Japanese American internment centre

THE FORTUNATE SON: Casualties of war and my initial introduction to hate crimes and racial injustice

Last updated: April 9th, 2019

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Author’s note

“The Fortunate Son” series is a compilation of memories and recollections of my parents’ lives prior to my birth and after their adoption of me in 1968. It’s derived from my encounters with them and includes both personal and mutually shared memories culled from a history stretching 40 to 45 years prior to my existence. It’s not exactly a history, but a recalled memoir of sorts, attempting to convey what life was like for my parents between the 1920s and 1960s (as remembered, however hazily, from the conversations I’ve had with them).

The “Assembly” centres

In the aftermath of Pearl Harbor, U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt had issued Executive Order 9066, ordering the relocation of Japanese Americans living on the West Coast who were then considered a security risk. By late March 1942, General John L. DeWitt began issuing military proclamations, including Civilian Exclusion Orders expelling “all enemy aliens” and specifically, “persons of Japanese ancestry.”

Within a month, hundreds of Japanese internees were forced to leave all property and possessions behind but that which they could carry with them. They were taken to “Assembly” centres throughout California. The detainees, totalling nearly 100,000 Californians of Japanese descent who’d been removed from their homes and livelihoods, were transported inland to permanent camps like Manzanar in the shadow of the Sierra Nevadas.

blue Japanese bellflowerGrowing up across the street from survivors of this bitterly cruel and shameful period of history, I have an idea of just how deeply the sense of injustice, loss and betrayal was felt. It haunts the victims and their descendants to this day.

Our neighbours, the Mitsuokas

The Japanese bellflower, known for its large balloon-shaped blossoms of blue, pink or white is harvested for the medicinal value of its tuberous, ginseng-like root, which is used as an anti-inflammatory to treat pain and ills throughout Asia. Our Japanese neighbours always grew these in their yard. This is a beautiful flower, typically harvested in its second or third year, and it’s known to offer many of the same benefits as the popular ginseng.

Original homeowners like my parents, Hideaki and Saro Mitsuoka were my family’s close friends and neighbours. They were also survivors of almost three years of internment at Manzanar in the Owens Valley, east of Lone Pine, California. Mr. Mitsuoka had written a book about his experiences in the internment camp and my parents kept a copy on the living room coffee table.

I’ve seen the pictures Ansel Adams produced during his visit to the camp in 1943—quite a departure from the inspirational images of his signature-style landscape photography. I’ve also visited Manzanar myself, and felt the cold winds sweeping down the Eastern Sierras onto the lonesome desolation and beautiful terror of that valley. The place is real. And, certainly, it’s a stark reminder of that disquieting period within America’s past.

Mr. Mitsuoka was a wise and contemplative man with a sage-like presence, who spoke in the kind of slow, hushed tones capable of drawing people in. He worked as an engineer for the McDonnell Douglas Corporation in Long Beach, California. As a boy, I hung around him on a regular basis whenever I noticed he was outside washing his car or tending the gardens in his yard. He didn’t seem to mind and would often offer me a warm Coke from his garage.

His wife, Saro, would always have something for me to eat, usually Japanese food that was both satisfying and delectable—stir-fried chicken or tempura and rice. Always rice. Saro’s dishes of white and brown “gohan” served as my introduction to authentic Japanese fare and, I believe, were the first rice meals I’d ever eaten, not counting Rice Krispies, Uncle Ben’s and the Minute Rice back over at our house. Her cookies were scrumptious, too. She always had my favourites on hand: sweet chinsuko or “Okinawa” cookies.

Saro and her husband were both good people and exceptional parents. Their kids, all grown, were valedictorian types. Their eldest son was a graduate of Annapolis (also known as the U.S. Naval Academy) and a pilot in the U.S. Navy, while their daughter was a graduate of UCLA‘s medical school and a pediatric surgeon. George, their youngest boy, was studying computer science at MIT.

The Mitsuokas were good neighbours: consistently friendly and upbeat, and always offering positive messages. Their home was an ideal place for a young boy to hang out. They taught me a few Japanese words, too, including the phrase “Shikata ga nai“—meaning “It can’t be helped,” similar to the English saying, “There’s no use crying over spilt milk.” They believed that continuing on after a setback came with its own kind of strength and reward. For them, perseverance was power.

Koi fish in a pondMr. Mitsuoka had a Siberian Husky named Kody, and kept a pond of mesmerizing koi fish in a solarium in the backyard, from which the scent of flowering jasmine, azaleas and camellias emanated. The care of all these creatures was entrusted to me in his absence. I’d been shown how to feed the koi, some of which I was told were older than me, and I observed how koi fish will recognize the hand that feeds them, as they gathered near the pond’s edge whenever I was present.

The reticulated net patterns of the bronze Chagoi were stunning as they swam in a docile manner near the surface. They were friendlier than the white and orange splotched Kohaku, which kept their distance in the shallow depths. A solid silver Soragoi swam anciently among them, the doyen of the pond. These koi, too, were survivors—self-preservationists that would steer an ill fish to the edge of the pond so that their keeper would take notice. I’ve since learned that koi, if properly cared for, live for an average of 50 to 70 years. Some have been known to live for well over 100 years!

Upon meeting my biological father Ed Corrigan, many years later, it was both interesting and somewhat reassuring to discover that he also maintained a koi pond on his property.

The Mitsuokas rarely spoke of their difficult past. I didn’t know about it until I read Mr. Mitsuoka’s book, which was a transformative experience for me at the age of 12. Their story was my initial introduction to the idea of hate crimes and racial injustice. The fact that the Japanese were different, yet the same on a very real and human level wasn’t lost on me. I quickly came to understand that bad things could happen to good people, and that horrible truth hit me on a visceral level.

My parents both cried when they said goodbye to the Mitzuokas, who moved away during my senior year of high school.

Japanese American internment centreLove and a sense of loss

Having fought against a deeply feared Japanese enemy entrenched in the hills of Okinawa in the final battle of the Second World War, my father probably never understood how so much hatred could be generated against someone like the soft-spoken and gentle-mannered Hideaki or his demure wife Saro. The absurd madness of it all must’ve been almost too much to take in.

However, my Dad rarely lost his composure. He was John Wayne to the end, modelling courage, inner strength and dignity. He was a real hero and an absolute role model in my eyes, and he remains that, to an even greater extent, now. To this day, no one has really been able to live up to the standard that he set.

When the Mitsuokas moved away, this was one of those few times Dad did break his poise, and one of the rare moments at which I’d ever see him cry. I think his tears had more to do with the love and the sense of loss that these good people represented, both then and years before in the Pacific, than the move itself. The inner turmoil he must have felt due to that loss, along with the greater inhumanity of the war, had to have weighed heavily on him.

An example of all that’s good in the world

Our neighbours, the Mitsuokas, really did exemplify all that was good in the world, and they did so with an integrity and an heroic humility that was awe-inspiring. At the same time, they also symbolized the brutal and savage cruelty that is, sadly, also part of our world.

Whenever I see a Japanese bellflower, which is rare, I think of them. Unfortunately, it seems that people of their dignity and calibre just can’t be found anymore.

Read the previous article in this series, THE FORTUNATE SON: A memoir of my loving adoptive parents»

[su_panel background=”#f2f2f2″ color=”#000000″ border=”0px none #ffffff” shadow=”0px 0px 0px #ffffff”]Michael Seeger is a poet and educator residing in the Coachella Valley near Palm Springs, California. Prior to his life as a middle school English instructor, he worked as a technical writer for a baseball card company and served as a Marine Infantry Officer during Desert Storm.

images: 1. Pixabay 2. Pixabay 3. Pixabay 4. Dorothea Lange [Public domain] via Wikimedia Commons