Willard had seen him hatch out, the point of his beak fracturing the shell and the chick feathers drying off into something that looked to Willard like milkweed spore. Later, when the adult plumage had turned brown, Willard saw how an iridescence began to spread down the neck, across the wings, over the top of the head, and when he touched it the first time, he thought it would feel wet, but it didn’t. Later in the month, he saw the rooster stretch his yellow legs and run faster than he, Willard, could.
When the rooster was eight months old, Mañuel started training him to fight. Once a week for eight weeks he wrapped the bird’s beak and leg spurs with white tape, weighed him, and put him in the portable ring with one of Tony’s birds and let them spar for fifteen minutes, after which Willard was allowed to feed and water them.
The ninth Saturday, Mañuel emerged from the house with his best white shirt and a red cotton scarf tied tightly around his neck. He didn’t tape the rooster’s beak or spurs, but instead covered him with a gunny sack and told Willard to hurry with the evening feeding. Then he lifted the portable ring into the back of his pickup, and they drove to the place under the railroad bridge by the river where the cliff looked green.
The other men were already there—Tony, Mañuel’s oldest son, and Chico, Pedro, Pete, Miguel, and the ones Willard didn’t know, cousins and nephews of the others. The ground had already been swept clean of rock and the lanterns lit, throwing the shadows of the men and the fighting cocks across the water, and Willard wondered how they had grown so big, and why they were not carried away by the current.
Tony’s rooster was gray-white with black streaks in its wings, and long plumage at the crown. Its red comb had been trimmed and the shorter feathers down its legs and under its wings had been plucked, and Willard could see the bird’s bare skin and the way it shook from the cold. The bird’s head moved in short jerks and his lidless yellow eye fastened on one thing, then another.
Mañuel and his son held their two birds up off the ground, facing each other, and when Chico saw the second hand of his stopwatch point straight up, he said, “Go,” and the men dropped the birds into the little ring.
Then Willard thought something had happened to time, because he couldn’t feel its passing. All the minutes—fifteen of them—that it took for the birds to go at each other, squawking and jumping and pecking, shrank as if the beginning and the end of the match had become the same thing.
Amid human shouting, the birds lifted and fell, springing straight up and coming down at each other, sharpened spurs first. The gray and white cock pecked viciously at Drumstick’s shoulder, then he struck back with his claw and came down on his opponent beak-first. Once, Mañuel lifted both hands to the sky and made a sound, a howling prayer. The cocks lunged again, and Willard thought that each surge of human sound brought another bead of blood onto the neck feathers of the rooster. The two birds jumped away from each other, wings half-lifted, until the brown rooster’s spur came down and stuck deep in the other’s neck and blood spilled from the jugular onto the ground.
Willard saw that the little piece of tape Mañuel always had stuck to the side of his nose had come loose. It flapped up and down as he fell to his hands and knees at the edge of the ring, eye level with the two birds. Sound rolled out of his throat like something passing over ball bearings, and the white rooster fall sideways. Chico stood over the bird. Its gnarled yellow feet jerked and shook. Willard saw Mañuel step into the ring and snatch up the brown rooster and hold him over his head in victory.
As usual, the tequila bottle was passed, but passed to Willard first, because it was Willard’s cock and Willard’s victory. He thought how sometimes the fighting roosters had looked like McKay and the woman that day by the falls.
As soon as Mañuel put the bird into Willard’s arms, time began again. The rooster’s warmth penetrated his thin windbreaker, as did the blood from the cut by the bird’s eye. Willard made cooing sounds only the bird could hear.
When he felt the ground shake he looked up and saw the light from a train’s engine telescope forward and bury itself in the green cliff above the river. A spray of sparks streamed down from the wheels as the train flew over their heads, and the rooster’s wings lifted against his arms in fright.
McKay helped Chico lift the portable ring into the back of Mañuel’s truck while the other men settled their bets. All the money that had been bet on Tony’s cock was handed to Mañuel, who told them to give it to Willard, and after, Willard felt them shove the green paper into his overall pockets and then pass the tequila around again. Then the men started up the gravel sidehill to their trucks, and Willard saw Tony carry his dead rooster upside down by the feet. Its neck felt like rubber when Willard touched it.
Mañuel and Porfiria’s kitchen smelled of food cooking. Mañuel took the brown rooster from Willard’s arms and set him on the Formica table. He told Porfiria to bring him the sewing kit, which meant the needles and catgut thread, and he and Chico held the bird down while Mañuel made two stitches above the eye. After he let the rooster down on the floor, Porfiria covered the table with pots of food—chile verde, sopapillas, tortillas, frijoles, tamales, and enough plates and silverware for everyone who had been at the fight.
She asked Willard to sit at the head of the long table, the place of honor where Mañuel usually sat, then everyone ate, laughing and retelling each detail of the fight. Willard tore a tortilla into small pieces and fed it to Drumstick on the floor.
“That bird, he likes la cena Mexicana,” Pedro said in a voice that sounded like singing. When the dog came in, he sniffed the rooster and the bird pecked his nose.
After dinner Willard took Drumstick to the yard where the cages were. The bird tilted his head so his lidless eye met Willard’s hooded one, then craned his neck and crowed.
Willard filled the containers made of cut-off soup cans with water and feed. The rooster drank thirstily. Then Willard pulled the loose money he had won from his overall pockets, all the time making a rolling “Rooo, rooo” sound. He shredded the green bills into narrow strips and laid them on the bottom of the cage; they looked like green feathers. The rooster eyed him, cocking his head, then settled down on the new bed. Willard smiled. It was a warm night, and in every direction he could hear water moving and in the distance another train shook the green cliff by the river.
33
During the last week of February 1944, Ben and I began staying up all night once a week to put out our bulletin:
FAIR PLAY COMMITTEE—ONE FOR ALL—ALL FOR ONE
It began: “The Fair Play Committee was organized for the purpose of opposing all unfair practices that violate the constitutional rights of the people.…”
As I cranked the handle of the mimeograph machine, paid for with dues collected from FPC members, I thought of what Kenny would do if he walked in the door right now. I’m still in a state of shock. First I had no brother, then I had one and loved him, then he turned on me. Losing Li, giving up my studies were nothing compared to this. Losing what you’ve had only momentarily is a more bitter pill.
When my arm wore out, Ben took over and I went outside and smoked. Abe-san said of Kenny’s and my quarrel: “If you run after freedom you won’t find it.” Then he made me clean out my room, from top to bottom. Mom came home from her class in ikebana and found my bed and clothes and radio outside on the ground. “Are you going away now?” she had asked stoically, and I laughed. “No, just cleaning.” She thought I had gone mad. When I restored order to my room, Abe-san slipped in and whispered: “You have to start at emptiness and go in the direction of emptiness.”
I went back inside to spell Ben. As I cranked and cranked I tried to stop the continuous drumming sound of the machine and start again with no sounds or thoughts, but I failed. Ben and I had worked hard on the bulletin and when we had a pile of four hundred copies in front of us, we sat down and read it over again:
Bulletin 4. We, the Nisei, have been complacent and too inarticulate about the unconstitutiona
l acts that we are now subjected to. If ever there was a time or cause for decisive action, IT IS NOW! We, the members of the Fair Play Committee, are not afraid to go to war—we are not afraid to risk our lives for our country. We would gladly sacrifice our lives to protect and uphold the principles and ideals of our country as set forth in the Constitution and Bill of Rights for on their inviolability depends the freedom, liberty, justice, and protection of all people, including Japanese-Americans and all other minority groups. But were we given such freedom? No. Without any hearings, without due process of law as guaranteed by the Constitution, without any charges filed against us, without any evidence of wrongdoing on our part, 110,000 innocent people were kicked out of their homes, literally uprooted from where they have lived for the greater part of their lives, and herded like dangerous criminals into concentration camps with barbed wire fences and military police guarding them. AND THEN WITHOUT RECTIFICATION FOR THE INJUSTICES COMMITTED AGAINST US AND WITHOUT RESTORATION OF OUR RIGHTS WE ARE ORDERED TO JOIN THE ARMY THROUGH DISCRIMINATORY PROCEDURES INTO A SEGREGATED COMBAT UNIT. Is that the American way? No!
WE MEMBERS OF THE FAIR PLAY COMMITTEE HEREBY REFUSE TO GO TO THE PHYSICAL EXAMINATION OR TO THE INDUCTION IF OR WHEN WE ARE CALLED IN ORDER TO CONTEST THIS ISSUE. We are not being disloyal. We are not evading the draft. We are all loyal Americans fighting for justice and democracy right here at home.
Despite our efforts, on February 28, seventeen men showed up for their preinduction physical. That surprised me. I thought we had allayed any fears of reprisal—the one the administration announced: arrest for sedition. Our legal stand is this: If the existence of the Camps is unconstitutional, then drafting Nisei out of the Camps is illegal as well.
Now it’s March. Yet I have no feeling of spring or of time passing. My old happy-go-lucky Camp life is a thing of the past. No more sake, no more girls, no more sulking late in the morning abed. Ben returned his mother’s washtub—the one he had been using to make sake. “We might as well be monks,” he said, but I could see he loved the work and loved using his legal mind again.
I try to apply what Abe-san tells me to these daily activities, to work with great energy, to avoid narrow-mindedness. Sometimes I feel a sudden lightness, a sense of well-being that is different from gloating—then it goes and I’m my old self again. “No you aren’t,” Abe-san insists. Then he thumps me on the chest and says, “It’s okay.”
Mariko is bemused by my unexpected industry. She’s always working too and we rarely see each other, except in passing.
March 5. I quit the Sentinel this morning. Nothing the editor said could have kept me there.
To be associated with the paper is to be connected with the JACLers, the Yes-Yes boys who believe that the only way to prove our loyalty is to let ourselves be drafted straight out of the Camps.
Got a job at the tofu factory. What a change for me. Have to get up at 4:00 A.M. There are two huge round stones, one on top and one on the bottom, and a big crank which we turn to grind the soybeans into a mash. After it sets up, we put it into sacks and deliver it to the mess halls for the noon meal. Then we’re off for the day.
When Abe-san found out, he laughed at me. “Got off your high horse, huh?” he said. Mom and Pop are proud. But of what? Getting up early.
March 23. The Powell Draft Board reported that 53 out of 315 evacuees have refused to report for the preinduction physical examination so far. Attorney Carl Sackett in Cheyenne has issued warrants against them. MPs broke into the FPC president’s room, arrested him, and sent him to Tule Lake.
Ben and I decided to make a test case out of the constitutionality of being detained in these Camps. Things are coming to a head now and we’ll need evidence if and when this goes to court. On the morning of March 23, Ben “went for a stroll.” He walked through the sentry gate, right past the guards without a pass. I watched from a distance. The dumb guards didn’t even see him, which doesn’t help prove our point, but so it goes. Ben said that if he got through he’d spend the night in Cody and come back the next day, voluntarily returning to Camp.
That night I lay on my bed and wondered what he was doing. Probably getting drunk, but maybe not. Feeling lonely, I went next door to find Mariko but she was gone, and Abe-san was snoring.
Ben returned in the morning. He said he stayed at the Irma Hotel and ate at the Mayflower and didn’t get drunk or laid. He went to the movies but the projector broke during the newsreel and they couldn’t get it going again. He brought me a present—a new notebook for my journal keeping. When he announced to the MPs that he had left the Camp without authorization, they didn’t believe him at first. After checking with the office, they found his statement was true, detained him for a few hours, then let him go, subject to further interrogation. But in the meantime, the guards caught hell.
Just to drive our point home, I attempted a similar stunt today. But the guards stopped me. “Where is your pass?” they demanded. “I don’t have one,” I said. “You’re supposed to have them to get out,” the MP said. “But we’re American citizens,” I protested. “I can’t let you out,” he said and took me into the guardhouse.
They kept me for two days. It was kind of cramped but I enjoyed the change of scenery. The guards turned out to be good guys. They shared cigarettes, cookies, and candy, and we played some good games of poker. One of them took a note in person to Mom and Pop, assuring them that I was okay, and when Mariko came back from wherever she had been—probably McKay’s—they let me talk to her.
I also had a chance to try out Ben’s and my ideas regarding the Constitution on the average Caucasian-American. It took a while, but they gradually came to see the logic of it, even though they refused to turn me loose. “But if you really understood, you’d act on it,” I insisted, though I knew I wasn’t in the company of idealists. “We need our jobs,” they said and that was all.
On April 4, Ben and I were escorted to the Camp director’s office. He’s still as ruddy-faced as ever, almost jovial, but he didn’t look amused that day. What came next was a kangaroo court, a mock trial, and it made the whole question of who had power over whom and the ways power might be abused very clear.
ROBERTS: Which of you is … Kai Nakamura?
ME: I am.
ROBERTS: Will you read the charge, Mr. Horn!
HORN: It is alleged in this complaint that on the twenty-ninth day of March 1944, you attempted to leave this center, to pass through the gate, without a pass or permit.
ME: If this is going to be a trial, I would rather have an outside attorney represent me. Just when he will come down I don’t know.
ROBERTS: You know we have to try these cases within forty-eight hours. You understand, Kai, I am only trying you on a project charge. You have violated a project regulation; you know that. There isn’t anything complicated about what I am going to do. If you can prove you had some …
ME: Here is the reason I did that, Mr. Roberts. As far as guilty or not guilty goes, I personally believe I am not guilty because I am an American citizen and I wanted to find out how far my rights went. I wanted to find out how long I could be detained here against my will.
ROBERTS: I understand that. You are supposed to obtain a pass before you can go through the gate. Lieutenant Kellogg is supposed to apprehend anyone who goes through without a pass. As to your rights in the matter, that will be taken care of later. If I can prove that you violated a project regulation, it is up to me to assess a penalty regardless of your rights in the matter.
ME: In other words, Mr. Roberts, you imply that you have more power than is set forth in the constitutional Bill of Rights?
ROBERTS: No, Kai, I have the power to do what I am doing.
ME: Then I contend what you are doing is against the rights I have as an American citizen.
HORN: You have known as a matter of fact that you cannot leave this Camp without a permit or pass though?
ME: No, I don’t.
HORN: How long have you been in the center?
ME: About two years.
HORN: How old are you?
ME: Twenty-eight.
HORN: You have a high school education?
ME: Yes.
HORN: College education?
ME: I’m a Ph.D. candidate.
HORN: I would like to ask you one other question. You attempted to leave the area without a project pass the twenty-ninth. Where were you going?
ME: I had no particular place in mind.
ROBERTS: If you are thoroughly convinced in your mind that it is an order that you can’t go in and out without a pass are you willing to obey that order!
ME: If that order is declared legal by the Supreme Court and if it is constitutional, I will obey. I will abide by anything the Supreme Court says because that is the law of the land.
ROBERTS: I don’t want to deprive you of your constitutional rights to test the law. You have a perfect right to do that, but as long as that regulation is in force it is my duty to enforce it. That is my job. They would fire me tomorrow if I didn’t do it.
ME: Another thing that may have motivated me to stroll out there is the fact that as American citizens we are being pulled into the army just as any other American citizen would be so I didn’t think there was any restriction.
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