‘December 7, 1941. A date which will live in infamy’

For most Americans, Pearl Harbor Day is a day to remember and honor the 2,403 US Citizens who were in killed in the Japanese surprise attack upon Pearl Harbor. It signifies the beginning of the United States’ involvement in WWII.

For Japanese-Americans, this day has a different cultural significance. This is the day in which we became seen as the enemy. Everything was different. Every action was suspect. 74 days later, President Roosevelt issued Executive Order No. 9066 which forced us to vacate our homes on the West Coast and were forced at gun point to board trains to designated relocation camps. Over 70% of those interned were American Citizens. My family was detained at the Turlock Assembly Center until the internment camp was completed at Gila River, Arizona.

This day brings me a great deal of cultural conflict. I’m fiercely proud of all of my family. My mother’s German Irish American story can be traced back to the founding years of American history. My father’s Japanese American story began much later. My grandfather, born in Japan, came to the US on a barge, alone, at age 11 in 1924. My grandmother’s family arrived a few years earlier and she was actually born in the US.

One of my earliest memories was hearing a conversation about internment. I was so young and didn’t understand the context. I just remember hearing that my sister and I were more than 1/16th Japanese, which meant that we would have been interned. All I heard was that we were different, and not white. From that day forth, I always felt the burden of the sacrifice that my Japanese American relatives had to endure during the war. Growing up, when others would joke around about squinty eyes, I felt deep shame, but also immense reverence and gratitude to my family.

I had family that was fighting the Japanese. Family interned for being Japanese-American. And years later I was able to learn more about the path of my grandfather’s relatives in Japan who worked in factories to support war efforts against America. No wonder I feel such conflict.

In response to a question in a rather serious meeting the other day about how our lives have changed since J’s accident, it dawned upon me as I uttered the words…

‘every conversation involves complex emotions and incredibly difficult content. We don’t talk about anything other than issues related to traumatic brain injuries, autism, or behavioral modifications. It is taxing and has taken it’s toll.’

…that I’m ready for harmony, grace, and sharing good times with our family. It’s terrifying. I’m not sure why. But it is. I’ve been thinking about why that is. The last 2 1/2 years since the accident were unbelievably difficult. But, the 3 years prior to that we had been trying to wrap our heads and hearts around figuring out what was going on with our son, O. He screamed all the time. Spaced out. Screamed more. Displayed very erratic behavior. Finally, the year before J’s accident, we got the autism diagnosis.

I’m ready to look to the day in the future that I can say, ‘yep, those were some tough days, but, look at how strong we all are for having made it through them together’.

This photo speaks volumes. In simple terms it speaks of a boy who is etching the letters from a gravesite. Little does the casual observer know the incredible story behind this photo. The boy who is doing the etching was granted another chance at life. The woman of whose headstone is being engraved did not get such a chance.  It was 1918, Masue Kaizuka had newly immigrated to the United States with her husband, leaving her son, aged 3 at home in Kada, Wakayama, Japan to be raised by his grandmother until they could make enough money to send for him. Sadly, that dream was cut short as after caring for the children of her community members who fell ill from the influenza virus, mostly from Wakayama, she contracted the disease and died on November 8th, 1918. Her son, Masao, came to The United States on a barge by himself at age 11, 6 years after his mother was put to rest in this Japanese cemetery in Vacaville, CA. He fended for himself and made a life. A beautiful life. He had a beautiful wife and 3 sons. The boy in the photo is the grandson of his eldest son. Nearly two years ago, this handsome boy survived a tragic accident in which he incurred a traumatic brain injury. If it weren’t for the fact that he was born now, lived in The United States, near an incredible trauma center and was the recipient of the very best of the best that neurosurgery had to offer in 2010, he would not be here, etching the letters of his great great grandmother’s headstone and honoring her.

Funny how life is. If it was she that was born now, most likely she would have survived. And if it were he that had incurred his injury in 1918, he would have not survived. As the mom of this darling and courageous boy, I’m grateful for the life that my great grandmother sacrificed for us. We are forever grateful for you. I’m also so grateful that my son was given another chance to live. Yes, beauty is certainly in the eye of the beholder. Today, I smile at the beauty that lies before me in this photo. Such sadness, sorrow, grief, and true beauty. Yet I can’t help but to feel so blessed.

Yep. The pain is still there. It hasn’t subsided at all. I don’t know why I think that it would have dulled in this year and a half. You get over confident. As soon as you think for a second that it’s okay. It’s okay to breathe in, and breathe out without worrying. Without having to hold your breath on the inhale, or the exhale. It’s always there. Always. Breaths are labored. There is either a subtle hold on the inhale, between breaths, or on the exhale. This is how I exhibit pain. No matter how hard I try to hide it. This is how I recognize pain in others. It’s so obvious. It’s so painful. I didn’t choose this path to be able to feel this, or to recognize this, but it is just what it is. It is there. It is glaring and blatant…and unfathomable. Yet, it is here and now. My heart bleeds for those of whom hold their breath on the exhale. I know them. I am them. Or the inhale. It’s so painful. I know you. I want to reach out to you. But, I don’t. I just try and exist and pull it together. I do stop in my tracks, pray for you, pray for me, and hope that we are both somehow pushing forward in this struggle. Against what? Against the pain. The loss.

Today it hit me when I didn’t expect it. I was cleaning the garage. The plastic container of cleats was over flowing. There were two pairs that needed to be added to the box…last year’s football and baseball cleats. I put them in the container. My hands were shaking. Maybe one of the younger boys will use them. Maybe not . I hope not. Yet, I still hold onto them. I cannot let go.