Page 17 of The Magic of Ordinary Days

Lately I’d been reading everything I could put my hands on about Japanese American internment.

Our former governor, Ralph Carr, was one of the only politicians who had been bold enough to welcome and defend Americans of Japanese descent.

It hadn’t been a popular stance, and some people even thought it had cost him the last election.

The Denver Post expressed bigotry toward anyone of Japanese descent.

One of their editors constructed a large effigy of a Japanese man complete with monkey face, whereas the Rocky Mountain News had been more open-minded, even pointing out to readers that Americans of German descent hadn’t been singled out.

In truth, I think the common man and woman in Denver had given little thought to the struggle of Japanese Americans.

As long as large numbers of Japanese hadn’t moved into their own neighborhoods, as long as nothing suspicious occurred, the average citizen went on with his or her life unaffected.

I drove on, swerving past trucks that rumbled up and down the roads, past fields swarmed with workers.

With the harvest in full swing, most everyone was engaged in the effort to provide food for others.

I remembered what Ray had said to me about pleasure driving, and a bit of guilt pinched me.

Of course it was wrong of me. Perhaps if I could conduct some business along the way?

I couldn’t give up this time with Rose and Lorelei.

I wanted to learn as much as I could about them, and without driving, how would I continue to get to know them?

I told the girls I needed to stop at the grocery store, but in the end, I bought only a loaf of bread.

Most farmers’ wives considered it lazy to buy bread in the store, but the opposite logic appealed to me.

Why bake something that could so easily be bought?

My preferences in shopping leaned toward ease of preparation, and already my blue point coupons for buying canned and processed foods were running low.

We drove on to Rocky Ford, a farming community that looked huge compared to Wilson.

Named for the safe crossing point on the Arkansas River it had provided pioneers, it had become well-known for cantaloupes, watermelons, and honeydews.

We managed to buy some of the last of the fall crop at a roadside stand.

Later, we stopped for gasoline and sodas in the town of Swink, and as the girls and I relaxed around the truck in the sunshine, a conversation nearby caught my attention.

I saw a man talking to the attendant while a woman waited for him inside their car.

I thought I recognized the couple from church, but wasn’t altogether certain.

The man glanced up at me once, but he seemed unsure if he recognized me, too.

A minute later, he showed his R coupon card to the attendant and paid him, then he began to walk in my direction.

He kept moving my way until his expression changed. He stopped walking.

At first I thought he was reacting to the slacks that all three of us wore.

Not long ago, even some men in Denver wouldn’t give women wearing slacks a seat on the streetcar.

But then I saw the true reason for his displeasure.

As he looked over Rose and Lorelei, something not kind crossed his face, the same look I had often seen when Negroes entered a nice restaurant in downtown Denver.

The man apparently changed his mind about coming over to speak to me.

Instead, he turned on a stiff heel and walked the other way.

Rose and Lorelei kept on sipping their sodas as if nothing had happened. Surely they had noticed. But I didn’t know—were they able to dismiss it? Or perhaps had they become so accustomed to prejudices that it no longer found a way to pierce their reserve?

I tried to converse and keep on smiling, but I found myself unable to fathom the source of that man’s displeasure.

Daily, Japanese evacuees worked diligently and pleasantly in the farmlands around us.

I had heard Ray and Hank both comment on the quality of the Japanese interns’ work and how much they wished to please.

On their occasional days off, those at Camp Amache were allowed to venture away from the camp, and all of them returned voluntarily.

I had often wondered why Rose and Lorelei were staying in the camp and putting up with all of this.

The release of some college students from camps had begun as early as 1942.

The Nisei were allowed to leave camps and resettle in any of forty-four states if they so chose, the only requirements being sworn loyalty to the U.S.

and gainful employment. But the questionnaire required of them contained some tricky wording, and even with war jobs plentiful, most remained in the camps.

Now the very thing I had just witnessed gave me my answer.

Perhaps the intolerance and prejudice I had just seen kept them in confinement together, in the somewhat sheltered isolation of the camp.

As we leaned against the side of the truck, I found myself studying my friends’ faces.

So much alike and yet so different, just like my own sisters and me.

Lorelei became more beautiful every time I saw her, but Rose’s face had become beautiful to me, too.

The sunlight danced off their hair like shine on black patent leather shoes.

Always their posture was perfect, their exotic faces reflected composure, poise, and grace.

Rose looked back at me in a different way.

She set down her Coke bottle and started talking in a changed tone.

“I was on my way to take a final in English lit,” she said.

“It was in 1941, before Pearl Harbor. A woman stopped me to ask me my views about Emperor Hirohito. And when I told her my views would be no more valuable than those of any other student, that I had never lived under his rule in Japan, she thanked me for my time, and we each went on our own way.”

Lorelei stopped drinking as Rose continued. “It was a pleasant conversation. But for me, it was a preview of things to come, like a prologue to a book I was someday going to have to read, although I’d not have chosen it for myself. She saw me as Japanese, nothing else. Certainly not American.”

“We left school even before the evacuation notices went up,” said Lorelei.

“When they did, I was almost relieved.”

“Well, I wasn‘t,” countered Lorelei.

Now I could see it. Despite the poise, I could see the suffering in their eyes.

I tried to think of something to say, but what?

The leaders of our country had determined that Japanese American presence in the coastal states posed a threat to national security.

Loyalty had been questioned, and with so many lives and secrets at stake, perhaps most people felt that Congress had made a prudent decision.

But I had begun to think they had reacted hastily and irresponsibly toward good citizens.

After all, except for the American Indians, we were all immigrants or descendants of immigrants.

I longed for the right words to explain that for which there was no explanation.

“It isn’t you they dislike. For some people .

..” I thought for a minute. “For a lot of people, it’s difficult to separate those of you living and working over here from the enemy overseas.

Those people probably aren’t naturally hateful, just ill-informed.

They tend to group all persons of a certain creed or nationality together in one category. It isn’t right, but still they do it.”

“We are the enemy,” said Lorelei.

I sighed. “Of course you’re not.”

“We are Japanese.”

“You were born in this country.”

Lorelei shrugged. “No matter. We look Japanese, the same face as the enemy that bombed Pearl Harbor.”

“Look,” I said, “many others believe as I do. That a person’s individual accomplishments and personality are what matter. I believe we’re beginning to see a shift in this country, starting with our generation. In the future, these problems will get better.”

Lorelei and Rose finished the last of their sodas, whereas mine turned warm in the bottle.

As I stood there, new thoughts showered me with sharp pebbles.

In Denver, there had been just as many divisions.

I had grown up attending an all-white and affluent church, my father’s.

But in the city, there had also been Negro churches and Mexican churches, and never once did we join together for activities or socials.

Soldiers were routinely segregated in the services, and there was even a separate USO for Negro soldiers located in the Five Points area of Denver.

Even on the university campus, my friends and I had been a pasty collection who stood for equality for all, but did we really embrace it?

I asked, “Have you ever considered leaving the camp? Have you considered moving to Denver, going back to college, or getting a factory job?”

“We could never leave our parents and grandparents,” said Rose.

“They’re Issei,” said Lorelei. “They aren’t free to go.”

Lorelei leaned around her sister to look at my face. “Would it be any better in Denver? Would others find us acceptable there any more than they do here?”

“In the city, there are more people of various views.”

Lorelei asked in a louder voice, “But would it truly be any different?”

My shoulders fell. “Probably not.”