Henry Moriuchi left the dead and tattered belongings of his life in camp behind and returned, a broken but still determined father with three daughters, to his childhood farm in the southern and then still rural reaches of Southern California. Returning to his father Old Man Moriuchi’s place had been neither his nor the old issei’s plan, but the war changed everything. One day Henry found his father kneeling with his bare, rugged hands against a large granite boulder he’d been trying to arrange into some semblance of a garden in that desert nowhere. Henry would never forget the sad supplication of his father’s last stance and breath, the filigree of dust already peppering his white but still moist brow. Only a day earlier, Henry and his wife had taken in the young daughter of his best friend, Tad Fukuya. Tad’s wife had been hospitalized outside camp for tuberculosis, and when she died, Tad left to fight and die in Europe. Henry and his wife adopted the Fukuya daughter, Anne, and began to raise her in camp with their own little Isabella. But just as the war was ending, Henry would also bury his wife next to his father, below the immovable outline of the Sierra Nevadas, snow-peaked and cutting across cold blue skies. Anne, who was only fifteen at the time, spent every day in the camp hospital learning to swaddle and feed the newborn Moriuchi baby, Emi.
The story was that Old Man Moriuchi came to California and made his money panning gold. Maybe this happened, but Henry really didn’t know. However the old issei made his fortune, he was able to buy a small tract of farmland before the California alien land law of 1913. He must have been one of the few issei who owned his land fair and square, as he said, but in unfair times with no equal sides. Henry came home to restart his life with three girls in a ramshackle farmhouse, but owning the land, Henry discovered, was everything. As metropolitan L.A. claimed the landscape with its slow urban sprawl, Henry churned his verdant plots of flowers and strawberries into suburban lots and a construction and real estate business with a preference for nisei families. Old Man Moriuchi’s place was finally whittled down to a pretty Japanese garden and park that Henry gave to the city and had dedicated, on a plaque, to the old man.
One August afternoon, Emi and her sisters, in cotton summer yukata, posed with matching parasols around the inauguration of Old Man Moriuchi’s plaque, smiling into posterity for the cameras. Henry leaned into his cane, watching this scene, and blinked back tears. Emi, now fourteen, looked for her father and yelled, “Daddy, you should be in this picture too!”
Henry shook his head, but a young man stepped forward. It was George Kishi. George’s younger brother, John, was newly engaged to Henry’s daughter Isabella. “Mr. Moriuchi, Emi’s right. Please.” He guided Henry to a place between his girls. George then hopped out of the frame and waved to John, who steadied his Nikon for the shot. “One, two, three, cheese!”
Reporters and photographers for the local city and two Japanese American newspapers cornered Henry for stories. Emi stood by her father and listened with interest. Someone asked Emi, “Do you remember your grandfather?”
“Oh no, I wasn’t born yet. You’ll have to ask Izy or Anne.”
“Were you born in camp?”
“Camp?” Emi chewed her lip in some confusion. “I guess so.”
George Kishi walked from the shaded picnic table where Anne and Isabella had arranged a spread of teriyaki skewers; musubi; makizushi; fruit skewers of melon, pineapple, and strawberries; mochigashi; cookies; and tea. He offered Emi his selection of picnic food. She picked up a teriyaki skewer. “I’m so hungry, but this obi thing is killing me. It’s too tight.” Emi pushed her fingers under the wide belt. She ripped off a piece of teriyaki with her teeth, rubbed the sauce from her mouth, then asked, “George, was I born in camp? And what’s that?”
Anne Fukuya was both big sister and surrogate mom to Isabella and Emi. Even when in college across town, Anne was back at home every weekend taking care of her adopted sisters, shopping for them or following their homework. After receiving her teaching certificate, she found a job at a local elementary school and continued to live with the Moriuchis. Henry had long ago relinquished his maternal responsibilities to the young Anne, not only because she took them on with stalwart energy and great affection but also because for a time, he didn’t know why he had survived the war and not his father, his wife, or his best friend. It wasn’t a surprise Emi didn’t know the circumstances of her birth. And while Isabella was a more sullen, shy child, filled at times with unaccountable fear, Emi was always happily content, and Anne made sure nothing interfered with Emi’s enthusiasm and curiosity for her world. She knew Henry’s well-being depended on Emi’s joy. But one day, Anne announced her plans to leave the household and to finally marry.
Henry complained to Emi, “First Isabella, now Anne.”
“Gee whiz, Daddy, aren’t you happy for Anne? You called her an old maid.”
“Gee whiz,” he mimicked her. “I never said such a thing.”
“Spinster, the word was spinster,” Emi corrected. “And by the way, you can call me a spinster too, because I’m never getting married. Marriage is simply overrated.”
“Is that so?” Henry smiled a crooked smile.
“By the way,” she tapped his elbow, “Izy is coming over this afternoon with the kids.”
Henry groaned. “The pool is off limits. It’s too cold today, and besides, you and Isabella jabber on and don’t provide proper supervision. Much too dangerous.”
“Oh Daddy, really.”
But it wasn’t Isabella who arrived with her tumult of five boisterous kids; instead they came with their uncle George. “Mr. Moriuchi!” George greeted Henry, who sat at the kitchen table with his coffee and newspaper. Henry observed the kids rush past in a blur of skin and bathing suits, zori slapping the linoleum, beach balls, plastic blowup tubes, snorkels, and masks dragging behind. A fait accompli, but then George had come along. Henry nodded with guy approval.
George explained, “Isabella needed some downtime. Got a migraine.”
“What’s she taking?” Henry queried. “There’s something new on the market. Works better than plain aspirin.”
George looked at the blanket over Henry’s knees. The temperature was in the eighties, though maybe ten degrees cooler inside. “Izy just needs some rest.” Outside, they could hear the splash of diving bodies.
“What about suntan lotion?” The thought dawned on Henry. “I was just reading an article about sunburn.”
George jumped up. “Don’t worry, Mr. Moriuchi. I’ve got it covered.”
“Daddy!” Emi dashed in and out of the kitchen. “They’re here!”
“Don’t worry,” Henry said to no one, pulling up another section of the paper. “George has got it covered.” He peeked over his reading glasses and watched Emi toss off her hat and towel and jump into the fray to celebrate another summer with her five nephews and nieces. How old was she now? Almost out of college, but still a kid too.
Toward the end of the afternoon, Emi came out with giant slices of cold watermelon, and George got all the kids to sit in a row to see who could spit the seeds the farthest.
George watched Emi chomp greedily on ripe watermelon. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How’s college?”
“Taking a summer class.”
“Oh, doing makeup?”
“Makeup? I’ll have you know I’m doing this for extra credit. I got straight As.”
“Impressive. What’s the class?”
“History of War.”
“Let me guess. You’re doing a paper on the internment.”
“How did you know? Would you read my paper, please? Usually Anne would do it, but have you heard the news?”
“Anne’s getting married to that guy Nishida who owns the tackle shop on the pier in Hermosa.”
“Dad’s very sad. Nobody’s supposed to leave his nest.”
“And you?”
“I miss her.” Emi was gnawing on the white part of the melon.
George turned to study Emi’s eyes, red from chlorine but maybe not.
“But you know,” Emi sniffed, “gotta move on.” Then, “George,” she said abruptly, “I’m against this racist war. I know you’re in law school, but if you ever get drafted, you have to go to Canada.” She got up, collected melon rinds, then announced to the kids lolling in the grass, “O.K., how about we go watch Mister Ed?”
By the time of Anne’s marriage, Emi was completely conversant in the circumstances of her birth and its historical context. It’s surprising how historical context can give the matter of an inconsequential birth an unexpected gravitas. When George saw Emi again, she was one bridesmaid among five in a flutter of matching pink chiffon, but he could distinguish her by the happy lilt in her voice even as she said, “Anne’s father volunteered for the 442nd and died saving the Lost Battalion. He was my dad’s best friend.” Emi puckered glossy lips on the rim of her champagne glass, then, recognizing George, smiled brightly.
George eyed Emi skeptically, but she countered conspiratorially, “George, my birthday was yesterday. It’s official, but it’s so insulting.”
“Should we be singing ‘Happy Birthday’?” he wondered.
“No.” She pouted and sipped champagne. “I haven’t even been carded.”
“O.K., I’m carding you.”
She produced her California driver’s license from inside her bustier, and George busted out laughing. “What’s it doing there?”
She frowned as if it should be obvious.
George read the pertinent information. “Born in Manzanar, California.”
“Say, let me see that.” They’d been ignoring the young man whom Emi had been educating about Japanese American history. It was Frank, the groom’s son by a previous marriage. “Where’s Manzanar?” Emi and George rolled their eyes in opposite directions while Frank adjusted his bow tie. “I was born in Philly.”
Across the ballroom, the band crooned the Righteous Brothers: Without you, baby, what good am I? Emi led George to the dance floor, saying, “I swear, George, there is so much work to be done.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, there you have it.” Emi nodded back to Frank.
“You’re going to work on Frank? I might be wrong, but I think he likes you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
The next time George saw Frank was on a panel with Emi at a local church function. Mrs. Esa, one of the church matrons, thought it would be interesting to hear the sansei point of view on the internment. Emi had rustled up two more panelists, Phil Furumachi and Augusta Taka. Frank was busily opening folding chairs and lining them across the church gymnasium floor.
“How’s Frank doing?” George asked Emi.
“Very helpful.”
“And who are the other two?”
“Phil and Augusta.” She nodded at a couple getting in a last smoke at the open entrance of the gym. “Very articulate and outspoken. They were in my summer class on war, remember?”
Mrs. Esa approached the mic and said enthusiastically, “We are so pleased tonight to have with us five sansei members of our community who have agreed to share their ideas with us. These young sansei are the bright future of our community, and we have an opportunity to hear them speak their minds.”
Emi opened with, “Thank you Mrs. Esa for inviting us here to speak our minds,” then launched into, “The nisei have been complicit in the erasure of our history. The history of the Japanese American internment is one paragraph, if it exists at all, in American history texts. Imagine our surprise to even read that one paragraph since you, our parents, have refused to talk about the injustice done to our people.”
Frank said, “I’d just like to say I believe the term internment camp is incorrect. It should be concentration camp.”
And Phil said, “The Vietnam War is a continuation of racist wars against the Asian people, and we need to make the connections between how Japanese Americans were treated during World War II and the current genocide of Asian people by the American military in Vietnam.”
And finally, Augusta polished it off with, “Nisei have been described as quiet Americans, and this is bullshit. We’re not going to be quiet anymore. The JACL needs to apologize for leading you nisei into camps like sheep.”
George sat in the audience and felt the shock of the nisei shuffling uncomfortably in their chairs.
Mrs. Esa fumbled for her composure. “Yes, yes, you’ve spoken your minds, and this is very good for us all to hear.” She looked out on her fellow nisei, who either glowered back or looked down at the floor in silence.
Someone said under his breath, “Bunch of ungrateful brats.” A few got up looking as if they had to go to the bathroom.
Mrs. Esa asked, “Well now, any questions?” No one said anything, so Mrs. Esa tried, “The relocation was a very difficult time for those of us who lived through it, and it’s been very difficult to even talk about it because, because …” She paused, her voice trembling. “We lost so much, and—”
Emi interrupted with gusto. “Yes, precisely. That is why we are advocating for the next step, that is, to demand redress for the injustice of wartime relocation.”
Mrs. Esa looked at the diminishing audience and then at the sansei panelists. “Oh my.” She recuperated her composure. “I guess our time is up.”
As the crowd left the gymnasium, Mrs. Esa said almost cheerfully, “Emi, that was very interesting. You are a very …” She searched for the right word. “Outspoken group.” Then she changed the subject. “I want you to meet my niece, Jane.” Mrs. Esa motioned to a young woman sitting in the back. “She is so in need of friends. She’s just come from Japan.”
George came up to greet Mrs. Esa, who exclaimed, “George, I’m so happy to see you. Have you met Jane?”
Later, George drove Emi home. Emi chatted on triumphantly, as if she’d won the evening, but George said nothing. “You’re awfully quiet,” she quipped.
“You guys were pretty harsh over there,” he said. “Was that necessary?”
“What do you mean? We told it like it is.”
“It was really brave of Mrs. Esa to invite you. Her sister married a no-no and renounced her citizenship with him and left for Japan. That’s where Jane was born. But then, her sister died and the husband committed suicide, so Mrs. Esa asked for help to bring Jane home. I helped with the repatriation case. It took years. What she was trying to tell you was that her family was separated, and no one talks to her because her family was no-no.”
Emi closed her eyes. “I screwed up big-time.”
Henry hobbled into the kitchen and sniffed the air. “Chocolate chips?”
“Daddy, I’m having a meeting here tonight.”
“What for?”
“We’re plotting the revolution.”
“Good luck.”
The doorbell rang, and Emi left to answer it. “Harriet, you’re here early.”
Henry looked over his shoulder, quickly stole a plate of hot cookies, and snuck away to hide in his den.
“I wanted to talk to you about something personal. Get your advice.” Harriet Kajiya worked as a secretary at Moriuchi Real Estate. When Emi worked for her father’s business during the summers, the two became close friends. All Harriet ever talked about was guys, so Emi suggested she might expand her horizons—that is, come to meetings.
Emi pulled a sheet of cookies from the oven, shoved a spatula under the soft cookies, and listened.
“You know Bob?” Harriet asked.
“Bob Torii.”
“Right. He asked me to marry him.”
“Oh, well, congratulations.” Emi frowned at one cookie that had folded over itself. “But I thought we were working on Phil or Frank.”
“I haven’t said yes or no yet.” Harriet stuffed a warm cookie into her mouth and muttered through the dough, “What do you think?”
“You have doubts? I mean, why ask me? I’m never getting married.” “Never?”
“Let me ask you this: What are Bob’s politics?”
&
nbsp; “I have no idea.”
“Maybe he’d like to join our group.”
The ringing bell ended the conversation. In sauntered the crew that was supposed to start the Japanese American revolution: Frank, Phil, Augusta, and now Mrs. Esa’s niece, Jane Kikami, as well.
They sat on the big sofa and zabutons around the coffee table, munching on cookies.
Phil cleared his throat and began. “We’ve been trying to define our goals over the last month now, but I think we need to first do some deep study.” He pulled a book out of his satchel. “Confining our thinking to narrow nationalism isn’t going to cut it.” Phil put the heavy book on the table. Everyone stared at the cover: Capital by Karl Marx.
Augusta piped up, “I agree with Phil. We need some direction.”
Frank asked plainly, “What’s narrow nationalism?”
Phil said, “It’s the business of defining ourselves as Japanese when the real problem is to recognize our class differences.”
“Exactly,” agreed Augusta. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and puffed.
“But I’m not Japanese,” Frank pleaded.
“O.K., Japanese American,” Phil inserted.
“But”—Augusta puffed and waved her arm around the spacious Moriuchi living room, its Japanese prints, vases, shag rug, and teak furniture—“have you examined your position vis-à-vis the bourgeoisie?”
Emi watched Harriet’s mouth moving with silent exaggerated elocution: booge wa zee. Emi hoped Augusta couldn’t see this and, as a distraction, poured more tea, saying hopefully, “But I thought we agreed that we’d research books and articles about Japanese American history, start a bibliography, and go from there.” She pushed an ashtray toward Augusta, along with a sheet of paper with a typewritten list. “I spent all day in the library yesterday.”
Sansei and Sensibility Page 15
