A Sad Chapter in Our History

There’s an oft forgotten piece of the past, an atrocity rivalling any incident of social and racial injustice today, that must be acknowledged and remembered if we are to remain a country of freeom and democracy. In the wake of Pearl Harbor, thousands of Japanese Amerians, two thirds of whom were U.S. citizens, were forcably dispossed of their jobs, property —indeed, very place in society and sent to live in remote detainment camps throughout the United States.

President Franklin Roosevelt had issued Executive Order 9066, ordering the relocation of Japanese Americans living on the West Coast who were then considered a security risk. By late March 1942, Gen. John L. DeWitt, from his offices at the Western Defense Command Headquarters on the Presidio, began issuing military proclamations restricting military zones across the coastal regions, including “Civilian Exclusion Orders” expelling “all enemy aliens” and, more specifically, “persons of Japanese ancestry.” By the time my father reported to his assignment with the Signal Corps at the Presidio in the fall of that year, more than 660 people living within the area bounded by California to Sutter streets and Van Ness Avenue to the Presidio were ordered by the U.S. government to report to the Japanese American Citizens League for registration, and then, on April 29, 1942, removal.

Within a month’s span, hundreds of Japanese internees, forced to leave all property and possessions behind but for what they could carry with them, were taken to “Assembly” centers throughout the state, like San Bruno’s Tanforan race track in San Mateo County where more than 8,000 Japanese Americans (62% of them U.S. citizens) were held in makeshift barracks of converted horsestables between April and October 1942. The detainees, nearly 100,000 Californians of Japanese descent removed from their homes and livelihoods, were transported inland to permanent camps like Manzanar, in the shadow of the Sierras.

Growing up across the street from survivors of this bitterly cruel and shameful period of history, I have an idea of just how deep the sense of injustice, loss, and betrayal were felt. It haunts the victims and their descendants to this day. The Japanese Bell Flower, known for its large balloon- shaped blossoms of blue, pink or white is harvested for the medicinal value of its tuberous, ginseng-like root used as an anti-inflammatory to treat pain and ills throughout Asia. Our Japanese neighbors always grew these in their yard. It is a beautiful flower typically harvested in its second or third year and is considered to offer many of the same benefits of the popular ginseng. Original homeowners like my parents, Hideaki and Sora Mitsuoka were close friends and neighbors of my family and survivors of almost three years of internment at Manzanar in the Owens Valley east of Lone Pine, CA. Mr. Mitsuoka had written a book about his experiences in the internment camp; my parents kept a copy on the living room coffee table.

I’ve seen the haunting pictures Ansel Adams produced during his visit to the camp in 1943 (quite a departure from the inspirational images of his signature style landscape photography), and I have visited Manzanar myself and felt the cold winds sweeping down the eastern Sierras onto the lonesome desolation and beautiful terror of that valley. The place is real. And, certainly, it is a stark reminder of that disquieting period of our past.

Mr. Mitsuoka was an observedly wise and contemplative man with a sage-like presence who spoke in the kind of slow, hushed tones that drew people in. He worked as an engineer for McDonell-Douglas in Long Beach. As a boy, I hung around him on a regular basis whenever I saw that he was outside washing his car or tending the gardens in his yard because he didn’t seem to mind and would often offer me a warm Coke from his garage. His wife, Saro, would always have something for me to eat, usually Japanese food -stir-fried chicken, or tempura; my first forays into Japanese food culture had always been satisfying and delectable. And rice. Always rice. Saro’s white and brown “gohan” were my introduction to authentic Japanese fare and, I believe, the first rice meals I’d ever eaten, discounting Rice Krispies, Uncle Ben’s and the Minute rice back over at our house. Her cookies were my first forays into Japanese food culture. They were scrumptious, too. She always had my favorites on hand: sweet chinsuko, or “Okinawa cookies.”

The Mitzuokas were both good people -and exceptional parents. Their kids, all grown, were all valedictorian types -the eldest son a graduate of Annapolis and a pilot in the Navy, the daughter a graduate of U.C.L.A. Medical School and pediatric surgeon. George, their youngest boy, was studying computer science at M.I.T.

They were good neighbors and authentic people, and friends, consistently friendly, upbeat, and always offering positive messages. their home was a choice place for a young boy to hang out. And they taught me a few Japanese words, too, including the phrase: Shikata ga nai -it can’t be helped. Meaning: there’s no use crying over spilt milk -that continuing on after a setback had its own kind of strength and reward. For them, perseverance was power.

Mr. Mitsuoka had a Siberian Husky named Kody and kept a koi pond of beautifully mesmerizing fish in a backyard solarium where the scent of jasmine pervading among flowering azaleas and camellias emanated, all the care of which was entrusted to me in his absence. I had been shown how to feed the koi, some of which I was told were older than me, and quickly observed how koi fish will recognize the hand that feeds them, gathering near the pond’s edge whenever I was present. The reticulated net patterns of the bronze Chagoi were stunning to observe as they swam dociley near the surface, friendlier than the white and orange splotched Kohaku keeping their distance in the shallow depths. A solid silver Soragoi swam anciently among them. They, too, were survivors; self-preservationists that would literally steer an ill fish to the edge of the pond for their owner to take notice.

I have since learned that Koi, if properly cared for, live an average of 50 to 70 years, though some have been known to have survived well over 100 years. It is an interesting and somewhat reassuring side note for me that upon meeting my biological father, Ed Corrigan, many years later, I discovered that he also maintained a koi pond on his property.
The Mitsuoka’s rarely spoke of their difficult past; I didn’t know about it until I read the book, a transformative experience, at the age of twelve. Their story was my initial introduction to hate crimes and racial injustice. The fact that they were different, yet the same at a very real and human level was not lost on me. Bad things could happen to good people, I quickly came to understand. And the horrible truth of that hit me on a visceral level. My parents both cried when they said goodbye to the Mitzuokas who moved away during my senior year of high school.

My father, having fought against a deeply feared Japanese enemy entrenched in the hills of Okinawa at the final battle of World War II, probably never understood, possibly at the time and certainly later, how so much hatred could be generated against someone like the soft-spoken and gentle-mannered Hideaki, or his demure wife Saro. The absurd madness of it all must’ve been almost too much to take in. But I think that one of the few times I’d seen the man cry had to do more with love he felt for these good people, our neighbors.

Whenever I see a Japanese Bellflower, which is rare, I think of them. People of that dignity and caliber just can’t be found anymore.

A prison can be called a concentration camp when it’s detainees are held not because of any crimes done, but simply due to who they are. The term has been used throughout the years to describe places of persecution, most notably Germany’s Nazi’s whose camps were places of death and torture. No matter the distinctions, all camps shared one commonality: those in power removed a minority group from the rest of society and the rest of the people let it happen. And though a formal presidential apology has been issued to the Japanese people and monetary
reparations were made this painful event that goes against the ideals and standards of democracy remains a sad chapter in our shared history.

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