by George Takei
The picker’s job was to go out in the field with wooden trays, already lined with empty individual cartons, and fill them with the ripe berries. Our line bosses sternly emphasized we were to select only the ripe ones. There would be a later harvest as the other berries ripened. Simple enough, I thought. Why the big fuss? Of course I’ll pick only the ripe ones.
After about an hour, I became aware of a few of the verities of strawberry picking and of life. My first discovery was the remarkable capacity of the human body to adapt to almost any kind of task. The experienced Mexican farm workers were moving along at an amazing clip, straddling the row of plants and nimbly picking the plumpest of the fruits. In that uncomfortable, hunched-over position, they had grace and economy of motion combined with remarkable productivity. They were at least five hundred yards ahead of me after the first hour.
The next thing I realized was that we use the word “back-breaking” too loosely. I had never experienced such pain, such agony, as those merciless shooting stabs that began attacking my back. The pain became progressively worse as the day wore on. It became almost paralyzing. No one can claim to truly understand the meaning of the word “backbreaking” without having spent a day picking strawberries. By afternoon, I was crawling on all fours down that muddy row of strawberry plants, too crippled to keep from crushing any berry that happened to come under my knees, ripe or not. By the end of the day in the field, I came to the excruciating understanding that the line between idealism and delusion can be filament-thin. My vision of “saving” the California strawberry industry had completely destroyed my back. But my romantic idealism was still somewhat intact. That became the next victim of assault.
Exhausted, bedraggled, and bent over, we lined up at the pay window. I was moaning and complaining in Spanish to my fellow farm workers about my aches and pains. There were two Japanese American paymasters behind the window calculating the amount each picker earned. The highest earners, of course, were the experienced Mexican farm workers, most of whom spoke little English. When they were being paid, I noticed something odd. The paymasters spoke to the workers in good—in fact, forceful—English. But, periodically, they broke into Japanese among themselves. They were speaking openly in Japanese, obviously taking me, like my Mexican friend on the truck had, for a suntanned, Spanish-speaking non-Japanese of some kind. They seemed oblivious to my presence. I listened closely when they broke into Japanese, the language they thought no one there understood.
What I heard made my blood boil. They were shorting the pay of the non-English-speaking workers! I elbowed my way up to the window and irately told them in Japanese that I was on to what they were doing. The paymasters were stunned speechless. I threatened that if they didn’t make restitutions to the people they had cheated, I would report them to the authorities. The look of astonishment on their faces was followed by rage that turned into a flustered shuffling of papers. Shortly thereafter, an announcement was made in English that there might have been some slight miscalculations in some of the pay and that adjustments would be made. This was quickly translated into Spanish by one of the Mexican American workers.
That day on the farm, I saved neither the California strawberry crop nor the soundness of my back, nor even my idealism untarnished. In their place, however, I gained an aching understanding of the very real world. I learned, sadly, that people who have been exploited, even Japanese Americans with whom I shared a common history, are not immune to exploiting others in turn. And most importantly, I learned that an individual can count. One person can make a difference. I knew now how strenuous it was to pick strawberries. I saw how hard the Mexican workers labored. Because I spoke up, I made the difference between their being paid the money they had worked so hard to earn and their being taken advantage of. My back hurt, and there was a crack in my innocence, but deep inside, I felt good.
Despite the blemish on my idealism from the day in the strawberry field, I still reacted to the photos of each new disaster on the front page of the newspaper. Perhaps it was because of my memory of Daddy in camp, actively throwing himself into the work of the community. Perhaps it was because of the warm, good feeling I got by helping to make a difference. Maybe it was because it was just good fun working with kindred people. Whatever the reason, volunteerism became a part of my life. I began doing a lot of work with the Junior Red Cross. Every report of a flood or a tornado or a firestorm sent me hurrying to the Red Cross headquarters on Vermont Avenue not very far from home, where I stuffed informational packets, first aid kits, and relief packages.
* * *
It was the biggest rage of 1952. Everybody at school was wearing them, socks in luminous chartreuse or bright fluorescent pink. It was the “cool” way to dress. They turned the ankles into eye-riveting moving neons. I had to be “with it,” too. Half of my sock collection was in the new fluorescent colors. Mama complained of almost going blind every time she did my laundry.
To a teenager, a sense of belonging and being accepted, of being a member of an “in” group, is the most intensely important thing in life. And to look cool was vital. I had my socks—fluorescent. I had my shoes—blue suede, like Elvis. And for dressing up, I had my charcoal gray suit with a pink shirt. When I could filch one, I would even add a pink carnation. For me, living with the muted memory of the camps, then the feeling of being a passionate outsider to the exciting life of the barrio, to be “in” became a great teenage compulsion.
Working with the Junior Red Cross, both at the headquarters and at school, buttressed my idealism and fulfilled my need to be a part of something larger. It also fed another hunger—the prospect of popularity. When I was elected president of the Junior Red Cross at Mt. Vernon Junior High, the event sparked the hope of another possibility. This would be a good stepping-stone to an office in the student cabinet.
When I mentioned this idea at the dinner table, Daddy thought my plan to seek a higher student office was great. He suggested, however, that before I shared my goal with friends, I help others get elected to office. So I got behind my friend Everett Van Vlear’s campaign to become boys’ athletic commissioner. Daddy bought the poster board, and I made an artfully designed poster for Everett. I buttonholed everyone and urged them to vote for Everett. At the assembly where candidates made their speeches, Everett did well. He spoke thoughtfully and persuasively. But when his opponent, a pleasant enough kid, spoke, he started playing musical spoons, utensils that he held between his fingers and rhythmically slapped against his thighs, elbows, and even against his head. He played them quite cleverly, and the audience cheered with delight. Against those syncopated spoons, Everett didn’t have a chance. He suffered a landslide defeat.
The next semester I ran for health commissioner and gave away souvenir Red Cross buttons. My opponent didn’t give anything away, so I won by a landslide.
It was a strange and wonderful feeling accepting congratulations after the election. Strange because the campaign was fun. I always felt that congratulations should come after a hard struggle, after much sweat and strain, after overcoming some kind of adversity. My campaign was full of laughter and whoopee with a lot of friends. Most of all, I thought it was strange to be congratulated for getting to do what I wanted to do. But at the same time, I made a surprising self-discovery. I was becoming addicted to this postelection wave of congratulations. It felt great. And I wanted to feel it again. As health commissioner, I was now on the student cabinet. Any other office would be merely a lateral move. The only office left for a vertical move was student body president.
* * *
As the end of the semester approached, and the time neared for the candidates for student body offices to declare themselves, it looked as though the only other likely person to run for student body president was my friend and the current boys’ vice president, Lee Young. I used to kid him by calling him my Chinese friend because of his name. He was actually black, and his full name was Leonidas Young, Jr. Lee had an easy, engaging personality, and he was very pop
ular, making him tough competition.
Sure enough, on the day of filing as candidates, Lee declared for student body president. Why did it have to be a good friend? Why couldn’t someone I didn’t like be an opponent? It would make it so much easier, I thought to myself as I filed my papers. Nevertheless, as the student photographer from the journalism class snapped pictures, I shook hands with Lee and said with a bright smile, “Lee is a good friend of mine. But politics makes strange bedfellows.” The journalism students immediately scribbled my unoriginal quote into their notebooks. Lee, ever the swift politician, nimbly countered with, “Whatever George’s position may be, I am not getting into bed with anyone.” The journalism students eagerly jotted down that quote. The campaign was off and running.
Lee was a great wit and clever storyteller. I noticed he was campaigning on his personality. I had my secret weapon, though. Of course, I couldn’t use my Red Cross buttons again. But Daddy could get me little hard candies at wholesale. So as I campaigned, the students discovered that every one of my handshakes had a little sweet something in it.
The real showdown was at the assembly. I wrote and rewrote my speech. I wondered what Lee would do with his. Surely he wouldn’t stoop to the level of playing musical spoons. Then it hit me like a lightning bolt. Lee’s father was a musician with the Duke Ellington Band! And I didn’t know if Lee himself played any musical instrument. Or if he did, would he? Certainly, I wouldn’t play the piano or blow the bugle during my speech. I wouldn’t go that low. Besides, I wasn’t that good. My playing would probably lose me votes. But did Lee have a secret instrument? That became my big worry.
When Daddy asked me, “How’s your campaign speech coming along?” my answer was, “I don’t know what Lee’s going to play.” Daddy sat down and said to me, “Don’t worry about Lee. He’s a good boy, and so are you. What you have to do is to tell the other students who you are, what you stand for, and why you want to serve as student body president. And tell them that you will do the best you can. That’s all. Then let the students decide.” I knew he was right. I decided to go with his advice. I wasn’t going to worry about Lee’s secret weapon anymore.
On the day of the assembly, the auditorium was abuzz with excitement. There was a long list of offices with an even longer list of candidates vying for the various positions. The only two candidates for student body president spoke last. Because speeches were assigned in alphabetical order, I spoke first. I spoke concisely, sincerely, and perhaps a bit dramatically. Then I sat down. I thought I did well. The applause was enthusiastic.
Then Lee spoke. The anxiety that I thought I had suppressed came prickling up uncontrollably. Would he play a musical instrument? Maybe even sing? Perhaps dance? Or play musical spoons?
Lee began by telling a joke. There was light laughter. When was he going to play his secret saxophone? I worried. Then he told a funny story. More laughter. He was going to sing next, I was convinced. Then he told another joke. Now he’s going to start dancing, I thought. He told another story. He must have Duke Ellington himself in the audience, and he was going to introduce him from the stage, I anguished. Then he concluded and sat down. That was it. I almost felt cheated. All Lee did was tell funny stories. And the audience enjoyed it. So that was his ace in the hole, and now it was up to the voters.
When the vote was all counted, we were told that it was very close. Close, but I had won. I was elected student body president of Mt. Vernon Junior High School.
* * *
My senior semester, like all senior semesters, was heady and memorable and flew by much too fast. I have memories of presiding over the student cabinet, of dances with girls wearing puffy poodle hairdos and full skirts with layers of stiff petticoats underneath, of singers like Johnny Ray and his hit song “The Little White Cloud That Cried,” and Joni James and her “Teach Me Tonight.” Before we knew it, graduation was upon us. High school was waiting for us next.
The capper of those three years at Mt. Vernon was the awards assembly. I was recognized for academic and service achievements with the coveted American Legion Award. As honored as I felt, I didn’t realize at the time how much this recognition meant to Daddy and Mama. Only a little more than a decade before, the American Legion had been one of the most virulent voices for the removal of Japanese Americans from the West Coast. Now I was standing onstage as the outgoing student body president receiving the highest award given to a member of the graduating class—from that same organization, the American Legion.
7
To Be or Not to Be
LOS ANGELES HIGH SCHOOL HAD a strong sense of history and tradition. Founded in 1873, it was the oldest high school in the city, with a distinguished alumni that includes prominent business, civic, and cultural leaders. The building’s imposing English Tudor architecture made a statement of solidity and establishment. A stately clock tower chimed melodiously on the hour. The overall look was more like an Ivy League college campus than a high school. The school was one of the primary reasons that Daddy and Mama sacrificed so much to buy our house. They were realizing another of their dreams. Their son was now a student at L.A. High.
I was excited, too, but, at the same time not just a little discomfited. I was sixteen now. The move from Mt. Vernon to L.A. High symbolized matriculation into adulthood. There were decisions to be made. A direction for my course of study had to be determined.
I was acutely aware of my parents’ dreams—of their hopes for their children’s futures. But I also had the growing sense that Daddy’s and Mama’s hopes were becoming transformed into expectations. They expected us to go to a university—ideally a distinguished one—then to enter a profession, and then to be “successful.” Quite typical, really. But I felt the weight of their all-too-typical aspirations. I was their oldest son. At Mt. Vernon, I had fulfilled some of their dreams, but that only heightened their expectations—and increased their sacrifices. I was grateful for their investment in us kids. I knew keenly how hard they worked and how much they gave up for us. But that awareness only intensified my inner conflict. I harbored my own secret aspiration. I wanted to be an actor.
What is this fascination with acting that starts from childhood and by steady degrees grows into passion? Henry and I grew up only a year apart, in the same family with the same shaping influences. Yet we were so different. Henry was a sports nut, and things mechanical fascinated him. But Henry had no interest in the arts, literature, or the theater, while I had little interest in any of his activities.
To me, the theater was life, its artists, the chroniclers of human history. By my midteens, I had already memorized a good number of the famous soliloquies from the plays of Shakespeare. But whenever I began reciting “To be or not to be” to Reiko, this ungrateful and unappreciative audience accused me of bothering her. “Mama,” she’d yell, “he’s starting his To be or not to be’ at me again. Make him quit!” Pearls to swines.
I saw traveling Broadway plays for free by ushering at the old Biltmore Theater downtown. I saved to go to the movies as often as I could. Actors personified for me the whole of theater, movies, and the new rage, television. They were demigods—glamorous, powerful, witty, and heroic. It was crazy of me even to think of wanting to be one. Such a wild, farfetched fantasy. But I thought it anyway—without giving voice to my covert yearning.
Daddy knew of my love of the theater and actors, and he approved.
“Everyone should have culture in their lives,” he observed. “It enriches them.”
But I knew he didn’t mean culture as a career choice. He meant it as a hobby. As my life’s work, he envisioned a “serious” profession, one that would require a college degree. I knew that. And I didn’t want to disappoint Daddy and Mama. Despite my own hidden dream, in spite of the inner conflict, I chose a college preparatory course of study at L.A. High.
* * *
Daddy sold the grocery store on Western Avenue and then went into selling real estate. Japanese Americans were now recovering from the inter
nment years and buying homes and businesses. Some were even making investments. It was an opportune time for Daddy’s new business move.
With the sale of the grocery, Henry and I lost our after-school jobs as stock boys helping out at the store. In that job, Henry was the better worker. I spent a lot of time back in the stock room reading newspapers and magazines—but when the boss is your dad, the work rules get a bit relaxed. Now, we had to get real jobs.
I found a job as a temporary stock boy at Orbach’s. This was a stylish new department store on the Miracle Mile, a retail stretch of Wilshire Boulevard lined with sleek, streamlined art deco buildings. It was conveniently only a couple of miles from L.A. High and an easy bike ride away. I now had a real job that paid real money and required real work.
But I found nonpaid volunteer work much more satisfying. My work with the Junior Red Cross continued at L.A. High. We organized drives to collect used clothing and canned foods to aid people struck by disasters. We gathered volunteers to help stuff and pack the goods at the headquarters on Vermont Avenue. But most of all, I remember the fun and camaraderie of these activities. I was elected president of the Junior Red Cross chapter at L.A. High and, subsequently, chairman of the Western Regional Council, an assembly of all the Junior Red Cross chapters in western Los Angeles. This service with the Junior Red Cross presented me with an unforgettable experience—my first air travel—to Colorado Springs, Colorado, to attend the Junior Red Cross Leadership Training Camp.
* * *
Unconsciously I pulled up on the armrest, as if to help lift the trembling plane off the runway. I peeked out the porthole-like window at the swiftly rushing scenery that seemed to be descending. It was an exhilarating feeling tightly laced with anxiety. Within seconds, the rushing shifted to a lifting sensation. The illusion of descent became clear ascent, and the view from the window turned into a quickly miniaturizing landscape far down below. The row of giant oil tanks in the beach city of El Segundo now looked like small bolts holding down the coastline. I was flying. For the first time in my life, I was off the planet earth.
