by George Takei
The people of Tule Lake were stunned. The quick succession of events was overwhelming. The two bombings, as ghastly as they were, were also deeply personal tragedies to many. A considerable number of internees had families and close relations living in the two cities.
Our family was one of them. Our grandparents, Mama’s father and mother, had returned to Japan before the outbreak of war. They had gone back to Hiroshima.
Mama was frantic with worry. Every shred of news on the bombing was desperately sought. Any bit of information gleaned from someone’s short-wave radio was seized upon. Even rumors were pursued to their inconclusive, distressing end. But nothing reliable was available. The certitude of knowledge, as fearful as it was, would have been more bearable than the torture of this uncertainty. It drove Mama insane with anxiety. Daddy finally said to Mama, “It was a devastating bombing. An incredible number of people were killed. But you’ve got to go on living. You’ve got to give yourself some peace. For your sake, for your own well-being, let’s consider your parents at rest.”
It was not until much later, long after we were out of camp, that we learned that, by some miracle, our grandparents had survived the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. But one of Mama’s younger sisters, our Aunt Ayako, died with her baby in the fiery holocaust.
* * *
The war was over. Japan had surrendered. “It was inevitable,” Daddy said. “I knew it would come to this. But there are some who can’t accept it.”
When Daddy gravely made the announcement at lunch in the mess hall, a group of older men silently got up and left without eating lunch. Later, when I went to the latrine, that bald-headed man was standing by himself shouting at whoever passed by, “It’s a lie. Don’t believe it. It’s another trick.” But he was a lone voice. There was no hysteria. A strange calm prevailed over once-turbulent Tule Lake.
Now we faced a new anxiety, the unknowns of a life outside barbed wire confinement and stripped of everything. There was only one certainty—Camp Tule Lake was closing. February 1946 was announced as the target date. We now had six months to plan for a new home outside in a hostile America.
Then another thunderbolt hit. It was announced that the renunciants of American citizenship were to be “deported” to Japan. November 15, 1945, was the date the first ship was to sail. Mama was scheduled to be on that ship. Her daring sacrifice for our safety had backfired terribly. Daddy and Mama were consumed by this new threat. I remember nights when something would wake me. I’d lie still in the dark and listen to Daddy and Mama engaged in intense, whispered conversations. Henry and Reiko were asleep. I only pretended to be. In the daytime, they would go on long walks far from our barrack to get some privacy. Mama often came back distraught and dabbing at her bloodshot eyes with her handkerchief.
Mama and the others in the same situation needed legal representation. A terrible chain reaction had been set off by a desperate act taken under great duress. But who would represent them? Why should anyone take on such an unpopular cause? Mama and the other renunciants were pariahs. They were despised Japanese Americans who, even more despicably, had renounced their American citizenship. And now they were pitted against the full might of the United States Government. It was an impossible situation.
I frequently wonder about turning points in life. They are usually major historic junctures such as war and peace, the great inevitable flow of events that determine one’s destiny. But, as a small pebble can sometimes alter the direction of a river, in the rush of circumstances sometimes a single individual can change the course of another human being’s life. I wonder what my life might have been like—indeed, who I might have become—if one brave man had not stepped forward at this crucial and seemingly hopeless point in our lives.
Wayne Collins, a brilliant San Francisco attorney and a passionate crusader for the fundamental guarantees of the Constitution, took on the bleak cause of the Japanese American renunciants. He said, “You can no more resign citizenship in time of war than you can resign from the human race.” In court, he argued that “Renunciation was not the product of free will but forced upon them by the unlawful detention and the conditions prevailing at the Tule Lake Center, for which the government alone was responsible.”
The November 15 “deportation” date came. The ship that Mama and we were to have been aboard sailed with a full manifest. But we were still in Tule Lake. Wayne Collins had gotten Mama a mitigation hearing just days before the ship sailed. He saved us, literally, in the nick of time.
It was to take many anxious years of tireless dedication by Wayne Collins for Mama to have her United States citizenship restored. But in the meantime, he got her clearance to “relocate” anywhere in America. And with that, Wayne Collins kept Mama here on American soil. He also determined the course of my destiny.
* * *
Daddy and Mama now had another life decision to make—where to resettle. One of my uncles, Daddy’s older brother, had chosen Salt Lake City, Utah. The Mormons there, he reported, offered a hospitable climate for Japanese Americans. Two of Mama’s cousins were in Chicago, one studying medicine at the University of Chicago. It was a big city with many job opportunities, they wrote. Some of their friends had moved to far-off Seabrook, New Jersey, where there were jobs in the vegetable freezing industry. Each option presented certain attractions for a new home, and each had its drawbacks. Los Angeles was always there on their minds. It was where they came from. And it was the city they knew and loved.
But the West Coast was still prickly with anti-Japanese passion. To ease the return of the internees, the government was now very publicly showcasing the heroic deeds of the Japanese American GIs of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. But Daddy knew of reports where returning Nisei veterans with war wounds were not only insulted but actually thrown out of restaurants and barbershops. Mayor Fletcher Bowron of Los Angeles, one of the most inflammatory leaders calling for the removal of Japanese Americans at the beginning of the war, was still the mayor.
And yet my parents loved Los Angeles. Despite everything, Los Angeles still drew them. Part of it, I suspect, was a challenge—to take back something that used to be theirs. To struggle to regain something they valued. To win back their memories and their dignity. I remember Daddy’s final, decisive words, “Let’s start all over in Los Angeles.” We were going to return to the city where we had started.
They didn’t want, however, to risk the safety of the children. The climate there was too uncertain. Daddy would leave first to test the temperature of postwar Los Angeles.
This was to be the first time our family would not be together. But it had to be done. Daddy left Camp Tule Lake on December 22, 1945—just three days before Christmas.
I have fond memories of my Christmases in camp. But for some strange reason, I have no recollection of that one Christmas of 1945. Mama says she decorated a tumbleweed with fruits and candies. She says we opened presents on Christmas morning, and she made hot chocolate for us. I remember none of that. I don’t even remember the fact that we had a Christmas without Daddy. Somehow, Christmas 1945 has completely vanished from my memory.
* * *
It was night, March 6, 1946, our last few hours in Tule Lake. The February closing date of Camp Tule Lake was extended to March 20, 1946. We were almost the last people left in Block 80. The car would be coming soon to take us to the railroad station at Klamath Falls, Oregon, where we were to board a Los Angeles-bound train. Mama had us all dressed, warm and ready, for the long journey. While she was attending to last-minute packing and fussing over Henry and Reiko, I wandered over to our old mess hall across the way. It had been closed and unused for the last three weeks. Camp officials had consolidated us into the mess hall at Block 79 because so many people had left Block 80. Some internees had been “deported” on a second ship bound for Japan, others had left to resettle outside.
I touched the old weathered door that we looked across at every day. It seemed so worn, tired, used up. I pulled at it, and it creaked op
en. The mess hall was completely empty. Everything was gone—tables, benches, even the serving counter. Everything. Only a vast emptiness remained. This huge hall, always so noisy with the racket of trays, utensils, pots and pans; chatter and laughter; crying children and scolding parents; this space that had been so full of the sounds of life, was now ghostly still. The big hall, which was always pungent with the savory aromas of food or acrid with the sting of detergent and disinfectants, was devoid of any smell. Only a scentless nothingness remained. Just cold, empty air. I gazed at this vast space that had once thrilled me with the adventures of samurai and ninja, anguished me with the plight of the poor hunchback of Notre Dame. Now it was only a silent, lifeless vacancy. The announcements Daddy had made here at mealtimes, happy news and grave developments, were now only echoes of memories. Even Daddy was gone.
I stood alone in the immense emptiness for a long time. Then, I heard Blackie bark outside. I took one final look. Then I stepped outside and closed that creaky door for the last time.
Blackie was waiting for me with his big doggy smile. He didn’t know that we were forbidden to take him with us to Los Angeles. He wagged his tail, not knowing that we couldn’t find anyone to take care of him. He looked up at me with those big trusting eyes, not ever suspecting that his world would again suddenly turn unstable. I hugged him tightly. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him here. But there was nothing else we could do. I stayed with him in the cold night air until the guards finally came to pick us up. Even in the car far from Block 80, far from Blackie’s frantic barking, I couldn’t stop my tears.
4
Home Again
WE ROCKED AND SWAYED, DOZING and waking on the train all night long. But with the coming of daylight, no one seemed tired. There was restless anticipation throughout the car. We were nearing Los Angeles.
Ken Wakabayashi, a family friend from Block 80 whom Daddy, when he left camp, had asked to look after Mama and us kids, sat with me. In his soft, gentle voice, Ken told me all about this wonderful place, Los Angeles. It was warm and sunny there all the time, he said. We would no longer need the heavy clothes of Tule Lake. Cars and streetcars would take us wherever we wanted to go. No curfews, no guards, no fences. Nothing to keep us from going wherever we pleased. There were big, tall buildings and nice little homes with green lawns. Ken told me everything about this paradise. But, to me, the most important thing about Los Angeles was that it was the place where Daddy was waiting for us.
As we approached a big, green mountain, our train slowed down. There were many tracks around us now, and trains were everywhere. I had never seen so many—some just sitting there, others going back and forth as if they couldn’t make up their minds where to go. Our train slowly made its way amongst them, somehow managing not to bump into any of the others. The big, green mountain was tapering down to an end. The track seemed to follow the curve of the foot of the mountain. It was as if the mountain were a curtain pulling back to reveal the spectacle behind it. Gradually, slowly, it appeared as we rounded the bend. Right before our eyes, I saw tall, magnificent buildings reaching for the sky just as Ken had told me—some had ornate, richly carved stone crowns on top, others had giant signs on them mounted on thin, weblike supports as big as the buildings themselves. And soaring far above them all loomed a sleek, tapered white tower radiant in the late morning sunshine. “That’s Los Angeles City Hall,” Ken told me. “It’s the tallest building in the city. Nothing taller can be built.” I was awestruck. It was the most beautiful building I had ever seen.
Mama nudged me and said, “That where Daddy and Mama married.” So, we ourselves had some connection with that majestic structure, I thought. That made it even more impressive. Mama pointed to one of the upper floors. “See floor up there?”
I really couldn’t tell which one she was pointing to, but I nodded anyway and said, “Yes.”
“Oh, I have so nice memories there. So nice.” I realized then that this was where Mama had left her memories. She was coming home to her life before me. Then this wonderful, exciting, new place was also part of my history. This city where I was born eight years ago, this place where Daddy was waiting for us, this place of my dreams was now right in front of me. I couldn’t wait for the train to stop.
* * *
Daddy was standing there on the station platform smiling and waving. He looked exactly as I remembered him. Even after the ten long weeks that we hadn’t seen him, he wasn’t changed at all. He was wearing the same gray suit he had on the day he left us, and on his head, the same well-worn Panama hat. He was standing there beaming with his arms outstretched. We all ran up to him and assaulted him from all sides with hugs. We knocked his hat off, but he kept laughing and laughing. We were so happy that we couldn’t speak. All we did was laugh and laugh. Then we noticed Reiko holding Mama’s skirt and shyly hiding behind it. Ten weeks had taken its toll on her. Daddy had become only a vaguely familiar acquaintance. Daddy laughed and very formally offered his hand. Only after energetic cheerleading by all of us did she bashfully, so very tentatively, shake his hand. We were a complete family again.
We walked through a long tunnel, thunderous with the echo of a hundred hurrying footsteps. I lugged a small suitcase; Henry struggled with another. Daddy carried three suitcases, the smallest one tucked under his arm. Mama led Reiko by one hand and in the other she carried the big carryall bag containing her portable sewing machine. She had brought that machine full circle back to Los Angeles.
Suddenly, we were in a space so vast its sheer size stopped me in my tracks. The walls were decorated with beautiful Spanish tile. “This is the waiting room of Union Station,” Daddy announced. It was a hundred times bigger than all our mess halls at camp put together. Mama prodded me to move along. Stumbling in amazement, I gaped at the tall, elegant windows, turning around and around as I walked, and gawked at the great decorated beams high up in the ceiling. I had never experienced such a monumental expanse of space. And to think that human beings had built this grandeur. This was a wondrous achievement. I was dizzy with awe.
And people were everywhere, completely ignoring this magnificent space. So many people in such great variety. So many faces that weren’t Japanese. So many so nicely dressed. All rushing in a great hurry, going in one direction or the other. And the soldiers in Los Angeles didn’t carry rifles. In fact, they were just a part of the river of people rushing somewhere in the same hurry as everybody else. Black people in different uniforms rushed about carrying other people’s luggage. It was too much to take in all at once.
When we stepped out into the bright sunshine, there again, even whiter and more glorious than before, stood Los Angeles City Hall. Daddy led us to the street. As if it were waiting for us, there stood what Daddy called a streetcar—a yellow-and-green streamlined smaller version of a train car. We climbed aboard, and with a loud “ding-ding,” we were moving.
From the window, I saw one incredible sight after another. The street was crowded with cars in an amazing variety of styles and colors. Blues, greens, yellows, black, and even a red one. But there were no Jeeps. I saw signs with gigantic pictures of strikingly beautiful Caucasian men and women smoking cigarettes or drinking soda pop or liquor from elegant glasses. Suddenly, a huge red truck screamed by, sounding a frightening wail and blaring its loud horn threateningly. The clamorous “rat-tat-tat” of workmen breaking up the street surface using powerful mechanical devices sounded almost gentle after the red truck had gone.
The streetcar turned a corner at First Street and Alameda Street. Daddy whispered, “Now we’re going to go through old Little Tokyo.” Daddy and Mama had told me so much about this Japanese section of Los Angeles, I was anxious to see what it was really like. I looked up at Mama to watch her reclaim another memory. But instead of the happy anticipation I had expected, she looked shocked. I heard her whisper to Daddy, “So many black people here now.” We were rolling through a section of old brick buildings with shops and restaurants, and, just as Mama noted, lots
of black people were standing around.
Daddy whispered to Mama, “They called Little Tokyo Bronzeville during the war. But Japanese are coming back now. Look, Nisei Sugar Bowl is back already. Still the best cup of coffee and apple pie in town. And see, there’s Kyodo Drug Store. We’re coming back.”
Before we knew it, we were rolling past a block with an impressive building facade fronted by a lush green park. Daddy nudged me. “This is City Hall.” We were now actually in front of the tallest building in Los Angeles. I craned my neck to see the top of the soaring tower, but the streetcar window wasn’t big enough to accommodate the full height of this imposing skyscraper. So City Hall is this close to Little Tokyo, I thought.
Then we turned another corner, and all at once the street was ablaze with brilliant colors and dazzling lights. This was Broadway, Los Angeles’s premier street of movie palaces and big department stores. In broad daylight, giant marquees flashed zigzag neon, colored lights, and white hot bulbs. Each marquee flamboyantly showcased its current presentation, commanding and competing for attention. Interspersed between theaters named Million Dollar, Roxy, Palace, Los Angeles, Lowe’s State, and Orpheum were the glamorous show windows of stores, bearing names like Bullock’s, Desmonds, May Co., and, quite appropriately, Broadway. Where the marquees blazed and jigged and danced with unrelenting movement and light, the show windows were the quintessence of frozen grace and serenity. And on the street, people, people, people everywhere. All rushing with somewhere to go in such great hurry.
Los Angeles in 1946 was an amazing place—an electrifying city and an overpowering new experience. Going from the barbed wire confinement, monotony, and confusion of the internment camps to this explosive activity and bewildering variety was a revelation. I may have been born here, but I had no recollection of any of this. It was all so new. I felt like an immigrant in my own hometown.
