Dust of Eden (2 page)

saying that the food

they serve him is too oily,

too
American
. I ask him

how he is, a stupid question,

I know, but he looks so small,

and so tired,

that’s the only thing

I can think to ask him.
Fine,
he whispers,

Everything is going to be fine,

they’ll figure out, soon, that this

is unconstitutional.

We are led away

only thirty minutes later,

our footsteps echoing in the hallway,

the door banging,

then locking behind us,

my father left alone

in prison like a caged bird.

Every time I walk down the hall

at school, kids hiss
Jap

Jap
. Every time I walk home

from school, I feel eyes as heavy

as handcuffs around my wrists and ankles.

Every time Mother and I go downtown

in our Ford to shop at Mr. Fukuyama’s

grocery store, every time Mother says

Konnichiwa
, I look away.

Every time I see the word
Jap
in newspapers,

I become hot. Every time Mother cooks

miso soup and rice for dinner, suddenly

I am not hungry. Every time I see

myself in the mirror, I see a slant-eyed

Jap, just like they say, my teeth protruding

like a rat’s. Every time I look away,

Jamie holds my hand.

Dear Father, I hope

everything is okay

and that you are

doing well.

From the letters

you sent us,

the parts we can read

that haven’t been

blacked out, it seems

that they are treating

you well. Here, at home,

Grandpa’s been

pulling us together,

saying now that you are

in Montana (or North

Dakota, or wherever

they took you), we have

to listen to him.

Don’t tell Nick I told

you this, but a week ago,

Grandpa found out Nick’s been

breaking the curfew,

and without saying a word,

as soon as Nick came home,

Grandpa raised his cane

and hit him hard, once,

twice, over the head.

Nick just stood there,

angry, with his fists raised,

but he didn’t say or do anything

as Grandpa kept hitting him

again and again with his cane.

Mom was crying, and shouting,

Oto-san, yamete, yamete

—Father, stop it, stop it –, and

I was frozen, right there.

I’ve never seen this

Grandpa, who was like a stranger, angry

and spiteful. But as soon

as Nick apologized (for what?),

Grandpa stopped.

Okami o okoraseruna
– Don’t anger the government –,

Grandpa said slowly.

But we didn’t do anything wrong,
Nick shouted.

We’re American, just like everyone else
.

Grandpa shook his head,

ware ware wa Nipponjin demo naishi,

Americajin demo nai
—we are neither

Japanese nor American. His words stung me,

stronger than bee stings, even stronger

than the news of Pearl Harbor.

I went up the dark stairs

holding Basho in my arms

and shut my door and shut my eyes.

Most of the time, we are

doing okay, but Seattle’s changed.

Chinese kids walk around with buttons

that say, “I am Chinese.”

Then there are all these signs:

We don’t serve Japs. Japs go home.

The entire country hates

Japan. And they hate us.

No one seems to like us

anymore, except for Jamie

and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore.

Nick doesn’t say

it, but he’s having a really

hard time, I can tell.

He comes home with bruises

and cuts, and when Mother asks

him what happened, he only says

that he fell. I know he’s lying,

I know he knows that I know,

but we don’t talk about it.

How other boys push him around,

doesn’t matter he was voted the Most Popular,

they call him Tojo, Jap, Rat, and he answers

each and every curse with a punch.

Mother tells me not to go out

by myself. It’s hard to walk

down the street, being different.

I hope the new glasses Mother sent

you are the kind you like.

I miss you very much. I hope they are

treating you well. Father, I hope

you can come home soon so we can

all be together. I miss you.

Your daughter, Masako

President Roosevelt

signed Executive

Order 9066 today. Nick says

that Germans and Italians

aren’t arrested like

Japanese men have been all over

the West Coast.
Mina,

he whispered in the back

yard,
they’ll put us

all in prisons.

I don’t want to believe him,

but I see Grandpa

and Mother worrying over our

frozen bank accounts

and curfews and blackouts

and the five-mile radius, and I know

we will probably be put in

prison just like they did Father.

Grandpa sits on his favorite chair right near the rose

garden. His face, from where I stand, is as big as

the roses all around him, roses of bright red, deep red,

blood red, all kinds of red only he knows the names

for.
Masako, chotto kinasai
, he calls me over as he hears

the gate opening. He does not turn around. He does

not look at me, but keeps looking ahead, at his roses,

at the sky, at everything but me. Basho stretches

on Grandpa’s lap, then jumps down, saunters over to me,

and says hello by twirling his tail around my legs.

Grandpa, without moving his mouth, says,
We have

been asked to leave. We need to pack up

everything: the house, the nursery. We can only take two

pieces of luggage per person. We need to leave soon. And

I’m sorry, we can’t take Basho.
I am not hearing him

right, I tell myself. Why do we need to move?

They say that they are doing this for our safety. They say

that we will be taken care of. They say that it’s for our own

good.

Ware ware no tame da
, Grandpa says quietly in Japanese.

He reaches over, then taking a pair of scissors,

snips off a bud.

Ware ware no tame da
, he repeats again. I know

that’s a lie. I know they are doing this to hurt us. But I do

not say anything at all.
Ware ware no tame da,

his words echo in my head.

It’s for our own good, he says. Or so they say.

We have one week

to get ready.

It’s only been one week

since Mother and Grandpa

went to the Japanese

American Citizens League

Office and registered us

to be evacuated

to a place called Camp

Puyallup somewhere

not far away.

We are to leave

on Thursday, April

30th. Not a single Japanese

is to stay in Seattle

after May 1.

Mother and Grandpa

told us we are not

selling the house

like other families,

but that we’ll board it up,

and that we’ll be back.

We have a week to say

good-bye, a week

to pack everything up.

It’s a week that

seems not long

enough,

but forever.

What I can take:

the Bible that Mother gave me for my 12th birthday

my journals

Jamie’s Christmas present

homework assignments for the rest of the semester

(in case I return to Garfield next September)

clothes for autumn (maybe for winter, too)

the things that the WRA has ordered us to take:

blankets and linen; a toothbrush, soap,

also knives, forks, spoons, plates, bowls and cups.

What I cannot take:

Basho

our house

Jamie

the choir

Grandpa’s rose garden

Seattle and its sea-smell

What my Grandfather packs:

a potted rose

Basho is old.

The mangy

orange kitten

with a broken tail

came to the front

steps on a rainy

day and no matter

how much Grandpa shooed

it away, the cat kept

mewing until

Grandpa got sick

of it and pulled him

from under the porch

by the scuff

of his neck

and stuffed him

into the bed

next to him.

Fleas got

Grandpa, but Basho got

Grandpa. Basho came

when I was five.

See that scar

on his cheek?

He got it fighting

Kuro from four

houses down; he won.

See how his left

ear is torn? He got

it fighting

crows that were in the roses.

Basho brings gifts;

don’t be surprised.

Birds. Squirrels. Baby

moles. Basho likes

to have his ears

pulled gently.

He’ll show you

his belly if you do

that. He doesn’t understand

English; he grew up

around us, listening to

Japanese. He doesn’t drink

milk. He grew up drinking

miso soup and eating bonito

flakes and rice.

He is a good cat.

Please take care

of him. He’ll love

you, like he loves us,

like we love

him, like I love you. Jamie.

Mother stands

in the middle

of the room,

our sofas

and table

and chairs

covered in

white sheets

looking like Halloween

ghosts.

She walks,

the sound of

her bare footsteps

across

the bare floor

empty, up

the bare steps

to my room,

where she puts me to sleep

on a blanket

on the floor.

It is cold;

I never knew

our house could

be so cold.

The nursery is dismantled,

each glass pane taken off

from the frame. All the windows

of our house are boarded up;

the car’s inside the garage.

Everything has been put into

boxes and crates and stored

in the garage or with the Gilmores.

My room is bare except

for the naked bed and an empty

dresser draped in white; it’s

my very own ghost.

Mr. Gilmore shakes his head

as Mother gives him the keys,

“I don’t know what the world

is coming to, but don’t worry,

we’ll take care of everything.

They’ll realize how silly all this

is, and you’ll be back here

before you know it.” Mother bows

deeply, her shoulders trembling

like a feather, and Mrs. Gilmore

puts her arm around Mother, she, too,

shaking. Mr. Gilmore opens

the door to his truck

where the back is filled

with our bags. Grandpa stands

in front of our house, feeling

the bark of the cherry blossom

tree he planted when I was

born, feeling it, stroking it,

gently, as he looks at the house,

at the space where the nursery

used to be, then he raises his hat,

tips it gently, saying goodbye

to everything, to the house, to the wintering

roses left behind that will probably die

without his care, and to the tree

that has begun to bud.

Chinatown,

where all the

Japanese stores

used to be, is

boarded up.

It’s a ghost town;

no one’s about so early

in the morning.

It’s a ghost town

now and maybe forever.

A sign:

Thank you for your patronage,

it was a pleasure to serve you

for the past twenty years.

Then it gets smaller and smaller

and finally disappears

as we drive

quickly

toward the junction

of Beacon Avenue

and Alaska Street

at the southern end

of Jackson Park.

We are all tagged like parcels,

our bags, our suitcases,

my mother, me, Nick, Grandpa.

Tagged with numbers, we have become

numbers, faceless, meaningless.

We were told to come to Jackson Park,

just two suitcases each,

no more names, no memories, no Basho,

only ourselves and what we can carry.

Here we are, waiting for the buses

to arrive, photographers flashing and clicking,

other Japanese like us, so many,

all quietly waiting, wordlessly smiling,

without resistance.

And we all shiver because it is cold,

because we do not know where we are

going, because we are leaving

home as the enemy.

I fell asleep against a hard and unyielding

Nick, rigid with his anger, as the bus trembled,

shook like an old woman, like the rocking of a crib,

and we all slept like children, lost, not