrote dozens of letters to the National Japanese American Student Relocation 
3706Council (whose staff by now seemed like friends) and filled out countless forms, 
3707determined to go anywhere if the fellowship to Smith College failed to materialize. 
3708My sister also filled out numerous applications, hoping to find an opening in her 
3709line of work. 
3710Even a brief exit from the gates was remarkably refreshing. From time to time 
3711residents were given special permits to go out to nearby Delta or Fillmore on offi- 
3712cial business. One day our elementary school supervisor took five of us teachers to 
3713visit one of Delta’s elementary schools. We visited the first, second, and third 
3714grades where, for the first time in many months, I saw blond and brown-haired 
3715children. I marveled at the skill of the professional teacher and went back to camp 
3716determined to improve my own teaching methods. But the delicious lunch at the 
3717Southern Hotel and the ice cream soda later in the day were just as important to 
3718me as the visit to the school, and lingered as a pleasant memory for several days. 
3719Another day my sister and I got permission to go to Delta with a white staff 
3720member to buy supplies for the nursery school. We had only a half hour in which 
3721to race from one store to another, but the joy of being in a real town and shopping 
3722freely in the outside world was a tremendous tonic to our spirits. These brief 
3723glimpses of life on the outside not only cheered us, but also increased our appetite 
3724for a permanent return to its freedom. 
3725My father, as a judicial commissioner, was also able on one occasion to go out 
3726to Fillmore on business with some officials. He didn’t return until 9:30 that night, 
3727but walked into our room looking absolutely rejuvenated, and laden with the mak- 
3728ings of a fine late night snack. Besides fruit, cookies, and candy, he had purchased 
3729butter (57 cents a pound), eggs (50 cents a dozen), bacon (47 cents a pound), and 
3730cups and saucers (35 cents each). It had been over a year since he had walked 
3731freely along the streets of a city, able to enter any shop, buy whatever he pleased, 
3732and bring home treats for the family as he used to do. 
3733He also brought home an interesting tale that gave us a good laugh. He told 
3734how, at the gate, the driver had reported to the guard, “There are six of us including 
3735Caucasians,” whereupon the guard peered into the car asking, “Which one of you 
3736is Mr. Caucasians?” It seemed that some who patrolled our boundaries and were in 
3737charge of our security were not very literate men. 
3738After considerable thought, my parents decided to apply for permission to visit 
3739my aging grandmother who had been sent to the Heart Mountain Relocation Cen- 
3740ter in Wyoming with my aunt and uncle’s family. It required weeks of paperwork 
3741and many teletypes to Washington before my father, an “enemy alien on parole,” 
3742was able to secure permission to travel from one government camp to another, 
3743accompanied by my “enemy alien” mother. They started out on their camp-to-camp 
3744journey one morning, and as soon as they reached Delta they bought two dozen or- 
3745anges and assorted groceries which they sent back to my sister and me via their car 
3746driver. During their ten-day trip they continued to send us postcards and letters all 
3747along the way, linking us as closely as possible with their own pleasure in being 
3748free. 
3749It cheered my father enormously to see his mother and sister for the first time 
3750since the war broke out. But more than that, it was the trip itself, enabling my par- 
3751ents to live freely outside the barbed wire enclosure even for a brief period, that 
3752had renewed their spirits. When they returned, they had an entirely different air 
3753about them. My mother looked so pretty and buoyant, and they both seemed re- 
3754freshed and rejuvenated. It was good to have them back, but it seemed a pity that 
3755they had to immerse themselves once more in the barren life at Topaz. 
3756 
3757As time went on, the residents of Topaz began to release their frustrations on each 
3758other in acts that seemed foreign to the Japanese nature. In communities where 
3759they had lived prior to the war, most of them had been respectable, hardworking 
3760people. There was, of course, the usual percentage of the dishonest and disrep- 
3761utable who inhabit any community, but the corrosive nature of life in camp seemed 
3762to bring out the worst in many people, provoking them into doing things they prob- 
3763ably would not have done outside. There was shoplifting in the dry goods store and 
3764false receipts were turned in for rebate at the Canteen. On the outside, such crimes 
3765were extremely rare among Japanese Americans in those days. One of our neigh- 
3766bors narrowly escaped being attacked as she crossed the high school lot one night, 
3767and women no longer felt safe walking alone after dark. 
3768My father was increasingly harassed by people who felt the Coop was not being 
3769properly administered, and these malcontents often brought their grievances to our 
3770room. My mother, sister, and I spent many tense evenings behind our monk’s 
3771cloth barrier, listening to hostile and abusive remarks shouted at my father. 
3772One night I was finally so provoked by these crude men and their vilifications 
3773that I emulated the artist at Tanforan and put up a big “Quarantined” sign on our 
3774door. But the next morning neighbors and friends came knocking on our door to 
3775inquire who was sick and what was wrong, so my father, embarrassed, quickly took 
3776down the sign. It was hopeless. There was no escape. 
3777Other camps seemed to have had more internal friction and violence than 
3778Topaz, but we had our share of it. Issei and Nisei resident leaders met often trying 
3779to arbitrate the differences among various factions in camp, and my father would 
3780sometimes be out until 2:00 and 3:00 A.M. attending such meetings. 
3781Dillon S. Myer, director of the War Relocation Authority camps, later wrote 
3782about what being cut off from the mainstream of American life can do to people. 
3783“It saps the initiative, weakens the instincts of human dignity and freedom, creates 
3784doubts, misgivings and tensions.”¹ He went on to describe how the Japanese 
3785Americans, once so enterprising and energetic, had grown increasingly obsessed 
3786with feelings of helplessness, personal insecurity, and inertia the longer they re- 
3787mained in camp. 
3788Such feelings were overtaking me as well and increased my desperation to get 
3789out of camp. Internal squabbling spread like a disease. Even the resident doctors at 
3790the hospital had their difficulties, requiring the mediation of a special committee. 
3791Much of the friction arose simply because the doctors were overworked. My moth- 
3792er once went to the hospital hoping to be examined for a lingering cough, but after 
3793waiting for several hours, came home unattended. “No one had time to see me. 
3794The doctors are all too busy,” she said, and she never went back. Neither could she 
3795bring herself to go to the hospital to have a wart removed from her cheek. When it 
3796first appeared shortly after the outbreak of war, she had said it was just one of her 
3797tears, dried on her face. In camp it seemed to be growing and we urged her to have 
3798it removed. But she wouldn’t do it. “I can’t bother those busy doctors with such a 
3799small thing,” she said. “Maybe it will go away when peace comes.” 
3800People crowded the hospital with all manner of minor ailments, but there were 
3801others who had such serious illnesses as tuberculosis, pneumonia, and kidney dis- 
3802ease. There were residents who needed major surgery, there were pregnant women 
3803who required prenatal care, there were births, and there were deaths. Life went on, 
3804even though in many ways it was standing still for us. 
3805One woman, whose husband was imprisoned early and interned in Louisiana, 
3806died suddenly following surgery. Her husband was permitted to come to Topaz for 
3807her funeral, but only under escort by two armed guards. Upon his arrival he was 
3808placed, not in a situation that might have given him some solace, but in the camp 
3809guardhouse. Outraged community welfare workers demanded his immediate re- 
3810lease, and he was permitted to remain in a barrack, but his guards were stationed 
3811in the adjoining room. He was allowed to stay in Topaz only long enough to attend 
3812the funeral, with no time to mourn his loss in the comforting presence of his 
3813friends, and was promptly sent back to his Louisiana internment camp. 
3814One of the funerals I attended in camp was for the father of a friend of mine. 
3815She had returned from school in Colorado for the occasion, and it must have been 
3816devastating for her to see the bleakness of Topaz for the first time, knowing her fa- 
3817ther had spent his last days in such a place. The funeral service was brief, and his 
3818coffin was decorated with cascades of crepe paper flowers painstakingly made by 
3819some Issei women. Many of those who died in Topaz were buried in the desert, 
3820and it seemed a bitter irony that only then were they outside the barbed wire fence. 
3821In mid-January the Spanish consul arrived on behalf of the Japanese govern- 
3822ment to investigate the treatment accorded Japanese nationals in camp. Prior to his 
3823arrival, a group of Issei, including my father, held many meetings to determine the 
3824grievances to be placed before the visiting diplomat. 
3825One of our Issei friends spoke to me about the matter one day saying, “It’s too 
3826bad you Nisei have no country to take your grievances to, Yoshiko San, since it’s 
3827your own country that’s put you behind barbed wire.” He was, of course, abso- 
3828lutely right, and I could only agree with him. 
3829At the time, our former home state, far from being concerned about our wel- 
3830fare, had lost none of its vituperative hatred for us. We heard there were still racist 
3831groups in California who wanted to revoke the citizenship of all Japanese Amer- 
3832icans, exclude us permanently from the state, and repatriate us to Japan at the end 
3833of the war. If our home state didn’t want us back, I wondered, where would we go 
3834at the end of the war? 
3835On January 28, 1943, Secretary of War Stimson announced a complete reversal 
3836of Army policy. Until that time, since June of 1942, all Nisei men had been clas- 
3837sified IV-C (not acceptable for service because of ancestry) and had not been in- 
3838ducted by the Selective Service, nor accepted when they volunteered. Now the 
3839secretary of war stated that the Army had decided to accept Nisei and, furthermore, 
3840that it wanted to create a special all-Nisei combat team. In February the Army 
3841began a recruitment program for this project, seeking volunteers from all the 
3842camps. 
3843In the same month, President Roosevelt made a statement issued, it seemed, a 
3844year too late: 
3845 
3846No loyal citizen of the United States should be denied the democratic right to 
3847exercise the responsibilities of his citizenship, regardless of his ancestry. 
3848The principle on which this country was founded and by which it has al- 
3849ways governed is that Americanism is a matter of the mind and heart. 
3850Americanism is not, and never was, a matter of race or ancestry. 
3851Every loyal American citizen should be given the opportunity to serve this 
3852country wherever his skills will make the greatest contribution—whether it be 
3853in the ranks of our armed forces, war production, agriculture, Government ser- 
3854vice, or other work essential to the war effort. 
3855 
3856Recruiters from the War Department were sent to all the camps to present their 
3857case and to answer questions the residents might have. A mass meeting for this 
3858purpose took place in Topaz in early February at one of the camp’s central mess 
3859halls, and an overflow crowd attended. 
3860The recruiters maintained that if the Nisei were diffused throughout the Army 
3861they would simply be additional manpower and nothing more. As an all-Nisei com- 
3862bat team, they pointed out, their actions would gain special attention, allowing the 
3863Nisei to prove their loyalty in a dramatic, forceful way to the entire country. 
3864But the thought of a segregated unit was abhorrent. Why, we wondered, 
3865couldn’t the Nisei simply serve as other Americans? Why should they be singled 
3866out when it hadn’t been deemed necessary to create an all-Italian or an all-German 
3867unit? Wouldn’t a segregated unit simply invite further discrimination and perhaps 
3868simplify their deployment to the most dangerous combat zones? These were 
3869urgent questions asked by the Nisei as well as the Issei of Topaz. 
3870Some Issei were outspoken about their disdain for such a plan. They asked why 
3871the Nisei should volunteer to fight for a country that had deprived them of every 
3872right as citizens and placed them behind barbed wire. They wondered why the 
3873Nisei should now offer their lives for a country that still did not accept them as it 
3874did other Americans and wanted to place them in segregated units. 
3875Many of the Nisei men in camp were of draft age. Rejected and incarcerated by 
3876their own country, they were now being asked to show their loyalty to that same 
3877country by volunteering. They were told by the recruiters that the future of the Nisei 
3878in America might well be determined by their decision. 
3879The presence of the Army recruiters caused tremendous turmoil in our camp. 
3880As part of their recruiting process the Army required a mass registration of all draft 
3881age Nisei men. The situation was complicated by a simultaneous War Relocation 
3882Authority mass registration for all other Nisei and Issei residents in connection 
3883with leave clearance and release from the camps. The timing, coinciding as it did 
3884with the Army recruitment, could not have been worse. 
3885Question 28 in both Army and War Relocation Authority forms contained the 
3886question: “Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America 
3887and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese Emperor, or any 
3888other foreign government power or organization?” It was an inept and foolish at- 
3889tempt to determine the respondent’s loyalty. 
3890Since, at the time, the Issei were by law classified “aliens ineligible for citi- 
3891zenship,” acquiescence to Question 28 would have left them without a country. 
3892The ill-conceived question was eventually revised in a manner acceptable to the 
3893Issei, but only after it caused untold confusion, alarm, and unnecessary anguish. 
3894For the Nisei men Question 28 was equally unacceptable, for it was a loaded 
3895question that implied a nonexistent allegiance to the Emperor of Japan. The Army’s 
3896Question 27 was also a problem for them. It asked, “Are you willing to serve in the 
3897armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered?” Many Nisei 
3898men felt they could not answer yes to that question until their civil rights were re- 
3899stored, and only with the proviso that they not be placed in a segregated unit. Un- 
3900able to qualify their answers in this way, they could only answer no to Question 27 
3901as well as 28. The men who answered no to both questions were sometimes 
3902referred to as the “no-no boys.” 
3903There were some Nisei men, however, who answered yes to both questions 
3904and volunteered for the all-Nisei combat team. Some volunteered because they felt 
3905it was the only way to prove the loyalty of the Nisei to the United States. Others 
3906went because they were as eager to fight fascism as any other American. 
3907The Nisei men of draft age were asked to make an agonizing decision inside 
3908the concentration camps of America. There were those critical of the “no-no” men 
3909and there were those critical of the men who answered yes and volunteered. I be- 
3910lieve it required uncommon courage to make either decision under intolerable cir- 
3911cumstances. 
3912One Nisei who volunteered from Topaz was a father past draft age. He did so, 
3913he said, because he believed the future of the Nisei was indeed at stake and he 
3914wanted to set an example for the younger men. 
3915A few of my friends volunteered from Topaz, as did two eighteen-year-old boys 
3916from our Japanese church in Oakland. My sister had taught both of them in her 
3917Sunday School class, and they came to say goodbye to us before they left camp. 
3918Some of my former college classmates also volunteered from other camps, and 
3919two of them never came back. 
3920The magnificent record of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team and the 100th 
3921Infantry Battalion, composed of Japanese Americans from Hawaii as well as the 
3922continental United States, is now well known, and serves as a testament to the ex- 
3923traordinary bravery of some fine Nisei men. 
3924 
3925As spring made its way to our desert camp, there was only a slight touch of warmth 
3926in the air. Everywhere I looked, there was only the hard white glare of bleached 
3927sand and no sign of the renewal of life so abundant in California. I would have 
3928been glad to see even the disdained dandelions my father used to dig out in such 
3929numbers from our lawn. 
3930We nurtured carefully a single daffodil bulb a friend had sent us, planting it in 
3931an old tin can and watching it closely each day. When that golden flower finally 
3932burst open, it was an occasion of real rejoicing, and I was amazed at the pleasure 
3933even a single flower could bring. 
3934One morning when I opened our door, I saw a flock of seagulls winging 
3935westward in the desert sky. “Come look! Hurry!” I shouted to everybody. I didn’t 
3936know where they had come from or where they were going, but their shrill cries 
3937brought back with painful clarity the sounds of San Francisco Bay. For a fleeting 
3938moment I was touched by the beauty and grace of their soaring flight, and over- 
3939whelmed with thoughts of home. 
3940Most of the saplings, planted so hopefully in the fall, had died because nothing 
3941nourished their fragile roots, and the children finished what the hostile soil began 
3942by playing leapfrog over the dying trees as they walked to and from school. Even 
3943the large tree in front of our mess hall remained only a dark skeleton despite the 
3944encouragement and tender care it received from the residents. 
3945Although there were many such discouraging setbacks, the people of Topaz 
3946never gave up in their efforts to improve the camp. One day all the able-bodied 
3947men of our block went out on trucks to a distant river bed to collect gravel to pave 
3948the roads. The gravel, it was hoped, might hold down the dust and prevent the 
3949roads from becoming mired in mud during rainstorms. 
3950My father was older than the other men who volunteered, but he insisted on 
3951going with them. We had tried before to dissuade him from taking on so many 
3952extra functions, from making the announcements at our mess hall to presiding at 
3953block parties and wedding receptions. He and my mother also served as “go- 
3954betweens” for many young couples. “You just try to do too much, Papa,” we would 
3955tell him. But he continued to ignore what I suppose to him were bothersome con- 
3956cerns, and did exactly as he pleased. He was gone for most of the day and came 
3957home with a terrible sunburn and blisters on both hands, but that night he went to 
3958church to speak at a young people’s meeting. 
3959 
3960IMAGE AND CAPTION. A group of internees at Topaz taking a break from digging a ditch for a Coop water pipe. Courtesy of Mr. and Mrs. Emil Sekerak.
3961
3962 
3963Occasionally, groups were permitted to go to the nearby mountains in trucks 
3964for rock-hunting parties, but it wasn’t always necessary to go beyond the gates. 
3965With luck, we sometimes found old arrowheads, trilobites, or unusual stones in- 
3966side the camp grounds, and we often walked head down, eyes on the ground, in 
3967search of some small hidden treasure. 
3968One evening a sixty-three-year-old man, probably absorbed in such a search, 
3969was shot to death by an MP on duty in one of the guard towers. The guard claimed 
3970he had shouted four times for the man to halt, but that the man had tried to crawl 
3971out under the fence. His body, however, was found more than three feet inside the 
3972fence and he probably hadn’t heard the guard’s calls from the high tower several 
3973hundred feet away. 
3974The death caused an uproar throughout camp. Everyone was outraged that the 
3975MP had not fired a warning shot before aiming to kill. How far, after all, could the 
3976man have gone, even if he had crawled under the fence. If it happened once, the 
3977residents reasoned, it could happen again. And what about the safety of the children? Block meetings were held, investigations got under way, and the Spanish 
3978consul arrived once more in great haste. A week later, the furor still hadn’t abated. 
3979We never learned what punishment, if any, was meted out to the guard, but a 
3980camp-wide funeral was held for the victim, and he was laid to rest in the desert with 
3981reverberations of the event still shaking the entire camp. 
3982Spring, instead of bringing peace to Topaz, heightened the general feeling of 
3983unrest, and a small group of pro-Japan agitators became increasingly threatening. 
3984These men, tough, arrogant, and belligerent, blatantly fashioned knives and other 
3985weapons from scrap metal and sat sharpening them in front of their barracks. 
3986Some were Issei, some were Kibei. All were angry, and focused their resentment 
3987primarily on those Issei who worked in positions of responsibility and leadership 
3988requiring close contact with the white administrative staff. 
3989One night the head of the art school was attacked by a group of these men, and 
3990we worried about my father who often walked home alone on the dark unlit roads 
3991after meetings. We wanted him to cut down on his committee work, for now in 
3992addition to the Coop and the Judicial Commission, he was on the Arbitration 
3993Board, was chairman of the Church Finance Committee, and had been asked to run 
3994for city manager as well. Like many of the other Issei leaders, he was respected and 
3995well-liked in Topaz and soon became one of the targets of the agitators. 
3996Two of these disgruntled men came to warn my father one night that he was 
3997being too obsequious to the white administrative staff. It was an ugly, threatening 
3998confrontation, and although my father dismissed it casually, the rest of us, includ- 
3999ing his friends, were deeply concerned for his safety. His life, it seemed, was being 
4000threatened by the very Japanese he was trying to help. 
4001The harassment of Issei leaders increased, and one of the church ministers 
4002who also devoted much time to community service was attacked one night by three 
4003masked men wielding lead pipes. The resident internal police could do nothing to 
4004control these lawless men for their cowardly attacks always occurred late at night 
4005when the victims were alone, there were no witnesses, and they could flee unde- 
4006tected into the darkness. 
4007My parents wanted to stay in camp with their friends as long as possible, but 
4008as these attacks became more frequent and violent, we urged my father to consider 
4009leaving camp too. 
4010 
4011Good news came first for my sister. Early in May she was offered a position as 
4012assistant in the nursery school run by the education department of Mt. Holyoke 
4013College. Until she could go there in the fall, she was invited to spend the summer 
4014at Pendle Hill, Pennsylvania, a Quaker study center. 
4015Soon thereafter, a letter came for me as well. I had been accepted at Smith Col- 
4016lege with a full graduate fellowship, covering room, board, and tuition, which had 
4017become available in the department of education. Until I could go there in the fall, I 
4018was invited to spend the summer with a family in New York City whom I had met 
4019only once when visiting Cornwall, Connecticut, as a child. The daughter, Cathy, and 
4020I had corresponded ever since that long ago meeting in Cornwall when my mother 
4021had first met her own pen pals. And now, so many years later, it was the myste- 
4022rious and wonderful spinning out of the thread of friendship begun by my mother 
4023in Kyoto and catching Cathy and me in its strands that gave me a home to go to 
4024from the Utah desert. 
4025Now there was only the wait for my indefinite leave papers, and they finally ar- 
4026rived on the twenty-fourth of May. Knowing how anxiously I waited for them, my fa- 
4027ther hurried down to my school with them the moment they arrived. 
4028“Good news!” he called out, smiling and waving the papers. “Your good news 
4029has come!” 
4030The long wait was over. 
4031On my last day at school, the children of my class presented me with a clay 
4032bowl one of them had made, and they stood together, giggling and embarrassed, to 
4033sing one last song for me. 
4034On our last Sunday, my sister and I went to say goodbye to all our friends, 
4035especially the older Issei who we knew would probably remain in camp until the 
4036end of the war. 
4037It was hard for us to go, leaving behind our Issei parents in the desolation of 
4038that desert camp. And I imagine other Nisei felt as we did as they ventured forth 
4039into the outside world. 
4040Because we Nisei were still relatively young at the time, it was largely the Issei 
4041who had led the way, guiding us through the devastation and trauma of our forced 
4042removal. When they were uprooted from their homes, many had just reached a 
4043point of financial security in their lives. During the war, however, they all suffered 
4044enormous losses, both tangible and intangible. The evacuation was the ultimate of 
4045the incalculable hardships and indignities they had borne over the years. 
4046And yet most of our parents had continued to be steadfast and strong in spirit. 
4047Our mothers had made homes of the bleak barrack rooms, just as my own mother, 
4048in her gentle, nurturing way, had been a loving focal point for our family and 
4049friends. 
4050Deprived of so much themselves, the Issei wanted the best for their Nisei chil- 
4051dren. Many had sacrificed to send their children to college, and they encouraged 
4052them now to leave camp to continue their education. 
4053As my sister and I prepared for our departure, thoughts of gratitude toward our 
4054Issei parents still lay unspoken deep within us, and it was only in later years that we 
4055came to realize how much they had done for us; how much they had given us to 
4056enrich and strengthen our lives. 
4057When we left Topaz, we didn’t know that a stink bomb would be thrown into 
4058my parents’ room and that the administration would clear the way for my father’s 
4059release to Salt Lake City because it was too dangerous for him to stay in Topaz. We 
4060were spared that terror and were able to share instead their sense of joy and release 
4061when they too were finally free. 
4062Wearing a suit my mother had made for me, shoes ordered by mail, and a hat 
4063that came out of one of our trunks, I was ready at last to face New York City and the 
4064world outside. And I was glad to have my sister at my side to share with me what- 
4065ever lay ahead beyond the barbed wire. 
4066Some of our friends came with my mother and father to the gate to see us off, 
4067but the joy of our impending freedom was greatly tempered by the pain of leaving 
4068them behind. As I hugged my mother and father and each of my friends, I cried for 
4069them, because they could not come with us, and I cried for myself, for the sense of 
4070loss and separation that was filling my heart. 
4071 IMAGE AND CAPTION. My sister (far right) and I, with our parents, on the day of our departure for the outside world. Topaz, 1943.
4072
4073As we climbed onto the dusty bus for Delta where we would catch our train to 
4074the east, the afternoon sun was already hot and a slight breeze filled the air with a 
4075fine haze of dust. We leaned close to the window, waving bravely, wondering when 
4076we would see our parents and friends again. 
4077And then it was time to go; the bus gave a jolt, and started down the rough un- 
4078paved road. I watched from the window as long as I could, waving until my mother 
4079and father were two small blurs in the cluster by the gate. I knew they were waving 
4080long after they could no longer see us, and I turned then to face the road ahead. 
4081For my sister and me, the cold dark winter had come to an end, and now at last 
4082we were within reach of spring. Our long desert exile was over. We were on our way 
4083back, at last, to the world we had left over a year ago. 
4084Here's some poetry.
4085The budding plum 
4086Holds my own joy 
4087At the melting ice 
4088And the long winter’s end. 
4089   
4090The Creator’s 
4091Blessings overflow, 
4092And even the single lily 
4093Has its soul. 
4094   
4095Like the sound 
4096Of a koto on a 
4097Quiet rainy day, 
4098So, too, this small flower 
4099Brings solace to my heart. 
4100 
4101                               Yukari.
4102
4103Final chapter. Epilogue.
4104OUR WARTIME EVACUATION IS NOW HISTORY AND HAS been judged one of the most 
4105shameful episodes of our country’s past—indeed, one of its most egregious mis- 
4106takes. The ultimate tragedy of that mistake, I believe, was that our government be- 
4107trayed not only the Japanese people but all Americans, for in its flagrant violation of 
4108our Constitution, it damaged the essence of the democratic beliefs on which this 
4109country was founded. The passage of time and the emergence of heretofore unpub- 
4110lished documents have revealed to us today the magnitude and scope of that be- 
4111trayal. 
4112In recent years, at the urging of Japanese American leaders, this country has 
4113belatedly tried to make some amends. In 1976 President Gerald R. Ford signed a 
4114proclamation regarding Executive Order 9066 that stated in part, “not only was that 
4115evacuation wrong, but Japanese Americans were and are loyal Americans . . . we 
4116have learned from the tragedy of that long-ago experience forever to treasure liberty 
4117and justice for each individual American, and resolve that this kind of action shall 
4118never again be repeated.” 
4119As the result of diligent efforts by the Japanese American Citizens League on 
4120the issue of redress, a Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of 
4121Civilians was created by President Jimmy Carter and the Congress of the United 
4122States. It began its inquiry in the summer of 1981, and conducted a series of re- 
4123gional hearings to record the testimony of hundreds of Japanese Americans who 
4124had been interned during World War II, and of other witnesses associated with that 
4125incarceration. The commission’s task was to compile an accurate official record of 
4126the wartime incarceration of the Japanese Americans and to address itself to the 
4127vital question of redress. Unfortunately, however, for many Japanese Americans it 
4128is too late. Most of the Issei who endured the hardships of our forced removal are, 
4129like my own parents, gone. 
4130Today many of the Nisei, having overcome the traumatizing effects of their 
4131incarceration and participated in a wide spectrum of American life with no little 
4132success, are approaching retirement. Their Sansei children, who experienced the 
4133Vietnam War with its violent confrontations and protest marches, have asked ques- 
4134tions about those early World War II years. “Why did you let it happen?” they ask of the evacuation. “Why didn’t you fight 
4135for your civil rights? Why did you go without protest to the concentration camps?” 
4136They were right to ask these questions, for they made us search for some ob- 
4137scured truths and come to a better understanding of ourselves and of those times. 
4138They are the generation for whom civil rights meant more than just words. They are 
4139the generation who taught us to celebrate our ethnicity and discover our ethnic 
4140pride. Their compassion and concern for the aging Issei resulted in many worth- 
4141while programs for all Japanese Americans. 
4142It is my generation, however, who lived through the evacuation of 1942. We are 
4143their link to the past and we must provide them with the cultural memory they lack. 
4144We must tell them all we can remember, so they can better understand the history 
4145of their own people. As they listen to our voices from the past, however, I ask that 
4146they remember they are listening in a totally different time; in a totally changed 
4147world. 
4148In 1942 the word “ethnic” was yet unknown and ethnic consciousness not yet 
4149awakened. There had been no freedom marches, and the voice of Martin Luther 
4150King had not been heard. The majority of the American people, supporting their 
4151country in a war they considered just, refused to acknowledge the fact that their 
4152country was denying the civil rights of fellow Americans. They would not have sup- 
4153ported any resistance to our forced removal had it arisen, and indeed such resis- 
4154tance might well have been met with violence as treasonous. 
4155Today the “relocation centers” are properly called concentration camps. The 
4156term is used not to imply any similarity to the Nazi death camps, but to indicate 
4157the true nature of the so-called “relocation centers.” Webster’s New Collegiate Dic- 
4158tionary defines “concentration camp” as a place in which “prisoners of war, polit- 
4159ical prisoners, foreign nationals, refugees, and the like, are confined.” In our case, 
4160this definition should include citizens of the incarcerating government as well. 
4161Today I would not allow my civil rights to be denied without strong protest, and 
4162I believe there would be many other Americans willing to stand beside me in 
4163protest. 
4164A Japanese American recently asked me how the fourth generation Japanese 
4165Americans could be proud of their heritage when their grandparents and great 
4166grandparents had been incarcerated in concentration camps. I was stunned by the 
4167question, for quite the contrary, I think they should be proud of the way in which 
4168their grandparents survived that shattering ordeal. It is our country that should be 
4169ashamed of what it did, not the Japanese Americans for having been its victims. 
4170Although some Issei were shattered and broken by the experience, those I knew 
4171and observed personally endured the hardship of the evacuation with dignity, stoic 
4172composure, disciplined patience, and an amazing resiliency of spirit. I think they 
4173displayed a level of strength, grace, and courage that is truly remarkable. 
4174Like many other Issei, my parents made the best of an intolerable situation. 
4175Throughout their internment they maintained the values and faith that sustained 
4176them all their lives. They continued to be the productive, caring human beings they 
4177had always been, and they continued always to have hope in the future. They 
4178helped my sister and me channel our anger and frustration into an effort to get out 
4179of camp and get on with our education and our lives. They didn’t want us to lose 
4180our sense of purpose, and I am grateful they didn’t nurture in us the kind of soul- 
4181decaying bitterness that would have robbed us of energy and destroyed us as 
4182human beings. Our anger was cathartic, but bitterness would have been self- 
4183destructive. 
4184Perhaps I survived the uprooting and incarceration because my Issei parents 
4185taught me to endure. Perhaps I survived because at the time I believed I was taking 
4186the only viable path and believed what I was doing was right. Looking back now, I 
4187think the survival of the Japanese through those tragic, heartbreaking days was a 
4188triumph of the human spirit. And I hope future generations of Japanese Americans, 
4189remembering that, will never feel stigmatized by the incarceration of the Issei and 
4190Nisei. 
4191From the concentration camps the Nisei went out to all parts of the United 
4192States, some to schools and others to seek employment. They were accepted with 
4193warmth and concern by some Americans, but treated with contempt and hatred by 
4194others. 
4195The white friends to whom I went from Topaz accepted me without hesitation 
4196into the warmth of their family circle. But there were others, such as the conductor 
4197on the train I rode to Northampton, Massachusetts. “You’d better not be a Jap,” he 
4198threatened as he took my ticket, “because if you are, I’ll throw you off the train.” 
4199I left Topaz determined to work hard and prove I was as loyal as any other 
4200American. I felt a tremendous sense of responsibility to make good, not just for 
4201myself, but for all Japanese Americans. I felt I was representing all the Nisei, and it 
4202was sometimes an awesome burden to bear. 
4203When the war was over, the brilliant record of the highly decorated Nisei com- 
4204bat teams, and favorable comments of the GIs returning from Japan, helped alle- 
4205viate to some degree the hatred directed against the Japanese Americans during the 
4206war. Although racism had by no means been eliminated, new fields of employment, 
4207previously closed, gradually opened up for many Nisei. In time they were also able 
4208to purchase and rent homes without being restricted to ghetto areas as the Issei 
4209had been. 
4210The Issei’s productive years were now coming to an end, and it was time for 
4211the Nisei to take care of their parents. My own parents came east from Salt Lake 
4212City to live with my sister and me. We spent a year in Philadelphia where I taught in 
4213a small Quaker school and was accepted with warmth by the children, their par- 
4214ents, and my colleagues. My father found work in the shipping department of a 
4215church board and became one of their best packers. 
4216We eventually moved to New York City, where my sister became a teacher in a 
4217private nursery school and I worked as a secretary. My father, however, had diffi- 
4218culty finding work. A friend found a job for him in a factory painting flowers on 
4219glassware, but in spite of his enthusiasm in this totally unfamiliar milieu, he was 
4220dismissed after a few days because he lacked the proper skills. It was the first time 
4221in his entire life that he had been dismissed from a job, but with his usual sense of 
4222humor, he recounted the experience to his friends with amusement rather than ran- 
4223cor. 
4224Like most Issei, my parents missed the mild climate of California and found it 
4225depressing to be confined in our dark three-room apartment. My father, especially, 
4226longed for a house and a garden where he could again enjoy growing things. My 
4227parents finally returned to California and lived for a time in two small rooms of “the 
4228Back House” at our old Japanese church in Oakland, which had been converted, as 
4229were several other Japanese churches, into a temporary hostel for returning Japa- 
4230nese Americans. 
4231My father had lost virtually all of his retirement benefits at the now defunct Mit- 
4232sui and Company, but he had not lost his spirit or vitality. He was determined and 
4233eager to begin a new life, and my mother, although her health was deteriorating, 
4234was ready to begin with him. 
4235In May 1949 my father filed three “Claims for Damage to or Loss of Real or Per- 
4236sonal Property by a Person of Japanese Ancestry” in the names of my mother, my 
4237sister, and myself, making sure that the total amount did not exceed the limit, 
4238which he understood to be $2,500. My claim for my personal belongings and ex- 
4239penses related to the evacuation came to $1,037, and in June 1952 I was awarded 
4240the sum of $386.25, the bulk of which I sent to my parents. Although the Japanese 
4241Americans suffered losses estimated by the Federal Reserve Bank to have been 
4242roughly $400 million, the average award for some 23,000 claimants was only 
4243$440. 
4244Following his return to California, my father worked for a young friend, assist- 
4245ing him in a fledgling import-export business. When that failed, he worked for an- 
4246other friend in the dry cleaning business, where he sometimes even mended 
4247clothes. It was on the basis of his meager salary at this last job, rather than on his 
4248salary at Mitsui, that his social security benefits were determined for the remainder 
4249of his life. My mother’s benefits came to about $30 a month, and she cherished 
4250that small amount as “a gift from the government,” using it carefully for special 
4251occasions and for money orders to supplement the dozens of packages my parents 
4252sent to friends and relatives in Japan for many years following the war. 
4253In 1951, almost ten years after their lives had been decimated by the war and 
4254their forced removal, my parents were able to purchase a house with the help of my 
4255sister, who left New York City to live with them and work at the YWCA in Oakland 
4256as program director. The house was just two blocks from the one they first rented 
4257in 1917, but this time no one came to ask them to leave. My sister stayed with them 
4258a year and then left for Connecticut to marry a professor of mathematics at Yale 
4259University. 
4260In the meantime, I spent two years in Japan as a Ford Foundation Foreign Area 
4261Fellow and became acquainted with the relatives and friends who until then had 
4262been only strangers to me. I often surprised and amused them by using old- 
4263fashioned Japanese words and phrases taught me by my Meiji Era parents, who 
4264had also instilled in me values and thoughts far more traditional than those held by 
4265some of my Japanese contemporaries. I climbed to remote wooded temple cemeteries to pour water on the tomb- 
4266stones of my grandfathers and maternal grandmother “to refresh their spirits,” and 
4267I traveled the countryside, finding it incredibly beautiful. Although I went primarily 
4268as a writer to collect more folktales, I became equally immersed in the magnificent 
4269arts and crafts of Japan. The strength and honesty of its folk art especially appealed 
4270to me, and I felt an immediate kinship with the Japanese craftsmen I met. I was 
4271privileged to become acquainted with the three founders of the Mingei (folk art) 
4272movement in Japan—the philosopher-writer Soetsu Yanagi, and the noted potters 
4273Shoji Hamada and Kanjiro Kawai. Their Zen-oriented philosophy, their wholeness 
4274of spirit, and their totality as human beings enriched me immeasurably and made a 
4275lasting impact on my thought and writing. 
4276 IMAGE AND CAPTION. A postwar reunion with my grandmother on her eighty-eigth birthday. Los Angeles, 1950.
4277
4278My experience in Japan was as positive and restorative as the evacuation had 
4279been negative and depleting. I came home aware of a new dimension to myself as a 
4280Japanese American and with new respect and admiration for the culture that had 
4281made my parents what they were. The circle was complete. I feel grateful today for 
4282the Japanese values and traditions they instilled in me and kept alive in our home, 
4283and unlike the days of my youth, I am proud to be a Japanese American and am se- 
4284cure in that knowledge of myself. 
4285I returned from Japan not knowing how long I would remain with my parents, 
4286but stayed to care for them in their declining years and to give them what comfort 
4287and sustenance I could. 
4288In his seventy-sixth year my father suffered a stroke that left him partially para- 
4289lyzed. But in the remaining ten years of his life, he learned to write with his left 
4290hand, continued to correspond with many friends, and did not abandon his annual 
4291campaign to raise funds for Doshisha University’s Department of Theology, which 
4292his Issei friends supported generously. He and my mother faithfully attended 
4293Sycamore Congregational Church each Sunday, and joined its members in a fund- 
4294raising drive that enabled the church to build a new sanctuary only sixteen years 
4295after the Japanese Americans returned from the camps to begin their new lives in 
4296California. When my mother died in 1966, my father endured her death with more 
4297strength than my sister or I. He had helped so many families through so many 
4298deaths, he knew what had to be done, and from his wheelchair he quietly and reso- 
4299lutely made all the necessary decisions. 
4300My parents, like many of their Issei friends, did not fear death, for they had 
4301faced it so often and accepted it as a part of life. Both of them planned their own 
4302funeral services long before their deaths, selecting their favorite Japanese hymns 
4303and Bible verses. My mother wanted only a small family funeral and a memorial 
4304service for her friends, but my father wanted the customary evening funeral service 
4305held for most Issei. We followed both their wishes. 
4306 
4307The wartime evacuation of the Japanese Americans has already been well docu- 
4308mented in many fine scholarly books. My story is a very personal one, and I speak 
4309only for myself and of those Issei and Nisei who were in the realm of my own expe- 
4310rience, aware that they are only a small part of a larger whole. The story of my fam- 
4311ily is not typical of all Japanese immigrant families, and the lives of many other 
4312Japanese Americans were undoubtedly touched with more wartime tragedy and 
4313heartache than my own. 
4314Still, there are many young Americans who have never heard about the 
4315evacuation or known of its effect on one Japanese American family. I hope the de- 
4316tails of the life of my family, when added to those of others, will enhance their 
4317understanding of the history of the Japanese in California and enable them to see it 
4318as a vital element in that glorious and complex story of the immigrants from all 
4319lands who made America their home. 
4320If my story has been long in coming, it is not because I did not want to remem- 
4321ber our incarceration or to make this interior journey into my earlier self, but be- 
4322cause it took so many years for these words to find a home. I am grateful that at 
4323last they have. 
4324Today as a writer of books for young people, I often speak at schools about my 
4325experiences as a Japanese American. I want the children to perceive me not as a 
4326foreigner, as some still do, or as the stereotypic Asian they often see on film and 
4327television, but as a human being. I tell them of my pride in being a Japanese Amer- 
4328ican today, but I also tell them I celebrate our common humanity, for I feel we 
4329must never lose our sense of connection with the human race. I tell them how it 
4330was to grow up as a Japanese American in California. I tell them about the Issei 
4331who persevered in a land that denied them so much. I tell them how our own coun- 
4332try incarcerated us—its citizens—during World War II, causing us to lose that 
4333most precious of all possessions, our freedom. 
4334The children ask me many questions, most of them about my wartime experi- 
4335ences. “I never knew we had concentration camps in America,” one child told me 
4336in astonishment. “I thought they were only in Germany and Russia.” 
4337And so the story of the wartime incarceration of the Japanese Americans, as 
4338painful as it may be to hear, needs to be told and retold and never forgotten by suc- 
4339ceeding generations of Americans. 
4340I always ask the children why they think I wrote Journey to Topaz and Journey 
4341Home, in which I tell of the wartime experiences of the Japanese Americans. “To 
4342tell about the camps?” they ask. “To tell how you felt? To tell what happened to the 
4343Japanese people?” 
4344“Yes,” I answer, but I continue the discussion until finally one of them will say, 
4345“You wrote those books so it won’t ever happen again.” 
4346And that is why I wrote this book. I wrote it for the young Japanese Americans 
4347who seek a sense of continuity with their past. But I wrote it as well for all Americans, with the hope that through knowledge of the past, they will never allow 
4348another group of people in America to be sent into a desert exile ever again.