I woke up the next morning at Dad’s and looked out the back bedroom window. A bright, crisp blue sky was overhead, just the kind of morning Mom loved. I opened the door to the outside and took a deep breath of fresh spring air. I could hear the creek gushing in the valley. I smelled fresh prairie grass. The lone donkey in the pasture was braying loudly. I looked down at my open suitcase. I could see the red S of the Safeway bag.
I had waited a long time for this day. There were times when I thought it might never come to pass. I hopped in the shower, shaved, and clipped my nails. I guess I was getting ready to see her. The smell of coffee hit me halfway up the stairs. Susan was awake, sitting at the kitchen table where she always drank her morning coffee. She was watching a train out the window heading east. Two eggs had already been whipped and last night’s vegetables were waiting to be made into an omelette. I sat, had some coffee, and enjoyed breakfast. Normally Dad wouldn’t be awake for another few hours, but my surprise visit had thrown him a little. He joined us in his morning yukata and juiced a dozen carrots. I downed a glass of it at his insistence.
“I’m going for a drive. I’ll be back in a bit,” I said.
Susan wanted to know more, I could tell. Dad flashed me a knowing smile. He was piecing it together. He knows some things take time. He does, after all, think in decades.
Back in the bedroom, I threw on a pair of jeans, a sweater, a pair of wool socks, and a down vest. The vest was a little tight over the sweater, which made the plastic pill container feel snug against my body. She felt close. I went back upstairs and put on some sneakers and hurried out the door.
As I drove down Ross Glen Drive, I forgot how to get to Central Park. I had to think of my final destination and work backwards from there. I ended up driving past the Medicine Hat College, down the valley onto Kipling Drive, and then up on Third Avenue. It is no coincidence that Kipling takes you onto Third Avenue, the highest street in Medicine Hat. It shoots straight up. Kipling would have approved mightily. As I crested the hill, I was not sure which way to go. I veered left and was about to take a right turn when I saw the concrete whale. I pulled over at the playground that sits in the southeast corner of the park and got out of the car.
At 10 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, the park was empty. We had it all to ourselves. I put my hand on the concrete whale. It hadn’t been painted since I touched it last. I walked the perimeter of the park. It’s about two city blocks, lined with tall old poplar trees. The grass was wet with dew. There was no wind. It was just us and two hundred trees.
I looked for the perfect spot. As I walked past the Central Park sign I saw through the ferns an oddly placed bench. There was no path to it, it was all alone. It did not look onto the park. It did not look onto the playground. It sat between two large evergreen trees. When park planners placed the bench there, the trees must have been at a comfortable distance apart. Over the decades they had grown, almost engulfing the bench. Bookends. Perfect.
I sat on the bench and looked up. I wondered if Mom had ever sat here. I wondered how big these two trees would have been back then. Maybe Daniel and I had sat with her in this very spot. The bottle rattled as I opened it. Pieces of her bones were mixed with ashes. The bottle was tightly packed so I was careful not to spill it as I stood up.
I poured Mom in a straight line between the two trees. Her ashes didn’t blow into the wind like in the movies, they just fell like sand in an hourglass. I stood beside the bench for a few more minutes, then wrapped the bottle back in the plastic bag and put it into my vest pocket. I smiled and moved on.
Epilogue
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
Mitsue Margaret Sakamoto and Ralph Augustus MacLean, you are my heroes. You are both heroes in the truest sense of the word. You have borne witness to the worst in humanity—and yet, to so very many you represent humanity’s finest.
You are the toughest people I know. You both fought for your country, your dignity, and your lives. Your victory was not that you lived. Your victory was in the way you both went on to live your lives. You refused to be defined by those most injurious of years. You did not dwell there.
You had the strength to move on with hope and optimism. You filled your hearts with faith and forgiveness. You passed that on. Thank God you passed that on.
I have asked much of you. In writing this story, I asked you to take me into the darkest recesses of your memory. The devil, they say, is in the details. I saw him there. But you both walked me through that perilous journey with bravery, with humility, and even—at times—with humour. You showed me your war scars, some plain as day, some hidden.
You faced a fear I hope I will never have to face. For I don’t think I’d be as strong. But I do know this: I’m stronger for having your blood course through my veins. You have both—in your own way, and on your own terms—shown me how to lead a loving and honourable life. I hope that as the years unfold I measure up. I promise to try, and in doing so I will feel communion with you for all my days.
So when I say this, it seems just so meagre, but it is all I have to offer:
I thank you.
I thank you and I love you.
Acknowledgments
Forgiveness: A Gift from My Grandparents started out as an essay. Unbeknownst to me, my pal Erin O’Toole wrote to John Stackhouse with a request that he read my family’s story. John agreed and promised to publish it as an essay in The Globe and Mail—if it was any good. I thank them both for getting the ball rolling. I had no idea where it would take me.
It took me on a journey into history, into my grandparents’ memories. It took me on a very personal emotional excavation. It brought me even closer to my grandma Sakamoto and my grandpa MacLean. Over days of marathon interviews and discussions that went well into the night, my understanding of them deepened. I count those nights as some of the most sacred of my life. When the history books and their memories did not seem to align, I sided with their memories. It is, after all, their story.
While publishing a book is a public act, writing is often a solitary one. Yet a chorus of people with generous spirits filled me with encouragement along the way: the entire Hikida family, Darlene Dee, Karning Hum, the staff at the Esplanade Arts & Heritage Centre, Brynne Eaton Auva’a, Kathryn Eaton, Nik Sexton and Kathy Mentier, Jeffrey Remedios, Kevin Bosch, Lanny Bolger, Janet Eger, Sachin Aggarwal, Abe Schwartz, Joanna Carroll, Joseph Fuda, Lisa Uyeda, Lindsey Love, Ryan Hehr, Shawn Brade, Jord Cowan, Spencer Blair, Eric Van Enk, Samantha McWilliams, Ron and Joyce Sakamoto, Gary and Glory Oseki, Liz McNally, Anthony Gerbrandt, Peter C. Newman, Angie Morris, Gave Lindo, and Myles and Deborah Warken.
Some dear friends were kind enough to speak at length with me as my story took shape: Jon Penney, Naomi Teitel, and Lynndsey Larre. A particular thank you to Michael Ignatieff for his prescient words of advice and encouragement.
I am very thankful for the opportunity HarperCollins Canada offered me in publishing this book. I am grateful to the production team and the promotional team, and to Allyson Latta and Allegra Robinson, whose detailed eye caught more than I’d care to admit. Most of all, I’m indebted to Jim Gifford, my editor. It is a privilege to work with someone who is truly exceptional at what they do. Jim’s calming insightfulness pervades this book.
Thanks to my lawyer, agent, and friend, the irreplaceable, indefatigable—likely indestructible—Michael Levine. Without his effort, this book would not have come to be.
I’d give anything for this story to have ended differently. I wish my mom were here with us, here with her grandchildren, Miya, Samuel, and Tomi. Their little souls would have brought so much joy to her life. I am grateful that my dad’s loving presence fills my life and theirs. I’m grateful he found Susan. I’m blessed to have my family: Stan and Susan; Daniel, Carly, and Samuel; Cameron and Kim; Chad, Theresa, Emmett, and Calla; Carrick and Amanda; Logan and Kumiko.
I want to offer a special thank you to my brother, Daniel. This is, for better and worse, his story too. I was concerned
that publishing parts of our story would impact him negatively. It has not. He urged me to tell our story, our whole story. As a result of this journey I came to admire him even more.
I cannot fathom what I did in some previous life to generate the kind of karma that brought Jade into my life. And if I lived a hundred more lives I couldn’t be as proud of the two precious souls our love has brought into this world. Miya and Tomi are all we need. This project essentially left Jade a single parent with two small children. Throughout it all, she shouldered the burden of our family’s daily needs and gave me encouragement. More than anything, Jade, I love you.
It is good, finally, to be home.
About the Author
MARK SAKAMOTO, a lawyer by training, has enjoyed a rich and varied career. He began by promoting live music, which led to work with several international acts. He has worked at a Canadian broadcaster and served as a senior political advisor. Both an entrepreneur and an investor in digital health and media, he sits on the board of the Ontario Media Development Corporation. Sakamoto lives in Toronto with his wife and two children. Follow him on Twitter @MarkSakamoto1.
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Praise for
FORGIVENESS
“An unforgettable story about the power of forgiveness, set against one of the darkest periods in Canada’s history. Mark Sakamoto tells his family’s story with grace and at times brutal honesty. Painful and poignant, Forgiveness is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.” —Mellissa Fung, author of Under an Afghan Sky
“A relatable journey of real-life ups and downs—humble reminders, throughout, to be more kind and forgiving of others and to ourselves, that letting go is to be grateful for life’s challenges as tests of courage and willingness to forge through fear and disappointment. This book shares many examples of powerful life lessons that inspire us to embrace change as a gift from learning, and [remind us] that making peace with our past is possible if we hold on to what we’ve learned from our experiences and let go of what we cannot change.”
—Shania Twain
“Mark Sakamoto’s family story shows how individuals—the author’s Canadian grandfather, a POW of the Japanese, and his Japanese-Canadian grandmother, sent to a work camp in Alberta—ultimately make their own history. This is a quintessential Canadian story, where family history is not forgotten but does not imprison its participants.” —Nathan M. Greenfield, author of The Damned
“This is an astonishing book, part memoir, part saga of two Canadian families, Japanese and Canadian, that were at war with each other and found peace and forgiveness together. It is a funny, heartbreaking story of a family scarred by history’s pain and their own self-destructiveness, yet redeemed by stoic endurance and the capacity for forgiveness. You’re going to remember this book.”
—Michael Ignatieff
Credits
Cover photo courtesy Mark Sakamoto
Copyright
Forgiveness
Copyright © 2014 by Mark Sakamoto
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPUB Edition May 2015 ISBN 9781443417990
Published by Harper Perennial, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
First published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd in a hardcover edition: 2014
This Harper Perennial trade paperback edition: 2015
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
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All photographs courtesy of the author with the exception of those here and here (Public Archives of Canada), and here (Library and Archives Canada/PA–187673).
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