The Age of Dreaming (17 page)

I thought we would get through the rest of the evening without further incident, but at the end of the meal, while we were eating manju and drinking green tea, Mrs. Matsui turned to the foreign minister and asked, “Excuse me, Dr. Ishii, but what will you be doing in Washington?”

Dr. Ishii put his cup down and raised his head—waiting, it seemed, for all eyes to turn toward him before he began to speak. “I will be meeting with several members of Congress,” he said, “as well as the Secretary of State.”

Around the table there were various exclamations of awe and approval. Mr. Shimura nodded and said, “To discuss the war effort, no doubt.”

“Yes, that is so. The two countries have much to discuss regarding the best use of our respective forces. But,” he said, pausing, “there are also other pressing matters.” He took a drink from his tea and looked around the table. “While the war has helped form an alliance between the U.S. and Japan, there is still much to be desired in how Japan—and Japanese—are viewed here in America.”

“Indeed,” offered Mr. Shimura. “The Alien Land Law and the Gentlemen’s Agreement have severely limited our ability to forge stable communities.” After a moment of reflective silence, he added in a more cheerful voice, “But that was years ago. We’ve made great strides since then!”

“Tremendous strides!” agreed Mr. Matsui. “And I believe that things will continue to improve. The efforts of the Japanese Association, for example, will help ensure that we put our best foot forward with the Americans. Right now, even as we speak, we’ve been working on a war bond drive in Little Tokyo.”

Dr. Ishii examined his half-eaten manju and then placed it back on his plate. “There is no question, Matsui-san, that the work you do is valuable. Although if the world were as it should be, such efforts wouldn’t be required. Yes, things are better, but the reprieve is temporary. When the war is over, I believe they will get worse again.”

A somber mood fell over the table. No one spoke for several moments before Mr. Shimura asked, “Dr. Ishii, are you aware of something we aren’t?”

“There is a move afoot,” Dr. Ishii answered, “that, if successful, will make things more difficult for the Japanese who live in America. Even,” he added, indicating young Daisuke, “for the ones who were born here. The efforts have been subdued temporarily because of the war, but there are still many men—many very powerful men—who are actively working on legislation that will curtail your standing. And, unfortunately, most of them are centered in the West, right here in California.”

“It is regretfully true,” Matsui concurred, “that many of the state’s most prominent men are unfriendly to our interests.”

“I tried to meet with members of the state legislature in Sacramento,” the foreign minister continued, “but they all refused to see me. They consider you a blight on the face of California, and there is tremendous resentment among them, particularly about the success of Japanese farmers in the Central Valley. They are afraid that the farmers will continue to fiourish, and that more Japanese will come.” He paused. “Fortunately, the Americans who live in Washington and New York are generally much more rational. Being, on the whole, a more civilized sort, they do not see you as a national threat.”

“What is there to do?” asked Mrs. Matsui.

“You must be strong,” he said. “You must show the Japanese character. When there is blatant injustice, especially about land, you must stand up to those who would take advantage of you—or else we’re no better than the compliant Chinese. When unfavorable bills come forth in the California legislature, you must rally your friends and allies to defeat them. But—and this is of equal importance— you must also show your willingness to get along here in America, to play by American rules—as you, Matsui-san, have already done so effectively. Above all,” and here he looked significantly at me, “you must not do anything that presents us Japanese in a negative light.”

“It is a difficult balance,” said Mr. Matsui, “to be strong, and yet to try and win over their minds.”

“How can we do it?” asked Mrs. Matsui, almost to herself. “There are so few of us, really, and so many Americans. How can we affect the way they see us?”

Dr. Ishii nodded. “You are correct, there
are
very few of you, Mrs. Matsui—not even 20,000 in Los Angeles. That is why I’ve never understood why those in prominent positions have not done more to advance our interests.”

And here again he looked directly at me, and I returned his gaze. I could feel my anger rising. I was about to reply to his obvious challenge when Mrs. Ishii interrupted again.

“Politics, always politics,” she said with the air of a wife subjected to one too many tiresome dinners. “You see what I must cope with? We’re invited to a social occasion on my first trip to America, and my husband can’t talk of anything but politics!” She leaned conspiratorially toward Mrs. Matsui, who was looking at her with gratitude. “I don’t know what all these men are complaining about. It’s
us
who have the truly difficult jobs, dealing every day with the likes of
them
.”

Mrs. Matsui gave a wide, relieved smile, and the tension began to lift once again. “Indeed!” she concurred, turning toward us men. “Why, if you want to hear about
real
hardship, you should be here when my husband practices his speeches. He stomps and shouts and rehearses in front of a mirror. Why, it’s enough to drive our cats out of the house!”

It was clear that all serious conversation was over, and after the guests had had one final cup of tea, we collected our coats and began to disperse. When the foreign minister passed me on the way to the door, he stopped and gave a curt farewell. His wife, however, bowed sincerely and smiled.

“I apologize for my husband’s behavior,” she said. “He has a very limited way of seeing the world. And I believe, although he would never admit it, that he envies artistic men.” I detected a glint in her eye. “Especially gentlemen as handsome as yourself.”

As my driver took me home, I thought of Mrs. Ishii and her graciousness, which tempered slightly the unpleasantness of the evening. But the event itself caused a discomfort I still felt, like bad fish that had soured my stomach. Despite Matsui’s defense and Mrs. Ishii’s intervention, I was disturbed by what the foreign minister had implied. And if
he
felt these things—so strongly that he was bold enough to bring them forth in public—who else might have felt the same way? I experienced a wave of irritation at all of these people for their arrogance and naïvete.

I did not know what they expected of me. Did they think that I, one man, could affect how Americans saw all Japanese? Did they truly believe that I, a mere actor, could influence events in California and the rest of the country? I was certainly aware of my own popularity—just that week my car had been mobbed by a group of American school-girls when my chauffeur stopped at a store for cigarettes— but to think that such fame could be used to shape public affairs seemed utterly fantastical. I was not surprised that the foreign minister disapproved of my roles—as I’ve said myself on many occasions, some of them were troubling. But at least I played characters who were strong and resolute; at least I never took the comical houseboy roles that were favored by lesser actors like Steve Hayashi. Moreover, to assume the kind of stance that Ishii was suggesting would not have helped matters at all. Certainly I wished to play a wider range of parts—but the fact that I was given these starring roles at all was a benefit to
all
Japanese. One only needed to peruse
Variety
or the picture magazines to see that Hollywood—America—loved me. And this was what the foreign minister did not appear to understand. Although it might have been true that some Americans did not embrace the Japanese, it wasn’t prudent to meet this negative feeling with negative acts of our own. I did not believe in taking actions that would draw unfavorable attention. I believed, and still believe, that the best way to win acceptance is to be as agreeable—and American—as possible.

Dr. Ishii’s behavior was especially maddening because I was engaged, even at the time of his visit, in an effort that would soon paint the Japanese of Los Angeles in a very positive light. The U.S. government had just released its second war bond, and Mr. Matsui had been working feverishly to encourage people to buy them. The Japanese Association had thrown the full weight of its support behind the effort—running ads in the
Rafu Shimpo
, passing out notices at churches and temples, posting signs in Little Tokyo and Boyle Heights. Even the motion picture industry had gotten involved—the short film that Hanako and I had shot in Santa Barbara was an appeal to audiences to purchase bonds. The response thus far was encouraging—as it had been with the first bond—but Matsui wanted to orchestrate a large public gesture to show the community’s support for the war. He decided to organize a war bond rally, and asked Hanako, Steve Hayashi, and myself to appear. Hanako declined, citing her continuing commitment in San Francisco. And while I too normally turned down requests to promote particular causes, the importance of this endeavor made me readily agree.

The rally was held in Little Tokyo in the first week of October. The streets were so crowded in every direction that it looked like the entire population of Little Tokyo, waving small American fiags, had gathered at First and San Pedro. After a series of rallying speeches from Matsui, Hayashi, myself, and a few other dignitaries, the crowd divided into lines to purchase bonds. My own line—I was set up at an individual booth—was, of course, the longest, and after hours of smiling and signing autographs and posing for pictures, I was as tired as I had ever been in my life.

The rally’s success—described in the next day’s
Los
Angeles Times
article, “Japs Set Record Buying Liberty Bonds”—directly led to an increase in box office receipts for my just-released new film. The majority of my viewers were—as always—Americans, and this boost in sales gave the studio an idea. Why not organize several stars with current or upcoming films to participate in the war bond effort? And why not, to attract as much attention as possible, send those stars on a trip across the country?

That is how I found myself, in the fall of 1917, a passenger on the “Victory Train.” Perennial had recruited its then-biggest stars—myself, Elizabeth Banks, the comedian Tuggy Figgins, and the cowboy actor Buck Snyder—to travel together on a four-week war bond tour, culminating with a rally in New York City.

The trip was widely publicized for several weeks, and it created such interest on the part of the media that Perennial decided to rent the entire train. Two cars were reserved for the actors—one for Elizabeth and one for the three of us men—another for studio executives, another for members of the press, and several others for the theater owners, exhibitors, and distributors who were critical to a picture’s success. A final car was reserved for the government employees who would coordinate the sale of the bonds.

The tour began with a kick-off rally at the train station in Los Angeles, complete with a live band and several speakers. Benjamin Dreyfus was there—he’d engineered the whole event—as well as Gerard Normandy, David Rosenberg, and a number of stars from Perennial. Even the mayor himself appeared, and after his brief remarks exhorting everyone to support the war effort, he bought his bonds right there on stage. The crowd was tremendous—even larger than the crowd in Little Tokyo—with frenzied people screaming out our names and trying to push through the police lines. But although this event was only blocks from Little Tokyo, none of the faces from that earlier rally were visible here.

When the train finally started pulling out of the station, the four of us actors leaned out the windows and threw fiowers at the crowd while a thousand brilliant fiashbulbs exploded. And as we left downtown Los Angeles, we were met with a surprise—people were lined up for miles on either side of the tracks, shouting our names and waving American flags.

Once we got past San Bernardino, the crowds thinned out and we were able to relax. There was a double set of facing seats in our men’s car, so Elizabeth joined us, sitting next to me and across from Snyder and Figgins. I did not know either of the men very well, although I’d met them at parties and studio functions. The studio’s selection of its male stars was sensible, for both of these men—who were in their late thirties—were too old to enlist, and I, of course, was ineligible.

I’d heard that Snyder was a rather private man, a genuine former cowboy whose success in Hollywood had not altered his basic plainness. He’d been discovered years before at Gower Gulch, and it was said that he still roped cattle and raised horses and sheep on his ranch in the San Fernando Valley. Figgins was more of an enigma. He had that lovable, self-deprecating big-man persona, and yet out of the public eye he was unpredictable. His given name was Eugene, but he’d earned the nickname Tuggy at a party on the pier in Santa Monica. The story was that there’d been a footrace, several drunken men barreling blindfolded down the pier, and when Figgins broke the ribbon at the finish line, he kept going and fiipped over the rail. He took the ribbon, several balloons, and the wooden barriers they’d been tied to down into the water with him. And as he swam back to shore with this load trailing behind him, someone leaned over the rail and said, “Hey, he looks like a tugboat!” This eventually got shortened to Tuggy, and the nickname stuck. So did his talent for attracting misad-venture. There was talk about drunken fights at questionable night spots and arguments with the studio—talk that might explain his presence on the Victory Train, which could have been an attempt to repair his image. He did not appear to be getting off on the right foot, however. Less than an hour into the trip, he sighed heavily and said, “Well, howsabout a little drink?”

David Rosenberg was on the train too—he’d been sent by Leonard Stillman to keep an eye on us—and at this, he sat up straight in the seat behind me. “Little early, Tuggy, don’t you think?”