Nobu
April 7, 1942
Nobu exhaled, his heart still beating hard after seating Mama and Sachi and getting their bags loaded. He had been afraid he wouldn’t find room for everything. Shoving and pushing at one point, he’d even elbowed a man to get him to move his suitcase so he could squeeze the last one onto the shelf above them.
All morning, anxiety and uncertainty had been unwanted companions. He’d been swept along in a river of lost Japanese who rushed to wherever directed, until the river dumped him in the seat on the bus. Now, as it rumbled past a line of armed guards and onto the street, the current had slowed, and he sat in strained silence with dozens of other Japanese that drifted down the same stream, wondering where it would ultimately take them.
He watched Mama and Sachi in the row ahead of him. Mama faced ahead, with no traceable movement, while Sachi rested against Mama’s arm.
It had been a long day, and it wasn’t even noon yet, so the humming vibration of the engine and the rocking motion of the bus lulled him into sleepiness. But there was no place for him to rest his head.
He reached into his coat and pulled out his journal.
April 7, 1942
I’m sitting on a bus headed for Tanforan Race Track. Imagine. A race track will be our home for who knows how long. Nagare no tabi. A stream’s journey. I have no control over where it will take me.
I ask myself, “How can they do this to us?” Then I ask myself, “How can we let them do this to us?” Aren’t we American citizens? Don’t we have rights?
Mama and Sachi are sitting in front of me. Mama stares straight ahead. Sachi is asleep, worn out from getting up so early this morning.
Strange, that I want to protect them, yet at the same time, feel burdened by them. Especially by Mama. By her Issei generation. First generation. Their rules. Their pride. Their loyalty to a country that won’t even allow them to become citizens!
If it weren’t for Mama, I would speak up to these people who came into our homes, looking for things to confiscate—contraband they called it! Who were they to tell us we couldn’t go out at night in our own country—the place where we were born! We complied with all of their rules, and still, they made us sell everything, move out of our houses. Now they are sending us to Tanforan, to remove us from a place they now call a military zone. Hell, it was no military zone. It was our home.
But to save face for Mama, for the family, for the entire race, I keep my mouth shut. We must do nothing to impede the war effort, Mama says. So we comply with the laws against the Japanese, even those who are Americans themselves.
Saving face. It has always meant that we are proud and must maintain our dignity. But instead, I feel ashamed. We have allowed ourselves to be treated like a herd of animals, directed by men with rifles. To show we are loyal Americans, we have become less than human, and we hide our faces.
Okay, I am afraid, but not of the Caucasians—the hakujins! No, I am afraid of myself. How long can I swallow my dignity to appear dignified? How long can I comply with Mama’s wishes to accept the way we are treated?
Like the noise of this bus, it all rumbles inside me. And it’s taking me to Tanforan Racetrack. How long can I keep it inside? How long?