Terrence
September 20, 1942
Terrence stared at the small table in the corner of his cell, where a stack of books beckoned him, nagged him in a weird, silent way that he should be studying. Kinda like Momma used to tell him he should be doing his chores—without saying a single word. Just a look in her eyes.
Boredom weighed on him like a soggy blanket. But reading about history? Doing math problems? Nope, that sure wasn’t what he had in mind.
An inmate down the corridor yelled. He’d been calling out for over an hour. “Hey, guard! Ain’t it yard time yet?”
Homework. Yeah, right. Who could concentrate in this noisy place anyway?
Thoughts of Nobu and his family crept into his mind, like seeping water from melted ice. No way to stop it. Water was gonna go where it wanted to go. The newspapers Mr. Blake brought him every week were full of articles about the Japanese being sent to camps. Some of the articles said it was because the government didn’t want to take a chance the Japs were spies. Others said sending them away was for their own protection. Either way, they’d been sent away against their will.
He shook his head and stared at the four walls surrounding him. Nobu was in a hellhole too. Only it was different for him. He didn’t do anything to deserve being there. Neither did his mother or little sister.
Being stuck in that tiny cell gave Terrence plenty of time to think about things. Even things he didn’t want to think about. No matter how hard he tried to keep certain thoughts behind a dam, thoughts of that day in the park kept leaking through. Yeah, it’d be easy to keep saying it was all because he found out Daddy was killed at Pearl Harbor. And maybe that was the biggest part of it. But thinking about it day after day had rearranged stuff in his mind, made him ask questions he’d never thought of before.
How much of a role did the color of skin play in Mr. Kimura’s death? The color of Terrence’s skin. The color of Ray’s and Joe’s skin. The color of Mr. Kimura’s skin.
He was mad all right, that day they’d gotten the telegram. Maybe he did want to get even. But would he have thought of “getting a Jap” on his own, if Ray hadn’t put it to him?
He remembered thoughts that had flooded his mind as he ran away from his house that morning, leaving Momma on the porch with Brother Harold. They were painful thoughts that stabbed at the crushing thought that Daddy was dead. Thoughts of Daddy being turned away at store counters. Not being seated in a restaurant. Being told colored folk weren’t allowed in that part of a room.
Yeah, America was a country for white men, all right. No place for colored folk. And yet, Daddy served in the white man’s navy at Pearl Harbor. Lost his life for it.
He remembered the pang of disgust he felt when Ray first said it. “We’re gonna get you a Jap. Get one for your daddy.”
Strangest of all, lately Terrence had been asking himself what role the color of his white friends’ skin had played that day at the park, watching Mr. Kimura from behind the bushes. Would he have agreed to go along with the beating if Ray and Joe hadn’t been white?
Days and days of boredom. Nothing else to do but think. It had forced him to deal with memories that had been hidden in faraway corners of his mind. A tug-of-war with things he might not want to admit. When he’d hid in those bushes at the park, they’d been nothing more than fleeting thoughts, flashing through his mind like lightning.
Can’t say no to a white boy. Especially one who calls me “chicken.” If I go along, maybe he’ll see me not so different from him.
But what kept pounding in his mind was the thought that finally justified it all.
Get a Jap for Daddy.
And with that, all the other reasons were gone, scattering away like creepy bugs back to safe, dark places.
He wished he could explain it all to Nobu. But could he ever make his friend understand? Hell. The way things were going, he’d probably never see him again anyway. Probably just as well.
He paced the floor of his small cell. Where were those guards? The jerk down the way was right. Wasn’t it about yard time?
The notebook next to the stack of books caught his attention. He sat on the bed and fanned its blank pages. A letter. Maybe he’d write a letter to Nobu. Maybe he’d send it, maybe not. Couldn’t hurt to write it down on paper.
He leaned against his pillow, propped the notebook on his knees, and began to write.
“Yard time!” The guard’s words were followed by the sound of shuffling and cheers that echoed down the row.
Terrence stared at pages and pages of words he’d written to Nobu. How long had he been writing, anyway? He’d lost track.
I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was your father. I about lost my mind when I got that telegram telling us Daddy was dead. I’ll never forgive myself. I’m sorry.
“Hey,” the guard’s keys jingled at the door, “you going out, or not?”
Terrence closed the notebook and leapt off the bed. ’Course he was going out. Being outside in the yard was the only thing he looked forward to every day. That is, long as he could stay out of the way of Peachie’s gang. Why’d they always have it in for him?
He stepped into the long yard, surrounded by chain link and barbed wire, and took a deep breath. Fresh air. Coming out of that building was every bit as sweet smelling as filing back in would be stale. He walked around the yard, scoping out who to talk to. Careful not to make eye contact with the wrong inmate. The whites huddled in a shady corner to the left. They were the ones to avoid. No eye contact. In the far corner on the right, a couple of black inmates gathered around a bench. He walked over to them. Safety in numbers.
“Hey, man.”
“What’s going on?”
It was the usual bullshit conversation about nothing, until someone tapped his shoulder and whispered in his ear.
“Yeah. What’s going on?” He recognized the voice. Peachie. His hot breath, sour with stale coffee and cigarettes, turned Terrence’s stomach and sent shivers down his back.
He hunkered, glanced at Peachie, then returned his gaze to the ground. “Not much.”
Two other whites lurched behind Peachie. “Not much, huh?”
“Just trying to mind my own business.” Terrence gave a quick glance around the yard to check the location of the guards.
Peachie got in his face. “Hey, boy. Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he said, spit spraying.
Terrence gagged and wiped his face with his sleeve.
Peachie nudged his pal on his left. “Anyone looking?”
“Nope. Coast is clear.”
Grabbing Terrence by the collar, Peachie pulled him so close he could hardly focus on the big, ugly face. He fought to keep his feet on the ground. Struggled to breathe.
One of the black guys in the crowd spoke up. “Hey man, he wasn’t bothering nobody. Leave him alone.”
Peachie’s eyes bulged and he loosened his grip on Terrence. “You wanna be a part of this?”
“Nah. Nah, man.”
Terrence felt the grip tighten again.
“You ain’t so tough without a guard around, are you, nigger?”
What was he supposed to say to that?
Peachie shook him. “You gonna answer me? I said, are you, nigger?”
The goddamn fat shit. Terrence wanted to shove his knees into Peachie’s stinking balls. But he didn’t want no trouble neither. He tried to look around. Where were those worthless guards? “Guess not,” he said, still struggling for air.
Finally, with a punch to Terrence’s gut, Peachie tossed him to the ground and stood over him. The monster blocked the sun with his dark form. He cleared his throat and spit on Terrence. “Nah. I didn’t think so. You ain’t never gonna be tough. Ain’t never gonna be nothing. ’Cause you just a stupid nigger.”
The other two inmates laughed with Peachie. “Come on,” one of them said. “Let’s get outta here before someone sees us.”
Terrence lay stone still. Not because he was afraid. Not because he was hurt. He was remembering.
Spit on the dirty Jap.
Sometimes the memory returned like a cold slap in the face, sometimes like a punch in the gut.
Terrence watched clouds drift by like fat, white monsters eating up the sun, while Peachie’s words pounded in his head.
’Cause you just a stupid nigger.