Dust of Eden (5 page)

cloud into the room

into his corner, casting

a dark shadow over all

of us. My father does

not say a word

as he writes in the notebook,

an article for the
Minidoka

Irrigator.
My mother pretends

nothing is wrong

as she massages Grandpa’s

thin shoulders. I want

to scream, I want to say

anything, something,

yell at them,
Look at me,

look at Nick, do something!

but I also pretend

that nothing is wrong

as I do my homework.

Nick’s anger weighs

heavy like buzzing of mosquitoes.

The night is dark.

The coyotes howl so

close by, waiting for us

to come out, their howls

mixing in with the foul

smell from the irrigations

simmering, about

to explode.

No. 27. Are you willing to serve in the Armed forces of the United States on combat duty wherever ordered?

Yes (I will fight, Nick says).

Yes (I will serve, Nick says, I’m so angry at you, America, but I’ll show you, I’ll show you that I’m better than you.)

No (not until we are all Americans, Father says).

Yes (to prove that I am loyal, Shig, Nick’s best friend says).

Yes (to prove that I am not an enemy, Nick says, so I can show you I’m more American than those damn honkies who called me Jap).

No (I am not free, Father says).

Yes (yes, I am an American, Nick says).

No. 28. Will you swear unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any or all attack by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, to any other foreign government, power or organization?

Yes (this is my home, Nick says).

Yes (America the free,
Oh say can you see
…, I pledge).

Yes (I pledge allegiance, to the flag, we say every morning.)

No (My father is Japanese, Father says, and this question is a trick question. There is only yes to one and no to the other, there is no and there is yes, and there is only no).

No (My grandfather was denied naturalization, Gary Kunieda says).

Yes (I’ll defend you even if you don’t want me to, I’ll defend you America, because I’m an American, I’m not a Jap, Nick says).

Yes (I am an American, I say).

Everywhere there are shouts,

rattling of windows and doors.

Every night, and sometimes during the day,

shouts of people erupt like dust

storms, expected but surprising,

arguing about the questionnaire:

Are you willing to serve?

Nick and Father shout at meetings,

at each other.
Don’t you dare

answer that question “yes,” Nick
,

Father yells,
I didn’t raise you to die in the war.

America doesn’t trust us, so why should we help them?

How can you think of answering “yes”

after what our family’s gone through?

But Nick yells back,
I’m an American,

I will die for this country,

just to prove that we are loyal,

we are loyal even when they don’t trust us.

Their shouts make the floorboards

creak, and the walls tremble. Even dust

stays huddled in corners, in fear.

The night seems more alive than ever,

filled with angry words, and banging

doors and sobs. My brother will

die for a country that does not love us back.

Mr. and Mrs. Simon Kunieda’s only

son has renounced his citizenship.

Every night for the past three weeks,

we heard them fighting

from three apartments down,

Mr. Simon Kunieda yelling

in a mixture of Japanese and English,

(more in Japanese as he gets excited),

with his son, Gary, yelling

only in English. Gary is to leave

the camp and then for Japan

in few days. I can hear Nick

breathing, sighing in the dark,

and Father’s quiet voice,

breaking the night

into pieces with his low

whisper,
Nick, you are not to

do what Gary Kunieda did,

you hear me, son?

The way to school is dusty, a long

dusty stretch of road that goes from north

to south, an exacting compass that stretches

in a straight line, made by men

whose intentions were clear, sure.

The way to school is unforgiving.

When it rains, the road becomes knee-

deep with mud, and when it dries, forget

yesterday’s rain. Forget about moisture.

Tumbleweeds own the streets, rolling

after us like dogs barking,

hurrying us to school. Getting to school

takes twenty minutes;

it’s one straight line, both

sides adorned with never-ending barracks,

windows, eyes looking at us. The way to school

is always the same: yesterday, tomorrow,

today, next year, maybe forever.

Nick’s diploma arrived in a brown envelope,

Special Delivery
, with a note from Mrs. Campbell,

his senior homeroom teacher, “Nick, we missed you at

graduation. We miss your sense of humor and your laughter.

I am praying for this war to end as soon as possible. Some

of your friends missed graduation, too, since they’ve

volunteered already: Neal Higgins, Kevin Clark, Sammy

Walker.”

Without looking, he took the diploma and ripped it

into shreds, then stomped on it. Mother screamed, “No, no!”

I saw his hurt so big and so raw. Without looking back,

he yelled, “This is what America is all about!” and went

through the door, entering the dust, disappearing amidst

the swirl of yellow, banging the door behind him,

followed by the ghostly sigh of Mr. Akagi.

Grandpa sighing from his corner, got his cane, and left

the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Mother picked up the pieces strewn all over the room

like snow. I straightened the brown envelope,

and we glued each piece, one piece at a time

with leftover rice, onto the crinkled brown paper,

until Nick’s name became whole, Nicholas Toshio Tagawa.

His diploma that could have taken him to the University

of Washington this September 1943.

The first batch

of roses smothered

under the sandstorm

except for the one

Grandpa kept

beside his bed.

Even the red ones

that he had covered

with mosquito nets

were coated with gritty sand

so fine that they turned

white.

Grandpa sighs

and says that

there’s next year,

and in the meanwhile,

he can help with

the field, all 420 acres

cultivated with hands

and bodies bent

with hopes so strong

they can and will change the soil.

Dear Jamie,

Nick and Father have been

fighting.

I was angry

for a very long time,

(I still am)

about what the government

did, about Father being

taken away, but when I think

about Gary Kunieda, I don’t know

whether he did the right

thing either. He speaks

Japanese like a five-year-old;

I can’t imagine why he wanted

to go to Japan. Father says that

it’s unconstitutional to lock

people up without
due

process
; Nick thinks we need to

prove ourselves.

Our school year started,

and still there’s no library,

no gym, just the same ol’

walk, the same ol’ classroom

with no real desks.

We have a new teacher, though—

Miss Straub, not at all like

Miss Claredon. She sort of

reminds me of a bird,

that albatross like the one we used to see

on the wharf, remember?

So big but so beautiful in the sky.

She says that she’s going

to call us by what we want

to be called. She didn’t pronounce

“Masako” like teachers back home,

but pronounced it like Grandpa,

each sound weighing the same.

She said that it was a beautiful

name; she said that Mina was beautiful.

She says that

we have to study hard

because this isn’t going to

last long, that we have

to think of tomorrow.

She also brought us lots of books,

she practically started

a library for us.

I get the feeling

that this year is going to be

different, maybe better

than last year.

Your best friend, Mina Masako

Grandpa kneels

in his garden,

readying the roses

for winter.

He sings quietly,

a tune without words,

words lost somewhere

between Japan

and here,

left behind

in Seattle.

Mina Masako Tagawa

November 16, 1943

Miss Straub’s 9th Core

Civics

“What It Means to Be an American”

What it means to be an American is the question I have been asking myself for the past year and half. I am sure that other Americans of Japanese ancestry who have been moved from the West Coast to ten concentration camps in the United States have been asking the same question, too.

My father was arrested right after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. He was put in prison, and lost a lot of weight during his imprisonment. Even today, we are not sure why he was arrested. But he was also not the only person who was arrested. There were many men like him all over America, Americans just like my father, who were arrested and imprisoned without the proper procedure of law.

When we were first moved to Camp Harmony in April 1942, we were told to pack only what we could carry. We were given name tags to wear as if we were no longer human, but were luggage, or animals. The government took away our names, our houses, and most importantly, our dignity. We had to live in former stalls where horses used to be; we lived in less than acceptable living conditions. When they moved us again in August 1942 to Minidoka, where we are now, we did not know what would happen to us. There were all kinds of rumors: that we would be shot; that food they served us on the trains would be poisoned.

It was very hard when we first got here, but things are better now. Everyone helped in building real bathrooms, a swimming pond, irrigations, and now, a beautiful farm full of vegetables and fruits. It is not the same as Seattle, where it rains and where it’s warm and so green. But we are trying to get as close to what we left behind as we can. I am not sure what it means to be an American but I am learning.

Nick comes home

his eyes shining like

Basho’s when he comes

home with a tuft

of feather

in his mouth.

Nick, without saying

a word, sits down

next to Father. And he

looks at his hands

for a long time,

like he is thinking,

like he wants to

say something

but words are hiding

somewhere inside

of his throat. Then

he coughs.
Dad
, Nick

says,
there’s an Army

unit for boys like me,

the U.S. Army created

a unit just for Japanese

boys so that we can fight

the Nazis and fascists

and maybe the Japanese.

Dad, I’m going

to volunteer as soon

as I turn eighteen

in January.

Father stops

polishing his shoes.

Mother stops

mending a pant leg.

Father looks slowly

at Nick.

Nick looks down

at his hand again.

Nick, if you ever volunteer,

Father says without

moving his lips,

after all that we’ve gone

through, if you ever

volunteer, you’ll have to do

it over my dead body.

And Father continues to work

like he never spoke,

the only sound in the room

the fast

staccato sound of the brush

bristling against worn leather.

The room shook.

Father changed in front

of my eyes and punched

Nick, and Mother screamed.

Nick overturned the table,

breaking the leg,

and Grandpa jumped up

from his bed, thrusting

his cane between Father

and Nick. Nick raised

his arm and Father tried

to punch Nick again,

and the three of them were

suddenly dancing fast and furiously

to the sound

of a drummer’s beat. From

one wall to another, Grandpa’s

glasses flew through the air,

and landed by my feet, cracking,

and Nick yelled,
You are a coward, you’re

a spineless coward; you think

that if you’re like a good Japanese,

pretending nothing is wrong,

saying
shikataganai
—shrugging

your shoulder,
can’t be helped,

everything will be all right.

It’s men like you, who don’t fight back,

that made this mess.

Well, I’m sick

of it, I’m sick of all this,