Day of Remembrance

At a small ceremony in Japantown, San Jose, CA, I realized that the majority of my knowledge regarding the Japanese Internment Camps comes from books. Farewell to Manzanar. Citizen 13660. No No Boy.

The speeches at the event reminded me of something urgent. I'm a Yonsei. I'm a Yonsei, and my grandma, who was interned at Topaz, is still alive. My grandma lives no more than 30 minutes away from me, and yet I curl up on my living-room couch with When the Emperor was Divine?

I've been relying too much on Internment-Camp literature. Iconic works of literature are spoiling me. People who lived years in Camp reside no more than 2 miles away from me in J-Town, and I would rather read historical fiction?

The literature has been my crutch. I may be writing a thesis on Internment-Camp literature, but I'm a fraud. I'm a coward. I would rather read about the stories from behind the safety of the page than feel the stories from someone who has been cut by barbed wire. I'd rather touch ink than blood.

Past generations don't want to talk about it, and future generations are too busy assimilating. But I'm ready now. I'm ready to listen, Grandma. Tell me a story from your hospital bed. You may not want to talk about it, but it's my job as a Yonsei to massage your memories and to hear these stories.

Okubo and Wakatsuki Houston:
Sit on the shelf; I don't want you two anymore.

I want the real thing.

Grandma:
Tear me with barbed wire. Rub desert sands and winter winds in my sores. I want tetanus and scars and shame too. Share your stories with me. No more books. Just talk to me. I swear I'm ready to listen.