Evalina
Thursday, September 24, 1942
Around me, classmates stream out the door, and I try to keep my knees from buckling as I approach Professor Blake at the front of the class. Praying my voice comes out steady and strong, I say, “Professor? Do you have a moment?”
He looks up from the briefcase he’d been loading and peers at me over the top of his glasses. “I have a moment. What is it, Miss Cassano?”
“I want to discuss my paper. And the grade you gave me.”
He continues to look at me. “Okay. Discuss.”
I swallow. “Well, I don’t think the grade was very fair—”
“This isn’t high school, Miss Cassano. You can’t turn in poorly researched papers and expect a decent grade.” Professor Blake snaps his briefcase shut.
It’s all I can do to keep my volume from rising. “My paper is not poorly researched.”
“You were asked to write a paper on the role of the press in politics in several countries. What you handed in was your own personal conspiracies about the evacuation of the Japanese. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but you handed in a D paper.”
“I did not hand in a D paper.”
“As your professor, I’m telling you that you did.” Professor Blake slides his briefcase off the desk and strides out of the classroom without another word. Was that supposed to be the end of the discussion?
I follow, taking several steps for each one of his.
“Professor Blake, I’ve been to the Japanese American camps,” I say between huffs of breath. “Two of them, in fact, and I can tell you without a doubt that the way the newspapers cover them—when they deign to cover them at all—is not accurate. How is that poorly researched? I have seen the camps with my own eyes.”
Professor Blake turns and gives me a cold look. “Miss Cassano, if you don’t like your grade, you are free to drop my class. But if you continue to turn in papers that sympathize with our country’s enemies, then you will continue to be marked low. Good day.”
He marches through the exit, and the door swings shut behind him. I watch him go, feeling like a riled bull in the ring baited with a red flag. I want to charge after him and knock those stupid words right out of his mouth.
Believing the Japanese Americans have been treated unfairly means I sympathize with our country’s enemies?
You are free to drop my class.
That’s what he wants, isn’t it?
Professor Blake probably thinks it’s silly for a girl to major in political science, or to have any interest in politics whatsoever. Maybe he’s right, that I should drop it. A bad grade would cost me my scholarship, and my family can’t afford for me to go to college without it. Is there a chance I could drop the class and take it with a different professor next semester . . . ?
But if I go into law or politics, this is something I’ll face for the rest of my life. I’ll always be discriminated against because of my gender, or because I’m Italian, or because my family has roots in the mafia, or—please, God—because my husband is Japanese American and my kids are biracial.
If I tuck tail now, when I’m up against a skinny, scruffy-faced, know-it-all windbag of a professor, how can I expect to be strong enough to push back when the battle is public?
I will think of Professor Blake’s class like studying for a final exam or training for a big game. I’m not going to back down. And I’ll just have to find a way to be so convincing, he can’t do anything but give me a passing grade on every other paper.
As soon as the waitress leaves with our dinner order, Mrs. Bishop offers us the bread basket. “Tell us how your studies are going, girls.”
Grace’s roommate, Sally, is a journalism major like Grace, and very outspoken. She launches into a list of assignments they’ve had, including her opinions on what would have been more worthwhile assignments, and how she’s done on them.
The table is a rectangle, with Mr. and Mrs. Bishop on one side, and Grace sitting in between Sally and me. As Sally rambles, with Grace putting in a few details here and there, it becomes more of a conversation between Grace, Sally, and Mrs. Bishop.
Eventually, Mr. Bishop glances across the table at me and smiles. He passes the butter and says a quiet, “How about you, Evalina? Are you enjoying your classes?”
“I . . . am.” That sounded less-than-convincing. “Yes, I am.”
Mr. Bishop arches his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
I spread butter across my bread with a self-conscious laugh. “Yes, I’m enjoying them . . .”
“But?”
“I’m taking one political science class this semester, and my professor has different political beliefs than me. It’s reflected in the way he grades.”
Mr. Bishop frowns. “You should speak to the counselor about that.”
I tear off a bite of bread, but I don’t eat it. I hate feeling so ignorant about how college works. “What would they do?”
“Evaluate the situation. Help mediate between you and your professor.”
My insides squirm at the thought. “I did okay on the first two papers. But on the one he returned this week, I got a D. He claimed it was because it was poorly researched, but I think he just didn’t like my view of the evacuation.”
Mr. Bishop’s mouth quirks. “I wondered if that was involved.”
“To claim it wasn’t researched well was just stupid. I told him I’ve been to two of the camps and read every newspaper article I can get my hands on. Not that the press is covering the story much anymore. And what they are saying is completely off base and makes it sound like living in the camps is akin to a holiday in Hawaii.” I shove bread in my mouth, hoping to prevent the rest of my rant.
It comes out anyway. “I just don’t understand how anyone can argue that locking up the Japanese Americans isn’t about race. Why not Germans? Why not my family?”
Mr. Bishop’s expression is thoughtful, but he chews and swallows before speaking. “There are some Italians and Germans who have been detained, but you’re right. There hasn’t been the widescale evacuation like with the Japanese. Germans and Italians are spread all over the country, while the majority of the Japanese were still on the west coast. And, yes.” He winces. “They’re more noticeable.”
I look at the other ladies at the table and find they’re still locked in conversation. “What really makes me think Professor Blake is just biased against me is that on the first day of class, he commented that I’m Italian. That I would bring a different ‘slant’ to our class discussions. Can you imagine if he knew that both my grandfathers were in the mafia?” My laugh comes out high and self-deprecating.
The waitress arrives with our entrees, thankfully breaking up the conversations. If only she’d arrived before I decided to air my family’s blood-stained laundry. Fortunately, Mr. Bishop is a kind, understanding soul.
The rest of dinner passes in casual group conversation, and I try to forget about Professor Blake and join in.
Loneliness surrounds me as dinner ends and we walk back to campus. I had so looked forward to tonight, to dinner away from the school cafeteria and my overly-quiet roommate. To enjoying time with the Bishops, whom I admire so much. And now it’s time to head back to my room and write a paper that hopefully Professor Blake will approve of.
“Evalina.”
I startle from my downward spiral of thoughts to find that Mr. Bishop has lagged behind the group, slowing his pace to match mine.
“May I ask you about your Japanese American friends? How are they faring?”
“Okay.” What else can I say? “They’re making the best of a bad situation, I think.”
He nods. “I was speaking to Grace about them. She said your friends are farmers?”
“Yes. Wonderful farmers.”
“Has Grace told you that her older brother is a cattle rancher in Kansas?”
I’m not quite sure where this is going, but . . . “Yes. Jeremy, right? She said that growing up, he always wanted to be a cowboy.”
Mr. Bishop grins. “Yes, that’s my boy. With the war on, they’re increasingly short on help. Jeremy is going to talk to his boss about having a few Japanese Americans come help. More and more, the WRA is open to that.”
I tell my hopes not to soar too high. That cattle are not crops. That Kansas is very far away. That Mr. Bishop may not even be thinking of the Hamasaki family, just making conversation with me about subjects he knows I’m interested in.
“How does it work?” I ask, sounding breathless. “Getting a family released?”
“We’re trying to figure that out. I’m not even sure we can ask for the release of specific families. But would you mind giving me your friend’s information? In case we’re able to?”
“Of course.” I tear off a page from the back of my address book and scribble the names of Taichi’s family and his aunt and uncle, as well as their address in Manzanar. “Thank you so much for thinking of them.”
Mr. Bishop tucks the paper into the breast pocket of his suit. “It may come to nothing,” he warns. “I’ll be in touch.”
With my head light from hope, I thank Mr. and Mrs. Bishop for dinner, and then say goodbye so I can be alone to think. Kansas. If Taichi got released to there, could I go too? They have universities, same as California. Maybe even more affordable. Or maybe I could get a scholarship there.
After I’ve said goodbye to Grace and Sally, I peek in my mailbox. My heart leaps into my throat when I spot the envelope, but it’s from Tony. I’m grateful that he’s such a faithful letter writer, even with his intense load of engineering classes, but right now I feel only disappointment. I close the square metal door, and the hollow sound echoes how my heart feels now that yet another day has gone by with no word from Taichi.