Letters to Memory Read online

  Also by Karen Tei Yamashita

  Anime Wong

  Brazil-Maru

  Circle K Cycles

  I Hotel

  Through the Arc of the Rain Forest

  Tropic of Orange

  Copyright © 2017 by Karen Tei Yamashita

  Cover design by Carlos Esparza

  Cover photographs courtesy of the author

  Book design by Ann Sudmeier

  Author photograph © Tosh Tanaka

  Coffee House Press books are available to the trade through our primary distributor, Consortium Book Sales & Distribution, cbsd.com or (800) 283-3572. For personal orders, catalogs, or other information, write to [email protected].

  Coffee House Press is a nonprofit literary publishing house. Support from private foundations, corporate giving programs, government programs, and generous individuals helps make the publication of our books possible. We gratefully acknowledge their support in detail in the back of this book.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Yamashita, Karen Tei, 1951– author.

  Title: Letters to memory / Karen Tei Yamashita.

  Description: Minneapolis : Coffee House Press, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017012423 | ISBN 9781566894982 (eBook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Japanese Americans—Evacuation and relocation, 1942–1945—Fiction. | United States—History—20th century—Fiction. | Japanese Americans—Fiction. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Cultural Heritage. | HISTORY / United States / 20th Century. | SOCIAL SCIENCE / Ethnic Studies / Asian American Studies. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction. | Epistolary fiction. | Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3575.A44 S35 2017 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017012423

  Images found in this book are from the Yamashita Family Archives, courtesy of the author.

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  In memory

  of Kishiro and Tomi

  and

  their nisei children

  Contents

  TO BEGIN

  LETTERS TO Poverty

  LETTERS TO Modernity

  LETTERS TO Love

  LETTERS TO Death

  LETTERS TO Laughter

  TO END

  AND FINALLY

  YAMASHITA FAMILY TREE

  IN THANKS

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  TO BEGIN

  Dear Reader:

  In 1995, while packing up the contents of her Chicago apartment in preparation to move to a retirement village in California, Kay Yamashita suffered a stroke, fell into a coma, and died. When introducing herself to others elsewhere, Kay had always announced that she was from Chicago. This city seemed to be a part of her persona; she planned to have her ashes scattered across Lake Michigan. I thought she would never leave Chicago, and she didn’t. Chizu, older sister and close companion, flew to be with Kay until she died. I, too, took a flight from Los Angeles, wanting to be with my two Chicago aunties one last time. Probably every cousin of my generation at some point lived with or was hosted by Chiz and Kay in Chicago. Some of us got jobs at Cook County Hospital, where Chiz was a nurse. We toured the Chicago Art Institute as guest members; enjoyed invites to the opera, ballet, or symphony; were feted in restaurants beyond our means, taken shopping to improve our wardrobe, and instructed on which wine and what dinner course; and in short, were reminded constantly that Chicago was not a hick town but a cosmopolitan center of art, culture, architecture, and politics. Now that I think about it, I realize it wasn’t really Chicago as chic city that mattered so much as Kay’s relationship to it, her assumption of urbanity and stylish elegance.

  When I arrived at Kay’s fourteenth-floor studio apartment at Sandburg Terrace, I found that its carefully spare decor of Asian art and furnishings was now a packed clutter of boxes. Where, I wondered, had all this stuff been stored in that tiny apartment? I slept on the large sofa at one end of the room, and Chiz slept on the small twin bed at the other. Between us was a maze of disorganized hoarding. Awoken in the middle of the night, I wandered around her life’s accumulation—photos, books, cards, magazines, art, clothing, taxes, dishes, knickknacks, souvenirs. It was all too much, this boxing and discarding. The doorman had found her crumpled in the corridor near the door, unable to escape. In the dark, squeezing between boxed walls, I found my way to the other side of the room where Chiz slept. I stood there watching her, puzzled as to why I felt so lost. Suddenly Chiz awoke, astounded, seeing me standing in my nightgown like a dumb little kid. She sat up and grabbed me, embraced me with urgency, and I found myself enfolded in safety and sadness.

  In the next days, among the stacks of Kay’s stuff, we found two manila folders containing onionskin copies of typed letters. One folder was a set of letters addressed to nisei students relocated during the war from camps to colleges and universities outside of the West Coast. This was Kay’s wartime work for Nisei Student Relocation. The second folder contained personal correspondence; this folder I slipped away for myself. I did not ask permission, but I also did not really read the letters until many years later, after the passing of the last of the seven Yamashita siblings: Chizu, three years after Kay in 1998, and sister Iyo in 2004.

  What all of us children of the Yamashitas discovered is what every partner, child, designated relative, or friend understands about the dead: they leave stuff behind, and, depending, it could be a lot—a lifetime of stuff. When my cousins figured out that I could somehow be a useful repository of the past, they began to send me, well, everything. Boxes and envelopes arrived, piled up, the musty air of attics and garages seeping forth. When I got the university library special collections involved, my sister, Jane Tomi, exclaimed, This is brilliant! and unloaded more stuff. Gradually, we collected an archive of our parents’ correspondence—this residue of their thinking and writing lives shared across the world and now across time.

  Today, there is certainly much more in this archive than the original wartime letters. Hundreds of photographs and documents, pamphlets and paintings, homemade films and audiotapes and gramophone records, and diaries have been added. You may examine and peruse this material for yourself. For myself, I have extracted a sliver of this record to ponder some questions. I admit mine is a different or particular way of reading and seeing our story, and I ask only for your curiosity and careful intelligence. Reader—gentle, critical, or however, I count on you, as another guide through this labyrinth.

  With respect,

  LETTERS TO

  Poverty

  Dear Homer:

  I am remembering when I first met you. You are sitting at a table in Kelly’s bakery café with coffee and a stack of blue books, reading and scribbling comments. I have not seen a blue book in decades, but it makes sense that you would utilize this classic pedagogical format, despite penmanship’s decided wane. Of course we’ve met before, but those meetings were encounters of a mostly bureaucratic substance, allowing me however to wave a hello and to ask the obvious question: What are you doing?

  You answer that your class is on the history of sin and, you add—by richochet—on sacrifice and grace. I ponder the guilty rebound of sacrifice and grace and my wonder that sin has a history. But you are a historian of ancient Palestine. Of course, I think, if you say so, sin must have a history. In any case, most immediately, I am perhaps like your students, for whom sin is possibly both passé and nasty. In Brazil, they say there is no sin below the equator. But without sin, is there no sacrifice or grace? Whatever the nature of the perhaps feverish condensation of thinking in those blue books, I am moved to add my own. Similarly, seeing your stack of blue books, I am reminde
d of my own guilty responsibility to my own stack of my father’s sermons and seminary papers. Also likely full of sin and sacrifice and grace. How should I read to understand them? You ask to what denomination did my father belong? Methodist. Ah, you consider. Forgiveness, you suggest. It is a very powerful idea.

  So these conversing letters began.

  Homer, today, April 30, happens to be the day on which, over seventy years ago in 1942, my father and his family lost their freedom upon entry to Tanforan Racetrack, a designated Assembly Center in San Bruno, California, for the wartime removal of Japanese. Arriving by bus, heavily encumbered with what they could carry, they were housed in a series of empty horse stalls named Barrack 14. This was just the first stop; from Tanforan they would be transported by train into the Utah desert to live in a concentration camp named Topaz. That year my father turned thirty, the fourth of seven siblings, the three elder married with children.

  Five days later, my father’s issei mother, Tomi, and youngest sister, Kay, were given permission to leave Tanforan. Despite their registered labels—Tomi as enemy alien and Kay as non-alien citizen—Tomi and Kay were granted passage across the continent to Washington, D.C.—Kay to testify in a federal court case regarding treason and Tomi as her companion and chaperone. A map of their cross-country trek reads like a tourist pamphlet: Grand Canyon, New Orleans, Washington D.C., New York, Boston. On May 9, Kay and Tomi were traveling on the Scenic Limited of the Denver & Rio Grande Western Railway between Salt Lake City and Denver. Tomi snored into her nap, but a nauseated Kay documented this passage:

  Just went past a place where there seemed to be feverish building of barrack-like houses. The porter whispered in my ears that it’s to be used for a concentration camp—beautiful country but God how terribly lonely and cold with real communion with nature and not a speck of civilization in sight.

  Reading this, I don’t know whether to cry or to laugh. I think Kay has taken the train to see her future, that the Negro porter has quietly suggested, when you get to your destination, not to come back. Keep going. But Kay is only twenty-four years old, just graduated from Cal Berkeley. Her observations are not clairvoyant but innocent. Gee, she says, Mom and I are living the life of O’Reilly, complete with private Pullman and porter. It occurs to me that this might be because the other passengers object to sharing space with Japanese, not to mention Tomi’s thunderous snoring. Only a good looking real young matron on her way to New York, mentions Kay, shares the car with them. Could be an FBI escort with cotton in her ears. In those years, who is O’Reilly and what does real mean?

  I read and reread the letter, the jumping pulse of Kay’s characteristic and enthusiastic pen flitting across the pages. I study the map. Colorado River. Iron and zinc mining. Snow. Continental Divide. Tennessee Pass, elevation = 10,240 feet. The concentration camp under construction that spring of 1942 must have been Camp Hale in Pando, built to house German prisoners of war and sixteen thousand soldiers, mostly of the Tenth Mountain Division, trained in skiing and winter warfare. In my first reading, I assumed the camp to be the Amache or Granada Japanese internment camp, but Amache was located on the eastern end of Colorado, not along the tracks of the Scenic Limited on its approach to Denver. I’m amused by my desire for irony, but the facts don’t add up. Well, the porter was mistaken, though only about the location.

  But there is something entirely screwball about Kay’s letter, read in the context of her siblings’ replies and descriptions of their shameful, stinky, muddy, hungry, bleak imprisonment. There’s a shiny, foolish airhead optimism and an uncomfortable patronage of the porter, his refined face black as night. The Pullman porter is guide and geographer. Holy Cats! says Kay. Snow! An Oakland girl who’d never seen snow. There, on the Continental Divide, the train pauses, and the porter rushes into frozen air to scoop the white filigree into a ball, Kay marvels, like a snow cone.

  I could choose another passage in this archive of saved stuff. Well, you choose. Kay’s sister-in-law Kiyo inscribes in her diary: Today (April 30) was one of the worst, if not the worst day I have ever experienced in my life. Or sister Iyo writes back, Someone we know “cracked up” one nite . . . Many a Nisei go around muttering the preamble of the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, etc. But for me, this tableau in the Colorado Rockies sticks: civil society in anxious, tentative peace, cast on a shield against the roil of war.

  We will never know the porter’s name or his story, except that he had a friend named Tanaka back in L.A. But I extend a story for this gentle man that connects him to the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters and to its founder and president, A. Philip Randolph.

  In 1941, as the United States beat its drums for war, Randolph threatened a march on Washington. He promised to rally a hundred thousand Negroes to protest job discrimination and segregation in the armed forces. To defuse this possibility, FDR quickly signed Executive Order 8802, prohibiting discrimination in defense jobs or government. Jim Crow segregation of the military would have to wait. As the Japanese were evacuated from the West Coast, African Americans moved into their now-empty neighborhoods to take lucrative jobs in the war industry. In the few weeks that Kay traveled outside, she witnessed this influx of workers in search of jobs. The engine of war cranked into high gear to build the ships, planes, tanks, guns, bombs, parachutes, uniforms, medical supplies—all hauled off with young soldiers to theaters of battle across the Atlantic or the Pacific. Nihonmachi became the Harlem of the West.

  Yet, you the historian might ask, what of significant dates? Did the war begin on December 7, 1941, on a Day of Infamy? Or perhaps on September 5, 1905, upon the signing of the Treaty of Portsmouth and Japan’s defeat of Russia? Can it begin on April 30 as barbed wire fenced in one family among hundreds at Tanforan? Your scholarship teaches me that the war began centuries before. But for the short three generations of a family narrative and the story that puzzles me, there is May 9, 1942, on the Continental Divide when a ball of snow was exchanged with unspoken recognition and mistaken geography, paths crossing toward hope and sorrow.

  History, gently you remind me and urge me back. I have told myself, since I am prone to write fiction, that history and knowing what really happened is necessary because someone has to be accountable. Yet how close can anyone get to history even if you live it? Reading these letters, I still don’t know. Stories blossom as a kaleidoscope, a space where events aggregate in infinite designs. You, Homer, hold history, its archaeology and physical evidence, with profound respect. This is the real stuff from which social systems are made. Here, you gesture, is the land and its infertility, the ruins of aqueducts and temples, the bones and seeds, here the tablets of record, an accounting of sheep and sacks of grain, progeny and slaves, tithes and taxes—basic economies that herald the complex transactions that infuse their systems into our being, initiate another future. The minutiae of everyday life congregated in patterns and traditions to account for well-being. In such a world, what does it mean to have, but more profoundly, what does it mean not to have or to lose? By what rights does one take or borrow from another? How does one come to know the difference between taking and receiving? How do greed and generosity grow and dance together? It is sinful, unlawful to steal. Failure to repay a debt may be punished. Thus the question of forgiveness is, at its basis, economic. At this moment, you also remind me, history turns to parable because to forgive debt is a radical idea, an impossibility that requires imagination.

  On May 9, Kay was en route to Washington, D.C., summoned to testify on behalf of the United States on May 14, 1942, at 9:45 a.m., in the case of the United States v. David Warren Ryder, et al. For $152.25 plus a $6.00 processing and mailing fee, the National Archives mails me a packet of 203 legal-sized pages, the residue of criminal docket #69201, the entire extant record of a case of treason filed against Ralph Townsend, David Warren Ryder, Frederick Vincent Williams, Tsutomu Obana, K. Takahashi, and S. Takeuchi for their participation in the Jikyoku Iinkai or Japanese Committee on Trade and Information, with t
he alleged purpose of disseminating Japanese propaganda without registration as “foreign agents” under the Foreign Agents Registration Act of 1938. This mass of paper is a repetitive record of indictments, summons, warrants, bail amounts, jury instructions, and final judgments. There are no records of testimonies or depositions, no court banter. From this evidence, it’s hard to decipher what crime had been committed except to fail to register and to make transparent a pro-Japanese position. A cursory investigation shows that both Ryder’s and Obana’s early articles, published in the 1920s and 30s, are cited even today to demonstrate the unfair character of that era’s anti-Japanese fears and policies in California. By 1942, however, uncritical responses to events such as the Nanking massacre, the occupation of Manchuria and Korea, and finally the bombing of Pearl Harbor would seal guilty convictions.

  In 203 pages, Kay’s participation is a single document: her summons to court. And nowhere in any of the dense archive of family correspondence can I find any information about why Kay was summoned and to what she testified.

  What was Kay to these prominent men? Ryder was the publisher-editor of the pamphlet Far Eastern Affairs. Williams was a Japan Times newspaper correspondent, policy lecturer, and radio pundit. Of the Japanese nationals, Obana was secretary of the San Francisco Japanese Chamber of Commerce; Takahashi was manager of the steamship line Nippon Yusen Kaisha; and Takeuchi, manager of Mitsubishi Company.

  Kay, the young president of the Cal Berkeley Nisei Student Women’s Club with its modest membership. And Kay, a member of the Cal YM/YWCA. Years later in an interview, Kay explained that, in October 1940, she organized a campus meeting about the Japanese presence in Manchuria, inviting speakers for Chinese and Japanese viewpoints. After all, she minored in Oriental History. The Japanese Consulate provided a speaker who then became ill; the substitute speaker was one of the accused men. Was Kay asked to distribute copies of Far Eastern Affairs around Cal? Did Kay characterize the speech as propaganda? Knowing Kay and the sometimes Shirley Temple earnestness of her letters, it’s impossible to assume any intrigue or scandal; here she stumbled unwittingly into conspiracy or, rather, suspicion. Yet in a small community, everyone’s lives overlapped. Her oldest brother, Sus, worked for Mitsubishi, and S. Takeuchi was his boss. An elegant photo shows that Mr. and Mrs. Takeuchi acted as nakoodo for Sus’s wedding, that is, the Takeuchis acted as formal marriage intermediaries. And Sus’s wife, Kiyo, had been secretary to Obana. What, for me, is tragicomic is that Kay, a non-alien citizen, and her enemy alien mother, whose entire people had been incarcerated for alleged possible treason, were permitted free passage to testify against others for treasonable acts. The experience of testifying at the trial must have been terrifying and confusing, Kay stuttering her answers nervously, interrupted repeatedly by judicial protest, and glancing at the particular defendant, who never looked up to meet her eyes. Who did these men see on the witness stand, the only person of Japanese descent (for whom these defendants labored and suffered this humiliation) summoned to court? I doubt that her testimony sealed their fates, but even if it played a small supporting role, what cruel irony to send this sweet, young nisei woman to assert her American privilege.