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148 pages, Paperback
Published May 19, 2016
We knew we were Japanese. We’d learned their customs, spoke their language, went to Japanese school, and ate with chopsticks. But we were Americans too. We said the “Pledge of Allegiance” in our classroom, sang the “Star Spangled Banner,” played cowboys and Indians, and listened to “Captain Midnight” and “Little Orphan Annie” on the radio.
Then I couldn’t look outside anymore; we had to pull down the shades. Suddenly, we were prisoners, being secretly transported to the back woods of Arkansas.
"They say it's for our own protection! If you ask me, they're afraid. What they’re doing is illegal and they don’t want anyone to know about it.”
“Soh . . .” said Papa to the man. “Maybe they no want us to see. Maybe big secret outside.”
“No, Mr. Omi, I don’t think so,” said the man. “I think it’s the other way around.”
Rohwer. In my reminiscences, soft, mushy, clay in spring, baked as hard as rock in summer, and in the fall, the same earth, overlain with leaves of rusted orange, turned soft and cold in the winter. People, tall, short, fat, skinny, light and tanned, spoke English and Japanese in broken phrases with varying inflections and dialects. We were a family. We learned who to listen to, who meant business, who to go to for favors, who was friendly, who was not -- often the harsh turned out nice and the gentle, connivers. We were as different as the spoken language. In the mess hall, laundry room, shower, dojo, commissary, talent shows, sumo matches, movies, school, we sat with each other, spoke, laughed, praised, argued, cajoled, scolded – one big family -- married men, women, single, young, elderly, Issei, Nisei, Kibei, boys, girls, mothers, and teen-agers, oblivious to the outside world, comfortable with each other. But not always.
Though we’d never been to this place before, it was in a familiar world. We’d come back. Yet, I also felt uneasy. We were like convicts who had come out of jail. Three years in prison and we were now free. But we hadn’t been convicted of a crime; only of skin color, which we couldn’t free ourselves from. Like convicts who wore striped uniforms in jail, we wore our skins outside.