February 1942
Dear Father, I hope
everything is okay
and that you are
doing well.
From the letters
you sent us,
the parts we can read
that haven’t been
blacked out, it seems
that they are treating
you well. Here, at home,
Grandpa’s been
pulling us together,
saying now that you are
in Montana (or North
Dakota, or wherever
they took you), we have
to listen to him.
Don’t tell Nick I told
you this, but a week ago,
Grandpa found out Nick’s been
breaking the curfew,
and without saying a word,
as soon as Nick came home,
Grandpa raised his cane
and hit him hard, once,
twice, over the head.
Nick just stood there,
angry, with his fists raised,
but he didn’t say or do anything
as Grandpa kept hitting him
again and again with his cane.
Mom was crying, and shouting,
Oto-san, yamete, yamete
—Father, stop it, stop it –, and
I was frozen, right there.
I’ve never seen this
Grandpa, who was like a stranger, angry
and spiteful. But as soon
as Nick apologized (for what?),
Grandpa stopped.
Okami o okoraseruna – Don’t anger the government –,
Grandpa said slowly.
But we didn’t do anything wrong, Nick shouted.
We’re American, just like everyone else .
Grandpa shook his head,
ware ware wa Nipponjin demo naishi,
Americajin demo nai —we are neither
Japanese nor American. His words stung me,
stronger than bee stings, even stronger
than the news of Pearl Harbor.
I went up the dark stairs
holding Basho in my arms
and shut my door and shut my eyes.
Most of the time, we are
doing okay, but Seattle’s changed.
Chinese kids walk around with buttons
that say, “I am Chinese.”
Then there are all these signs:
We don’t serve Japs. Japs go home.
The entire country hates
Japan. And they hate us.
No one seems to like us
anymore, except for Jamie
and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore.
Nick doesn’t say
it, but he’s having a really
hard time, I can tell.
He comes home with bruises
and cuts, and when Mother asks
him what happened, he only says
that he fell. I know he’s lying,
I know he knows that I know,
but we don’t talk about it.
How other boys push him around,
doesn’t matter he was voted the Most Popular,
they call him Tojo, Jap, Rat, and he answers
each and every curse with a punch.
Mother tells me not to go out
by myself. It’s hard to walk
down the street, being different.
I hope the new glasses Mother sent
you are the kind you like.
I miss you very much. I hope they are
treating you well. Father, I hope
you can come home soon so we can
all be together. I miss you.
Your daughter, Masako
February 1942
President Roosevelt
signed Executive
Order 9066 today. Nick says
that Germans and Italians
aren’t arrested like
Japanese men have been all over
the West Coast. Mina,
he whispered in the back
yard, they’ll put us
all in prisons.
I don’t want to believe him,
but I see Grandpa
and Mother worrying over our
frozen bank accounts
and curfews and blackouts
and the five-mile radius, and I know
we will probably be put in
prison just like they did Father.
March 1942
Grandpa sits on his favorite chair right near the rose
garden. His face, from where I stand, is as big as
the roses all around him, roses of bright red, deep red,
blood red, all kinds of red only he knows the names
for. Masako, chotto kinasai , he calls me over as he hears
the gate opening. He does not turn around. He does
not look at me, but keeps looking ahead, at his roses,
at the sky, at everything but me. Basho stretches
on Grandpa’s lap, then jumps down, saunters over to me,
and says hello by twirling his tail around my legs.
Grandpa, without moving his mouth, says, We have
been asked to leave. We need to pack up
everything: the house, the nursery. We can only take two
pieces of luggage per person. We need to leave soon. And
I’m sorry, we can’t take Basho. I am not hearing him
right, I tell myself. Why do we need to move?
They say
Dear Father, I hope
everything is okay
and that you are
doing well.
From the letters
you sent us,
the parts we can read
that haven’t been
blacked out, it seems
that they are treating
you well. Here, at home,
Grandpa’s been
pulling us together,
saying now that you are
in Montana (or North
Dakota, or wherever
they took you), we have
to listen to him.
Don’t tell Nick I told
you this, but a week ago,
Grandpa found out Nick’s been
breaking the curfew,
and without saying a word,
as soon as Nick came home,
Grandpa raised his cane
and hit him hard, once,
twice, over the head.
Nick just stood there,
angry, with his fists raised,
but he didn’t say or do anything
as Grandpa kept hitting him
again and again with his cane.
Mom was crying, and shouting,
Oto-san, yamete, yamete
—Father, stop it, stop it –, and
I was frozen, right there.
I’ve never seen this
Grandpa, who was like a stranger, angry
and spiteful. But as soon
as Nick apologized (for what?),
Grandpa stopped.
Okami o okoraseruna – Don’t anger the government –,
Grandpa said slowly.
But we didn’t do anything wrong, Nick shouted.
We’re American, just like everyone else .
Grandpa shook his head,
ware ware wa Nipponjin demo naishi,
Americajin demo nai —we are neither
Japanese nor American. His words stung me,
stronger than bee stings, even stronger
than the news of Pearl Harbor.
I went up the dark stairs
holding Basho in my arms
and shut my door and shut my eyes.
Most of the time, we are
doing okay, but Seattle’s changed.
Chinese kids walk around with buttons
that say, “I am Chinese.”
Then there are all these signs:
We don’t serve Japs. Japs go home.
The entire country hates
Japan. And they hate us.
No one seems to like us
anymore, except for Jamie
and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore.
Nick doesn’t say
it, but he’s having a really
hard time, I can tell.
He comes home with bruises
and cuts, and when Mother asks
him what happened, he only says
that he fell. I know he’s lying,
I know he knows that I know,
but we don’t talk about it.
How other boys push him around,
doesn’t matter he was voted the Most Popular,
they call him Tojo, Jap, Rat, and he answers
each and every curse with a punch.
Mother tells me not to go out
by myself. It’s hard to walk
down the street, being different.
I hope the new glasses Mother sent
you are the kind you like.
I miss you very much. I hope they are
treating you well. Father, I hope
you can come home soon so we can
all be together. I miss you.
Your daughter, Masako
February 1942
President Roosevelt
signed Executive
Order 9066 today. Nick says
that Germans and Italians
aren’t arrested like
Japanese men have been all over
the West Coast. Mina,
he whispered in the back
yard, they’ll put us
all in prisons.
I don’t want to believe him,
but I see Grandpa
and Mother worrying over our
frozen bank accounts
and curfews and blackouts
and the five-mile radius, and I know
we will probably be put in
prison just like they did Father.
March 1942
Grandpa sits on his favorite chair right near the rose
garden. His face, from where I stand, is as big as
the roses all around him, roses of bright red, deep red,
blood red, all kinds of red only he knows the names
for. Masako, chotto kinasai , he calls me over as he hears
the gate opening. He does not turn around. He does
not look at me, but keeps looking ahead, at his roses,
at the sky, at everything but me. Basho stretches
on Grandpa’s lap, then jumps down, saunters over to me,
and says hello by twirling his tail around my legs.
Grandpa, without moving his mouth, says, We have
been asked to leave. We need to pack up
everything: the house, the nursery. We can only take two
pieces of luggage per person. We need to leave soon. And
I’m sorry, we can’t take Basho. I am not hearing him
right, I tell myself. Why do we need to move?
They say
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