Dust of Eden (6 page)

I’m going to prove to you,

and to everyone, that I’m

a man, that I’m an American

just like those honkies

that call me a Jap boy.

Father dropped his arm

to his side. Grandpa held

Nick, taking him outside.

Mother cried and I stood

in the corner, shaking.

Grandpa’s glasses lay

on the floor, cracked.

The bus waits

outside the gate.

Nick stands straight,

his face suddenly

like Father’s, older,

taller, bigger than

I remember him.

Father is still angry;

he is in bed.

Nick smiles wide,

His
Seattle
smile.

Grandpa holds out

his hand,
Nihondanji

No na o kegasuna

(don’t shame the reputation

of Japanese men),

rippa ni tatakatte koi

(fight well and make

us proud). Nick laughs so loud that

he almost blew

away the guards above the tower.

He almost shatters the sky

with his ready laugh.

The bus honks.

Nick hugs us quickly,

then walks away

with his back straight,

so tall and almost

a soldier already.

Zettai Ikite kaette koi

(you must come back alive)

Grandpa shouts.

Zettai ikite kaette koi,

I whisper.

Dear Mina,

I got your letter yesterday, and it’s good to hear that everyone’s doing well back in the camp. We arrived in Mississippi, the boys and I. Shig nearly died trying to get off the bus with a bag that was bigger than him, but we arrived all in one piece. The train to the south was long and you wouldn’t believe how humid it is here, so unlike Idaho. But you know, I don’t miss it. If anything, I miss Seattle, the sea, the food, and all that. They gave us another physical, we stood in this line and then that line (it’s good to be home). Then it’s been non-stop on the go—being woken up before the sun, running, eating, running, shooting. Food’s not bad, not like in our block’s back home. But it’s the lack of sleep that’s getting to me. Shig and I went into the town near Camp Shelby, and Shig had to go to the bathroom real bad, but we just couldn’t figure out which bathroom to use: the one for white, or the one for negroes. So I went up to the gas station owner, and asked as politely as I could, “Which one should we use?” The old man there was really confused, too, kept looking at me, trying to figure out the same question. Then he said, “suppose the white one.” Shig and I had a good laugh about it—here, down South, we’re not Japanese like we were back in Seattle, but white. Before I forget, thank Mom for the sweater, I know how hard it is to find yarn. Tell her I’m doing well, and that there’s nothing to worry about. Tell Dad that it seems like we may be shipped to Europe, instead of the Pacific, like he thought we would be—or that’s what other boys tell me. Hope he’s not angry with me anymore. Tell him that I’ll make him proud. Tell Grandpa not to work too much; that old boy can be in the garden like a fifteen year old, but the sun is hot and he’s getting old. Tell them that all the boys and I are here to fight, and we’re ready to fight for our country. I’m sending you some bars of soap and chocolates—send my love, and I’ll write you more when I have more time.

Your loving brother, Nick

Father does not

speak as he goes

about his days,

working at the newspaper.

Mom’s hands,

as red and chapped as rotten

plums, move busily

knitting a scarf for Nick.

Grandpa coughs a hollow

cough, once, twice,

again and again,

until his entire body trembles.

Miss Straub almost sings.

Hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul,

and sings the tune without the words,

and never stops at all.

And the words keep flying out of Miss Straub’s mouth,

and Emily Dickinson keeps singing

and I close my eyes

and Miss Straub closes her book.

The sun glares down on top of us,

my father, my mother, and Grandpa.

We are in a row of four,

from east to west,

as we till the ground.

The water from irrigation feeds the land.

We tame the land with our hands, with Grandpa’s

dream to make this land as green as Seattle, greener

and darker, banishing the tumbleweeds.

The sun is strong,

our shadows darker

the darkest of dark.

There is no sound.

The earth is dry,

the sky so stark blue with white

clouds the size of two barracks put together.

We measure Grandpa’s dream with earth,

changing the land from dusk-yellow to darkest brown.

Grandpa sings,

he is the farmer, the gardener,

the guardian of this land.

Grandpa sings,

We must be patient,

with our dreams. The land will listen. The land will dream.

The land will sing itself to sleep, and when it wakes up,

it will be fertile, and roots will take roots.

We will make this our land, our home.

The first soldier from the camp

came back yesterday

as an American flag, folded.

Yesterday, Tadaharu “Ted”

Komiya, quarterback for the University

of Washington, came home,

dead. The only son of Mr. and Mrs. Komiya

in Area B. He came back

without a body. Only a purple star

and a letter of regret.

The whole mess hall had a moment of silence

to grieve for him.

Dear Nick,

After you left

for Mississippi, the roses

finally blossomed in colors of pink, red,

white…and even light blue.

Remember when Grandpa told us his

dream about growing blue roses?

People from miles away

come to buy Grandpa’s roses,

even the guards on their days off.

Father is getting better.

More and more, he’s helping Grandpa

with the rose garden like he used to

back home. Mother is well;

she’s still working in the kitchen.

Grandpa can’t stop coughing,

I worry about him.

We’re trying to stay

cheerful, though it’s not

the same without you.

Miss Straub, my new

teacher, has been talking to us

about what it means to be

an American. She says that it doesn’t

matter who we are—a man, a woman

negro, oriental, old, young.

None of that matters.

What matters is whether we are being

the best person we know how to be

at any given time. Don’t get yourself

killed. We are waiting for the war to end

so you can come back to us.

I miss you. And I’m so proud of you.

Your sister, Mina Masako

Dear Jamie,

I’m sure I told you

Nick’s volunteered.

He’s written a couple

of times, saying he’s doing

well. You know Nick.

He’s so cheerful most

of the time (well, at least

back in Seattle) and I think

he is much happier now

than he was in the camp.

Father was pretty upset

but like a “good Japanese,”

he eventually shrugged

and said,
shikataganai—
can’t be helped.

It’s so strange to be

here, even after two years.

I feel more American now

than I ever did.

But there’s also a very strong

Japanese-ness here, too. Like

living quietly so we don’t

bother others, like helping

each other out when we can.

We’ve been talking a lot

about what it means

to be an American. I wrote

an awful essay for Miss Straub,

then we debated about it for months.

And slowly, I’m beginning to understand.

America tells us

you’re not American

but the country also asks us

to fight and maybe
die

to protect it.

We say the Pledge,

we buy the war

bonds, we help

with the war effort,

and men like my brother

have enlisted

and are fighting.

But we do it

because we love our home.

Because home isn’t just

our family, but it’s something bigger,

it’s everything and everyone,

and even when we fight,

even when we hurt each other,

we are family, no matter what.

Maybe that’s what America is for me.

I almost feel like this is home.

Your best friend, Mina Masako

When an old person

goes into the hospital,

they go in to die. I see it

whenever I go to

the hospital with Grandpa

for his check-ups.

The hospital is full of

old people, with their eyes

dull like three-day dead

fish on the market stall,

the kind of fish

no one would eat

except for flies.

The hospital is full of

old people, with their bodies

giving up on walking and talking.

Grandpa’s eyes

are still bright.

He has not given up yet.

Barracks that used

to be full

like beehives

are now empty.

Families, one

after another,

are leaving

with crisp letters

of permission to

relocate to Chicago

or to the East Coast.

Mother looks out

the window,

counting how many

families are left.

Father looks down

at the article

he is writing.

The rose garden

in front of our room

is resting.

This is our home.

5 Men killed, 15 Wounded

in Southern France

the first page of the
Minidoka

Irrigator
screams.

I scan for Nick,

for anyone we know.

We only see Shig

“slightly wounded,”

but it’s a different Shig.

No mention of Nick.

Mother sighs with relief,

and Grandpa doesn’t say

anything. Please, God,

make him come back alive,

I don’t care if he gets

medals, I don’t care

if he makes us proud,

just let him come back

to us alive.

I do not want to see Grandpa lying

on the hospital bed, his arms thin and spotted

as if he has all the sun in the world on his skin.

I do not want to see Grandpa lying

on the hospital bed, his eyes closed

like he is dreaming,

like he doesn’t care about us anymore.

I stand by the doorway of the dark room,

I tiptoe over, not to wake him.

The western corner of his lip curls

into a smile and he says, without opening

his eyes,
Toshio wa buji darou ka?

—I wonder if Toshio is all right?

I go over. He is so pale, he almost seems

to melt into the sunlight if not for

his bones still beneath the skin,

if not for the suns swirling on his arms.

Masako,

Grandpa speaks,

his voice like a candle

about to flicker

out, Masako, don’t

forget that you are

an American, and you’re

Japanese. You have

two halves in one

soul, one that is

America, like this land,

and one that is

Japan. You are Masako,

but you’re also Mina.

I can’t offer

you an answer,

but your job is

to learn to live

with these two

broken pieces

and to make them one.

He raises his arm

slowly, then fingers my necklace,

the half-broken heart.

Just like this heart,

he whispers,

just like this.

My grandfather lies shrouded on his bed,

but his soul does not live in his body

anymore. Incense burns. Mother has been keeping vigil,

reciting the psalms, then the only Buddhist sutra

she knows. “He is Japanese, his last journey

should be in Japanese, too. How will he find

his way to heaven without Japanese?” she says.

Father sits on the porch step outside

quiet, quieter than the time Nick left, quieter than the time

he came back from Montana. He smokes

one cigarette after another, exhaling smoke from his

half-opened mouth as if he is sending off

Grandpa’s soul toward the sky. Mother said that Father found

Grandpa kneeling by the roses in his hospital

pajamas as if he were tasting

the soil like he used to, his hands on

the earth, feeling the heat that’s been absorbed

from the sun. Mother said that when Father tapped him

on his shoulder, Grandpa just kneeled deeper as if he was

praying. As if he were listening to the ground

move beneath him. But he was dead already.

Mother said that when they brought Grandpa back,

the rose was held tightly in his hand.

He died in his garden, where he felt at home.

He died with his hands and feet caked in mud, with a rose

in his hand. He died amidst the roses, away

from the dark and dank hospital room, away from our sad