I shouldn’t have been surprised by the display. After all, this was an event to commemorate the day. But the headlines aroused a deep feeling of distress and humiliation that I thought was gone. I felt like I was caught naked in the spotlight of shame. The rush of childhood memories was released into my consciousness with a feeling of overwhelming degradation. I was transported back to December 7, 1941 and filled with the emotions of that time. I was the nine-year-old, once again. I quickly took a seat and hoped no one noticed me. I wanted to hide. Actually, I wanted to leave. I felt like an intruder at a family gathering. Like the murderer at the wake of the victim. I definitely didn’t feel like a member of “the family.”
On the other hand, I was an invited guest who had accepted an invitation. My deep-rooted sense of obligation, no matter how misguided, tugged against my impulse to remove myself from what I now perceived, a hostile environment.
My impulse to leave began to prevail. I decided on an escape route and was about to get up, when a young woman approached me. They aren’t ignoring me, I thought. I was wrong. A “welcomer,” at last!
“Is this seat taken?” she asked.
I was sitting in an empty row. “No, it isn’t.”
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you a member here?”
“No, I’m not. Are you?”
My heart sank. She was not a member, either. But as she spoke, her warmth and kindness helped me to relax. She obviously had chosen to sit next to me because I was alone and perhaps because I was the only person in the room with a Japanese face.
She had heard about the program from a friend. She lived in the neighborhood and had young children. We found that we had each sent our children to the same pre-school, though, of course, not at the same time. We became engrossed in easy conversation.
The person in charge of the event, my friend, eventually took her place in the front of the room. It was fifteen minutes after the appointed time.
“I apologize for the delay,” she began. “One of our invited speakers has not yet arrived. . . . Oh, there you are!” she said as she looked toward the door. She was just walking in. “I was worried you might not make it! I guess we can start now that everyone is here.”
Well, I guess she knows I’m here, too, I thought. And she chose not to acknowledge me. My paranoia returned and was now firmly in place. I concluded that she had deliberately ignored me.
“I’d like to begin by welcoming all of you, and thank you for giving up your Sunday afternoon to attend this gathering. I’d like particularly to express my appreciation to our speakers,” she said.
“The format will be rather informal. I’d like to have you speak from your seats and tell us what you were doing when Pearl Harbor was bombed.”
The first speaker was a navy veteran who was in the Pacific at the time, though not at Pearl Harbor. He spoke of the anxiety he felt having been at sea at the time, not certain if they would be attacked as well. It was a moving account of a sailor awaiting his inevitable duty to engage in battle.
The second speaker was an American who was in China with her parents at the time of Japan’s attack. She related how her father was arrested by the Japanese who were occupying China at the time. Their family was detained as well.
The third speaker, an American whose family was visiting Japan, told how they, too, were detained by the Japanese.
Now I felt I was being held responsible for Japan’s treatment of these people as well.
A voice interrupted my thoughts. “Jeanette? Jeanette? We’d like to hear your story now.”
“Jeanette has a special story to tell.” I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and it was “my friend.”
I rose from my seat and turned to face the audience
“My name is Jeanette Arakawa,” I heard myself say,“and I was personally responsible for Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor. I was nine years old at the time.”
“At least that’s how I’ve felt all my life.”
Then I found myself enveloped in an amazing calm. It was as though I had finally confronted a monster long embedded in me and expelled it. I felt ready to go on.
* * *
An article appeared on the editorial page of the local paper the following day. The headline read, “I WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE ATTACK ON PEARL HARBOR—I was 9 years old at the time.”
When I told my mother, she said:
“I wouldn’t say things like that, Jeanette. People might believe you.”
HOW THIS BOOK CAME TO BE
I began writing narratives late in life. Although my early adult years were dedicated to multicultural issues and education, it was not until retirement that my writing shifted from essays to personal stories. I began keeping logs of my travels and wove them into narratives to share with friends. To my surprise, they found the stories entertaining. This prompted me to take a creative writing course through the Stanford Continuing Education Program. I was in my sixties at the time.
My first teacher, a Wallace Stegner Fellow, asked to speak to me after class one day. I had submitted two short stories. The first was about a bank robbery in which I am shot and have a near-death experience. The second was based on my World War II experience.
“Did this really happen?” the teacher asked as he threw his hand in the direction of my assignments.
“Are you asking if I’ve ever been shot during a bank robbery?”
He was in his thirties and had been raised on the East Coast. He was totally unaware that Japanese Americans living on the West Coast were incarcerated during World War II! He persuaded me to further elaborate and develop the story into a book for others like himself. Not insurmountable. During my years of volunteering in schools and other venues, I had assembled anecdotes that I had shared from which I could draw. He offered assistance. Unfortunately he left to study in France.
The following year, it was my good fortune to have another great teacher. Under his guidance, I continued to add to my story. That semester, there were a number of creative writing classes, and instructors were permitted to select two of their students to do readings at Stanford’s Pigott Hall. My instructor selected me to be one of the speakers! In my wildest dreams, I would not have imagined that my humble attempt would be chosen. Whatever the reason, this little old lady was given the encouragement needed to continue her project.
Many years have passed since those days at Stanford. In the period that followed, my husband Kiyoto, son Doug, granddaughter Skylar, my brother George, Kiyoto’s sister Yasuko, and editors Christopher White, then Sally Barlow-Perez were inspirations to me to sustain the flow of my creative juices.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to begin by thanking you for your interest in my story. I hope you were able to find some shared threads in it. I am also grateful to all others whom I have encountered during these eighty-four years of my life including my parents, brother, and extended family of my youth, as well as my husband, two sons, granddaughter, and extended families of my adulthood. My gratitude also extends to all the communities, groups, and individuals who have been my source of encouragement, strength, and support at various periods in my life.
Among the many groups and communities who helped me regain my self-confidence after WWII are the following: the Shin Buddhist temples, the Palo Alto Unified School District and PTAs; the Sequoia JACL; Asian Americans for Community Involvement; Parents’ Nursery School; the Nueva Learning Center; Medaka no Gakko; Stanford Hospital Spiritual Care Volunteers; the Japanese American Museum of San Jose: and the 2019 World Buddhist Women’s Convention Committee.
Also, I would be remiss not to take advantage of this unique opportunity to thank those individuals whose names happen to remain in sharp focus against the misty collage of faces in my memory, serving as surrogates for my countless mentors . . . to name a few: my incredibly faithful and tolerant friends of over fifty years, Eimi Okano, Margaret Abe, and Cyd Hatasaka (fellow Rohwer interne
e), the Hiura family, Rebecca Morgan, Jean Ames, John Martin, Ruth Lundy, Tsukasa Matsueda, June Matsueda, Yutaka Kawazoye, Marie Bryant, Barbara Holman, Liz Mallory, Kay Phillips, Ami Doi, Kiyo Nishiura, Charles Kubokawa, Dr. Harry Hatasaka, Floyd Kumagai, Rev. Keisho Motoyama, Evelyn Motoyama, Glenn Kameda, Joyce Miyamoto, Marjorie Nakaji, Patti Tomita, Rev. Kakuyei Tada, Mrs. Tamiko Tada, Yaeko Hirotsuka, Agnes Kuwano, Linda Kameda, Rev. Hiroshi Abiko, Misaye Abiko, Alice Fukushima, Amy Yoshida, Dr. Allan Seid, Mari Seid, Paul Sakamoto, Ed Kawazoe, Helen Tao, Mike Honda, Virginia Debs, Annabel Jensen, Linda Stoney, Mary Laycock, Janice Carr, Dr. Taitetsu Unno, Alice Unno, Reiko Kameda, Janet Kameda, Laurie Mann, Otis Haschemeyer, Doug Dorst, Rev. Will Masuda, Kiyo Masuda, Ann Okamura, Father John Hestor, Don Gee, Meg Suzuki, Sherri Kawazoye, Dr. Nobuo Haneda, Tomoko Haneda, Steve Kaufman, Christine Blaine, Don Bender, Michael Rimkus, Noor Karr, Rev. Masako Sugimoto, Kazy Taga, Lois Takaoka, Terrie Masuda, Mike Kaku, Jimi Yamaichi, Aggie Idemoto, Leila Meyerrhatkin, Grace Ikeda, Bishop Kodo Umezu, Rev. Ron Kobata, Rev. Michael Endo, Carol Tao, Hiroko Tsuda, Janice Doi, Sumi Tanabe, Janet Umezu, Susan Bottari, Karen Suyama, Denise Montgomery, JoAnn McClennan, Jin Kaku, Peggy Okabayashi, Lois Kashiawase, Fusako Takahashi, Yumi Hatta, and Rev. Dean Koyama.
Presently, Teresa Chan, Gary Sakamoto, Rhonda Pierce, Celine Wong, Lisa Choy, Sharon Espar, Joy Chrisis, Linda Koyama, Yoko Yanari, Pamela Tom Swarts, and Mae Chen uplift the spirit and confidence of this aged person in their midst.
To you the reviewers of my book, I am deeply grateful for devoting very precious time from your busy schedules to read and evaluate this humble work.
But were it not for the ultimate encouragement and persuasion of Dr. Satsuki Ina (producer of the PBS documentary “Children of the Camps”) my story would have remained a dead file in my computer. Without my Stanford Continuing Education Wallace Stegner Fellow teachers, the file would not have been conceived. And thanks to Peter Goodman, Michael Palmer, and Linda Ronan of Stone Bridge Press, The Little Exile lives.
In gratitude,
Jeanette S. Arakawa
JEANETTE S. ARAKAWA was born in San Francisco, California to Japanese immigrants. Between 1942 and 1945, during World War II, she was part of a diaspora that took her to Stockton, California, Rohwer, Arkansas, and Denver, Colorado. She returned to San Francisco in 1946. Jeanette and her husband, Kiyoto, have two sons and a granddaughter. Over the years Jeanette’s devotion to educational issues has permitted her to share her experiences in the classroom as well as other forums. She continues to be an active member of her temple. Writing, line dancing, taiko (Japanese drumming), and singing occupy the spaces available in her busy life. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.
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