Ignorant Shame

I was a member of the Armijo Super Band in Fairfield, California for all four of my high school years. And though we were called "band freaks" by the "popular" kids of the day, I was proud of my membership in the elite band. Our director, Mr. Lindsey always maintained the highest expectations with regard to our performance on and off the field.

For that reason, I encouraged both my daughter and son to be in their high school bands, though to my disappointment, they only stayed in their bands for two years. No more living vicariously.

I always regretted that I didn't get to attend college in the traditional way. Instead, I went to night school and worked. So, I never got to be in a college band. Even today, I can't think of too many things that would be more fun.

That's why, when I heard the story of the University of Southern Mississippi band chanting "Where's your green card?" to a Latino player on the Kansas State University basketball team, I cringed with disgust.

In my experience, being a band member was always positive, especially when it came to competition. I was taught to compete hard and be a good sport if we didn't win. What a great feeling to cheer and celebrate with my fellow band members. If any of us ever displayed such poor sportsmanship, Mr. Lindsey would have dragged us off the bleachers by our ears and stood us in the middle of the court while he scolded us with his megaphone.

Where was the band director, the drum major, while these chants occurred? Did anyone in the audience stand up and chastise the band?

Kudos to Angel Rodriguez, the basketball player who was the victim of the chanting. According to CNN:

Rodriguez did not change his expression during the chants and helped push Kansas State to victory by scoring 13 points.


"I heard it. I don't pay attention to that nonsense, especially because Puerto Rico is a commonwealth, so we don't need no type of papers," Rodriguez said Friday. "Their athletic director and personnel from their school came to apologize, and I accepted it."


Rodriguez said he realized that there are "ignorant people, and I know that is not how they want to represent their university. I've moved on already," he said. "I have a game to focus on."

I keep hoping we have "outgrown" such ugliness, but sadly, it appears not.

"That Time of Day" #FridayFlash, #FridayFictioneers, #100words

Once again, Madison Woods has posted a beautiful photograph as a prompt for Flash Fiction Friday. I feel a little strange writing a dark, sad flash fiction for such a warm and bright photo. But I am in that kind of place with my work-in-progress, Broken Dreams.

I often feel sad for those times in our history and even today, when people are judged, bullied, even killed because of skin color, religious belief, sexual orientation. When we will know their hearts?

That Time of Day

Sunset used to be my favorite time of day, when I waited for my boy to run to me, to sit in my branches and listen to me whisper as we watched the sun go down together.

Now, I dread sundown, when I hear voices gathered beneath my branches, ugly words spewing from their mouths. A man cries as a noose is wrapped around his neck.  I rattle my leaves in protest. But they do not hear my whispers.

I will shed my leaves like tears. I do not want to be the hanging tree.

The Help: A Multicultural Perspective

"Be curious, not judgemental."

I open this blog with the above quote from Walt Whitman, because it was out of my curiosity that this post was born.

Several days ago, I happened upon a discussion of The Help on Facebook. The status of my friend was simple: The Help: I'm pissed. That began an enlightening conversation between several people on Facebook.

At first, I'll admit I was very hesitant to add my own comments, because I did not want to offend anyone with the fact that I enjoyed the movie and felt it had some benefit to showing viewers a piece of history. But I decided to add my comment, and I am happy I did, as I have made some new friends, but more importantly, have seen their perspectives.

I was intrigued because in various discussions on television and radio, I'd heard that some in the Black community were not happy about The Help, and I wanted to know why that was.

Also, Broken Dolls, deals with the theme of prejudice during the Japanese-American internment. In my book, prejudice threatens to destroy Nobu (Japanese-American) and his friend, Terrence (African-American). Yet, it is friendship that changes the lives of Sachi (Japanese-American) and her friend, Jubie (African-American).

I'll admit, I originally read The Help to try to get "the voice" of a Black person, after being told by some in my writing critique group that my Black character didn't sound Black. But I became engrossed in the book beyond the "sound" of the voices - I was drawn into each character.

I watched the movie and felt even more sorrow for that era, when Black people were treated with such disrespect. That women could trust their children to the care of women they couldn't even share their bathrooms with--so sad.

Yet, it wasn't until I read the Facebook posts that I realized I had no real concept of just how sad that history is. Honestly, I have never really had an open discussion with anyone in the Black community about what kinds of prejudice they or their families have experienced. I've only read about it in history books. To hear what prejudice is like from people I know was a real eye-opener.

In The Help, I also watched the destructive power of peer pressure in the actions of Hilly and her friends. At the end of the movie, I saw in the eyes of Elizabeth Leefolt that she knew what she had done was wrong, yet she couldn't bring herself to stand up against her friends. In many ways, we've come a long way, but in the way that peer pressure makes us to do things we know are wrong, we still have a long way to go.

So, though this is a long blog entry, I believe it is an important one. I hope you will read each person's perspective, and I hope you will feel free to leave your comments.

Thank you, Donna, Cyndie, GPhillipD, Edward and Michele for your open and honest discussions of your perspective.

Donna

Donna grew up a military dependent. She lived the majority of her formative years on or around military installations from Texas to New Hampshire, and in Spain and Italy where two younger sisters were born. Her family relocated to California where she attended high school and received a BA in Business at St. Mary's College, Moraga Campus. Currently, Donna is pursuing a Masters in Legal Studies from Kaplan University. She is the mother of a 23 year old son who attends South Carolina State University's Masters in Engineering program, is married and resides in Charleston, SC.


Donna's Perspective:
Before viewing the movie, I was full of anticipation fueled by my sisters and niece who raved so much about the book. When the opportunity arose to see the movie, I initially watched with no "real" feelings one way or another. As a matter of fact I was more amused by the script than anything. I guess subconsciously, I was picking up on subtleties, but primarily, I just thought, yes, they probably did ignore a lot of what was being said until they got together and laughed at their employers behind their back.

It wasn't until the bus scene where a weary Aibileen and friend were told to get off the bus because “some nigger" had gotten killed that I suddenly became emotionally upset. That nigger turned out to be Medgar Evers. A respected figure from the 1960's Civil Rights Movement, not just ole Bubba from down the street. It hurt me to think that all Black people were and are cast into the same pot, indistinguishable from a slave to an educated War Veteran who had fought valiantly for the United States, only to be executed by a White Supremist.

I cried.

I cried, not because I was sad, rather because I was mad…Pissed is the better word. I’m pissed off because of all the hate filled attacks on churches, homes and businesses and on people who through no fault of their own look, or think, or worship differently but who know and accept that life is not ours to take or hinder, rather understand vengeance belongs to God. I cried for all the mothers whose sons and husbands were murdered, children and wives raped, for the verbal and physical abuses Black people have had to endure for the sake of having a job, being able to go to school, shop in a store, or simply walk on a street.

I remain upset enough to cry because sometime after seeing the movie, I remembered a scene from my own life. I often say I have not been exposed to such overt racism during my lifetime, but I remembered being in second grade living in Amarillo, Texas where my father was stationed in the United States Air Force. I had befriended a little white girl who had come to my all black Parochial School to act in a Play. Our friendship was instant and she asked if I could come over one Saturday to play in her Doll House. A real Doll House. Are you kidding? I begged my mother who agreed and the little girl’s mother picked me up. We had played for several hours and were only interrupted by her Maid who came to gather her for lunch. As I tried to follow behind, I was told, “Oh, not you honey, you have to eat out here”. I was confused…but I ate my lunch and waited for my “friend” to come back to play. I don’t recall if I ever mentioned this to my mother back then but I do know it wasn’t until I was an adult those memories came back and I asked my mother how she could have subjected me to such treatment. I don’t know if she truly didn’t recall the incident, thought it privilege that I had been invited to a rich white person’s home, or was embarrassed that the event took place at all.

At present I am trying to read the book. Good as everyone says it is I am struggling to pick it back up after having read just a few chapters. I’ll get through it I’m sure, but the history is getting in my way. I can’t take it as fiction, embellished or not.

Cyndie

Cyndie has over 18 years of experience in the NGO sector in the United States, Australia, Thailand, and now India. Her expertise lies in program development and marketing, communications, public relations and graphic design. This toward helping NGO’s find their voice and expression in a challenging and ever-changing socio-political and economic climate for nonprofits, both large and small. Visit Cyndie at her blogs: www.cyntaxcoatings.com/himumbai 
www.foundation.cyntaxgroup.com/
 www.yc3.org/

Cyndie's Perspective:
I recently saw the film 'The Help' at the suggestion of a friend who read the book, which I did not. On the surface, I thought it was a thoroughly enjoyable film, perfectly cast, and in whose subject matter I have taken a keen interest throughout most of my adult life in my pursuit to somehow, in my own small way, influence the collective consciousness on issues of social justice and human rights.

Aside from the authenticity of the characters and the (IMHO) superb acting, the film affected me on two levels. First, I was reminded of my one and only experience of having 'hired help' in our young family during our father's service at Hamilton Air Force Base in Bermuda in '61, '62, and '63. For some reason, I remember more about my life during this brief period than almost any other time in my childhood and I can honestly say I attribute this to the joy brought to our lives by our maid Cinda. I didn't know much about her life outside of her time spent at our home, but remember her to be such a source of lovingkindness and laughter in what was an otherwise unstable home life, with my mother left to her own devices to raise her four young daughters, my father gone much of the time hunting hurricanes and conducting other weather reconnaissance missions for the U.S. Air Force. I remember looking forward to the days she came to our house, knowing that for those hours she was with us, we would be showered with her attention and affection, and I still recall being left with a feeling of loss at her leaving us at the end of her work day.

There was a purity to Cinda that even at my young age I could sense - she was bound by her duty to all of us, seemingly completely accepting of and fulfilled by her simple lot in life. She showed up to work always with a smile on her face and a willingness to dispense with unconditional love for me and my sisters. Her smile and laughter were contagious and I recall being drawn to that life-giving energy that was absent from our household when she was not there. I saw this as an innate characteristic in all of the 'maids' in the film - their pure love for the children seemed not a mask they wore to fulfill their job description, rather a truly felt emotion for the children as though they were their own. Throughout the film, the joy and presence in these women's faces toward the children brought home the visceral feeling of that same love I felt from Cinda.

Second, the film made me reflect on my recent and ongoing experience of life in India, with the remnants of the caste system there still leaving its ugly mark on many aspects of society, for both locals and foreigners. While the caste system was formerly outlawed just after the time of Partition and liberation from the British in 1947, and its demise adopted by the Constitution of India in 1950, there are still many aspects of Indian life that have not shed the affects of this long-held belief system. This social phenomenon touched me profoundly vis-a-vis my relationship with our driver and his family. Initially an employee of my husband's company, Sitaram originally hails from the low-caste Hindu Konkani region in Southern Maharashtra. He has spent the better part of his career working in simple jobs as a driver or office clerk, subjected to the wrath of high-caste businessmen. I was appalled on countless occasions at the way the lower caste people are treated by their bosses. Sparing you the distasteful details, suffice it to say that despite caste having been outlawed over fifty years ago, a much harsher version of Jim Crow is still very much alive and well in India.

My husband and I were invited to spend the evening with Sitaram and his family on the eve of Diwali, one of India's most celebrated festivals. When our employer found out we had gone to his house, sat on his floor and ate his food, he asked 'How could you stoop so low as to share a meal with these people'. I will share here a post from the journal I kept during my first year in India:

I am still trying to come to grips with why this experience (dinner at Sitaram's for Diwali) has so profoundly touched me. Upon seeing more of their very simple (and speaking only materialistically, poverty-stricken) lives, I am awestruck by Sitaram, who shows up every morning, on time, with clean pressed clothes, a smile on his face, and in whom I have complete faith and trust and absolutely no doubt in my mind he would do anything and everything to take care of and protect us. He takes a total of three buses over an hour and a half to get to our house in the morning, then proceeds to do his job dutifully and with a smile on his face, never expressing any anger or impatience toward the IMPOSSIBLE Mumbai traffic. At the end of the day, he drops us off then takes another three buses and often 2 hours to get home – working sometimes an over 14-hour day, six days a week – for a mere Rs. 8,000 per month paid by Hayden’s employer. That’s less than $175.

P.S. Much like Cinda in Bermuda as a child, Sitaram and his family provided me with a sense of peace, comfort and belonging which is rare within my own family. I am happy to say that he is no longer 'my driver' rather he and his family have become my friends and in a way, my family in India.


So, Sitaram and Cinda are two people in my life whose character, honesty and sense of duty have validated my belief that human decency and worth is not defined by one's color, financial standing, education, job ranking or amassed fortune. Just as these two individuals have inspired me in my life, I believe the characters in the book/film 'The Help' in their own small way have altered history. In their courage to step forward and speak their (anecdotal) truth, they joined the ranks of my heroes Gandhi, Evers, Edelman, King and others who have fearlessly and unceasingly championed the causes of social justice and human rights. Fearing the repercussions of their actions, and believing it impossible that their efforts alone could possibly affect any sort of change, these brave women took the risk to share their story and in doing so opened our eyes and thus ever-so-slightly shifted the collective consciousness.

 

GPhillipD

GPhillipD is from Fairfield, CA and currently resides in Austin, TX with his wife, Cheryl.  He attended San Francisco State University, graduating with a Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering and the National Technological University in Colorado, graduating with a Master of Science in Computer and Electrical Engineering.  He has enjoyed a 25 year career as a microprocessor designer in the semiconductor industry and has been a part of design teams for everything from anti-locking brake systems, desktop and laptop computers, mp3 players and cells phones. Reading and blogging on various topics is a welcome reprieve from his profession as an engineer. Visit GPhillipD's blog at www.politicsandothermusings.blogspot.com.

GPhillipD's Perspective:
The Help: A Reenactment of Black and White Stereotypes

I spent many summers from 1965 through 1970 in Biloxi, MS and I witnessed and experienced Jim Crow racism in its rawest form. Mississippi during the ‘60s consisted of two entirely different social realities and the movie brought back memories of my childhood.  My father’s family lived across the railroad tracks which, in Mississippi during the ‘60s was a common reference to the black community.  Funny thing was that my cousins and I had the opposite perspective. Crossing the tracks meant we were going to the white part of town and we were not allowed to meander across the tracks without adult supervision.  I understand now, without having to watch a movie, that in Mississippi during the ‘60s it was an accident of birth that a person was destined by social decree anyway, to be “The Help” or destined to be a socialite and employer of “The Help”.   A scene in the movie that makes mention of Mississippi’s determinate social structure was when Cicely Tyson’s character said to Emma Stone’s character; about her mother… “She didn’t choose her life, her life chose her”.  For me that one scene summed up life’s circumstance in Mississippi during the ‘60s.

In my view the movie itself is not about “The Help” as much as it is about the superficial relationships and goings on of the so called white social elite and specifically white women in the Jim Crow south. There was some degree of lamentation provided that gave us a sample of the callousness in which “The Help” was treated and  if one watched carefully it was quite obvious that “The Help” was depicted as described in Ralph Ellison’s novel The Invisible Man. The movie supported the reality that the employers treated “The Help” like ornaments in the back drop and similar to pets they expected them to fetch and serve quietly.  In the end, the movie provides a rather myopic perspective on the social invisibility of “The Help” and instead gives a macro view on the frivolous endeavors of a few socially elite white women. The movie seems to feign that “The Help” would have no substantive meaning to their life if they were not somehow being caretakers of white households.   The movie should make one consider the illogic of someone that can despise an individual while at the same time entrusting them with the care of their children. But then again, the racist mentality has never been rooted in logic.

I can’t emphatically say that the movie is a flop. The actresses executed their roles with compelling prose and stereotypes are on full display for black and white characters.  I believe the movie missed in a rather major way by not having a single significant black male character other than the invisible and assumed black male whose presence was associated with abuse, abandonment, and profanity. It’s a stretch to consider that the absence of a significant black male character in the movie was meant to further the notion of the social invisibility of black folk in Mississippi during the ’60s…but I suppose it’s conceivable.

On a 4 star scale, I give the movie 3 stars for its entertainment value and 2 stars for its inaccurate depiction of the social realties in Mississippi during the ‘60s. It’s not a total waste of two hours but far from an accurate depiction of the ugliness of the Jim Crow era.  Overall “The Help” serves up a few slices of humble pie.

Edward

At age twelve, impressed by the work of A. Conan Doyle, Edward decided to write stories. He knew this undertaking would require preparation, but underestimated the fifty years before he realized his ambition. Meanwhile, he supported himself by other endeavors. Among the side excursions was a stint at the University of Arkansas, where he began his association with the Ozarks. He left with a master's degree in psychology to work on radios for NASA, then to Georgia, where he taught psychology for two years before completeing a Ph.D. Now, he considers himself at "happily ever after," and is glad to be writing stories at last.

Edward's Perspective:
I put off going to see "The Help" for some time because I thought it might be painful to watch, and indeed it was. I expect many of us who grew up white in the south in that era have regrets they didn't speak out against the injustices. Holocaust scholars talk about the "banality of evil." If it's going on all around us, it
seems normal, just the way things are.


I thought it was a good movie, but fell somewhat short of being a great movie. Seemed like the film was sold (or bought) to be more than it actually was. The latter part touched upon civil rights, the murder of Medgar Evers, etc., but more as a peripheral issue than a central theme. The film was apparently intended to be light and funny, but was too grim to quite bring that off. However, that the movie generated such interest suggests there's an audience for serious treatments of race matters.

Michele

Michele began writing professionally in 2005. She's a health writer contributing articles to Livestrong.com and ehow.com.  She’s also the Atlanta Alternative Health Examiner for Examiner.com. She has hosted and written for her BlogTalkRadio.com talk show, Frankly Speaking and contributed to blogs and websites such as Entrepreneurial Woman Network.  She was also featured in "USA Today." A former nurse, Michele holds a B.A. in health services administration from Saint Mary's College of California and an MBA from University of Phoenix. She also studied nutrition and Oriental medicine. Currently, she is pursuing a doctorate in naturopathic medicine. For more info, visit her website at www.my-ni.com.

Michele's Perspective:
Interestingly, I experienced a similar situation to Donna's when I was a kid. I was in the first grade and our school at the time was very integrated -- mostly emigrants (India, Brazil, Russia, Asia, etc.). My friend at the time was Sophia. She was white (Russian). We were best friends (as best of friends 1st graders can be). I sometimes walked her home since she lived so close to the school. I lived a little further away and caught public transportation home. Anyway, for the first time, she invited me in her house and we had a really great time until her parents came home. When her mother saw me in her house, she went berserk. She began yelling at me to get out of her house. Now, I thought she was yelling at me to get out because Sophia didn't get permission to have company -- until... she turned to Sophia and yelled, "I told you no niggers are allowed in my house." Her mother grabbed me by the arm and physically put me out the house. At 6 years old, I shrugged it off. I didn't understand what had happened. I felt bad. My feelings were hurt. But it wasn't until I was a little older (at 13) that I understood Sophia's mother's behavior and why Sophia subsequently severed our friendship (stopped speaking to me and sitting next to me). By 13, I had experienced other similar incidents. However, when I was 13, I was in the 9th grade and at an all white school in Georgia. It was hell for me but there was one white girl who befriended me. Then one day, we couldn't be friends anymore. I always wondered why she never invited me into her home but then my father finally explained it to me. Then I understood. Then I became angry. Then I began to question everything.

People make it seem like Black people are just whining or overreacting. But until our critics have walked in our shoes, they will never know what we've had to endure as a race. My mother and father had to sit in the back of the bus, eat in separate restaurants, get educated in separate schools, use separate restrooms and water fountains. Did you hear that? My Parents. I am the first generation to be protected by the civil rights laws of 1964. The first. And still, I had the experiences I just shared. My grandparent had it worst than my parents, and my parents had it much worse that I, and my son will certainly have it better than I did. With each generation, I am hopeful that we will find equal footing as a race -- the human race.

So, I finally watched the movie yesterday. I found it to be an enjoyable movie. Lighthearted and funny at points. It certainly doesn't depict the true hardships of blacks, but it gives an entertaining story about a few lively characters.

Addendum:
I re-read what I wrote and realized that I brushed over my perspective about the movie. Sometimes, some emotions are just too difficult to translate into words. For example, when I watched Schindler's List, Roots, Mississippi Burning and other similar movies -- I'd walk away too angry for words because of the inhumanity and violence against a race or group of people. I recently watched the movie The Hurricane, about the boxer -- and I was infuriated by the injustice he suffered.

There were points in The Help where I became quite angry -- when Abileen's son was killed, when Evers was murdered, when Hilly was blocking opportunities for each of her maids and those of her minions. The unfairness can be fought but the inbred ignorance about an entire race of people, i.e., can't use the same toilet because blacks have more pervasive diseases, is a bit harder to ameliorate. That kind of indoctrination perpetuated from generation to generation. The legal rights of blacks were nonexistent. One only had to be accused to be arrested -- no proof was necessary. These were the "realities" that the movie lightly touched which caused me to become upset -- not at the movie but about the realities for my parents, grandparents and their parents and their ancestors. For a black person, just lightly touching the subject can reopen the wound -- because the wound has never truly been healed. Sure, we've poured a little peroxide in it and patched it with bandaids; we've even tried to staple and stitch the wound at times, but the wound just keeps getting infected generation after generation.

Now, with a Black President, some claim we have "arrived" and the first-aid kit has been put away. No more salve or bandaids or disinfectants -- it is expected that the wound has healed. Yet, I still read of our elected President being referred to as Tar Baby and photoshopped to look like a monkey. So, while I enjoyed the movie, The Help, for it's much deserved entertainment value, it only scratches the surface of Blacks' true reality during that era -- and that's okay. The author wanted a story about "maids" not about the wider social injustices and the civil rights movement. So in that vain, I found the movie quite entertaining.

Thank you again, Donna, Cyndie, GPhillipD, Edward and Michele!

Stop the Bullying

This morning I learned that tomorrow, March 10, 2011, President and Mrs. Obama will be hosting a White House Conference on Bullying Prevention.

I've wondered if incidences of bullying are occuring more frequently, or if it is simply because they are being reported more often by news media. Then I realize it doesn't matter - one bullying incident is too many. It is cruel and often leads to very severe consequences, like the victim's suicide.

Sadly, bullying has always taken place in one form or another. Many of the news stories today are about bullying directed toward gays, but it can be directed toward anyone perceived as being "different" from the bully. My book, Broken Dolls, deals with bullying toward Japanese-Americans during World War II. Here is an excerpt:

     On the way to school, Sachi sat in the front seat next to Papa, pouting over the way the morning had gone. Sometimes Mama really made her mad, always making her practice, practice, practice.
     Finally, she had to ask Papa, “Why does Mama make me do my Japanese dance and music lessons? All of my friends get to play whenever they want to.”
     He looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “All of your friends? But what is your name?”
     “Sachiko,” she whispered. Not even Papa was on her side.
     “This is your mother’s way of teaching you to remember your Japanese heritage. You must be patient. You may not understand until you are older.” He pulled into the school parking lot.
     The front lawn was crowded with kids hanging around, waiting for the bell to ring.
     She crossed her arms. Great. They will all stare at me.
     There were things she hated about third grade. Like having homework. And mean old Mrs. Nelson. Worst of all were the kids who called her slant-eyes. One day at lunch, a boy in her class had moved to another table, all because she sat next to him. Snickers and whispers had surrounded her like moths around a porch light. She left her tray on the table and ran out of the cafeteria. But those moths flitted and batted around her all the way out.
     She opened the car door.
     “Are you not forgetting something?” Papa leaned his cheek toward her.
     Hoping nobody was looking, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek — even if he was on Mama’s side. “Bye, Papa.”
     “Bye-bye. Have a good day.”
     She shrugged her shoulders. How good a day could it be with all the kids teasing her about being Japanese?
     Eyes focused on the sidewalk, she hurried toward the red brick building and wished she were anywhere but there, walking past those kids. Adrenaline shot through her legs as she ran through the crowd of stares and whispers. Running to class had nothing to do with being late and everything to do with being Japanese.
    
     The day had been long, but finally, the bell for the last class rang. She hurried out the door and found Papa waiting in the car – her safe zone. Seeing him lifted her spirits a bit, and she ran to the car. More whispers and giggles buzzed around her, but she ignored them. She had quit counting how many times someone called her Jap that day.

I hope the Obama's conference will open discussion about the cruelty and damage bullying can cause. If you would like more information, links follow:

White House Conference on Bullying Prevention

StopBullying.gov

Honor

"All of us can't stay in the [internment] camps until the end of the war. Some of us have to go to the front. Our record on the battlefield will determine when you will return and how you will be treated. I don't know if I'll make it back."

            -- Technical Sergeant Abraham Ohama, Company "F"

            442nd Regimental Combat Team, Killed in Action 10/20/1944

Since beginning work on my novel, Broken Dolls, (see synopsis), I have learned many new things, not only about the history of the internment of Japanese Americans, but also about the history of my own family. I always knew my mother and her family had been forced to sell their belongings before being relocated to Tule Lake Relocation Center. When Tule Lake became a high security segregation camp for those Japanese Americans deemed to be "disloyal," they were moved to Topaz Relocation Camp in Utah.

My Grandparents

My grandparents were from Japan - Issei, first generation. Due to the Naturalization Act of 1790, they were not allowed to become American citizens. However, my mother and her siblings were born in the United States - Nissei, second generation. Therefore, they were citizens of this country when they were relocated to internment camps.

My mother and her mother

What I didn't realize until recently, was that my Uncle Yoshio - my mother's oldest brother - fought in the United States Army while his family was interned in these camps. He was a member of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, composed entirely of Japanese American soldiers.  The 442nd became the most decorated unit in United States military history for its size and length of service.

442nd Regimental Combat Team Website

Even more amazing to me was something I learned just last week from my cousin, Uncle Yoshio's son: his dad, my uncle, my mother's brother, received the Bronze Star.

It's difficult for me to put into words how I feel when I think about these young men fighting - some even sacrificing their lives - for a country that put their families behind barbed wire. But, there were many stories like my uncle's. Many of these young Japanese Americans soldiers must have held the same sentiments Tech. Sgt. Ohama expressed in his words above:

"Our record on the battlefield will determine when you will return and how you will be treated."

This history is not something my mother or her family spoke about much. Perhaps many Japanese Americans are unnecessarily ashamed of this history, or it is too painful a period in their lives to re-live. Perhaps it is the philosophy of gaman - patience, endurance. Or, maybe it is the attitude of shikata ga nai - resigned acceptance.

I am Sansei, third generation. The more I have learned since beginning work on Broken Dolls, the more I realize this is history we should all remember. Most of all, I respect the honor and dignity of those who experienced it.



Prejudice vs. Racism

prej•u•dice [prej-uh-dis]
–noun
1. an unfavorable opinion or feeling formed beforehand or without knowledge, thought, or reason.

rac•ism [rey-siz-uh m]
–noun
1. a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one's own race is superior and has the right to rule others.

Lately, the word racist has been thrown around, seemingly without thought as to what the word really means. The Tea Party has been accused of having a racist element. Shirley Sherrod was prematurely accused of having racist views, prompting the NAACP, White House and news media to overreact based on incomplete information. And accusations of racism have been thrown on the immigration debate like gasoline on a fire.

Some call those who disagree with President Obama’s policies racists, though many of the complaints lodged against Obama are not so different from those against Bush, and the criticisms from the right (and far left) are no more vitriolic today than what was expressed by the left toward Bush in his eight years—and even today.

I believe many of us have prejudices—we form unfavorable/favorable opinions or feelings based on our experience with a person or event, and we take those feelings and make decisions or form opinions about others.

Prejudice is a two-sided fence. On one side of the fence is the person who holds the prejudice. And on the other side is the person against whom the prejudice is held. The important thing to consider, and what I think is often missing today, is that it is the responsibility of both individuals to change the prejudice, sometimes even more so up to the person against whom the prejudice is cast. Prejudice is a kind of ignorance, and ignorance must be unlearned, or re-taught. Who better to re-teach?

But instead of unlearning or re-teaching, we call “racist!” We see it everywhere these days: “Gotcha! Gotcha! Gotcha!” But it gets us nowhere.

Though I can’t deny racism exists, according to the definition above, few are truly racists. Just because we disagree politically, does not make either side racist. Just because we can’t agree on policy, does not make either side racist. Just because we don’t understand a person or culture, does not make us racist. Ignorant prejudice—though also wrong—is not racism.

We toss racism around because there is hardly a word more inflammatory or hurtful. But for us to continue to carelessly cry “racist” is to water down the heinous nature of real racism.