Document – Excerpt from Yoshiko Uchida, Desert Exile: The Uprooting of a Japanese American Family (1982)

Document

I continued to attend classes at the university hoping to complete the semester, but the Nisei population on campus was dwindling rapidly. Already rumors of a forced mass “evacuation” of the Japanese on the West Coast were circulating, and many Nisei students hurried home to various parts of California to avoid separation from their families. Others returned because they had to take over the businesses and farms abruptly abandoned when their fathers had been seized and interned.

I wasn’t aware of any violence against the Japanese in Berkeley, but there were many reports of terrorism in rural communities, and the parents of one of my classmates in Brawley were shot to death by anti-Japanese fanatics.

One evening when some friends and I were having a late snack at a Berkeley restaurant, we were accosted by an angry Filipino man who vividly described what the Japanese soldiers were doing to his homeland. His fists were clenched and his face contorted with rage. Fortunately, he had no weapon, and he left after venting his anger on us verbally, but he had filled us with fear. It was the first time in my life I had been threatened with violence, and it was a terrifying moment.

We were already familiar with social and economic discrimination, but now we learned what it was to be afraid because of our Japanese faces. We tried to go on living as normally as possible, behaving as other American citizens. Most Nisei had never been to Japan. The United States of America was our only country and we were totally loyal to it. Wondering how we could make other Americans understand this, we bought defense bonds, signed up for civilian defense, and cooperated fully with every wartime regulation. …

My sister and I were angry that our country could deprive us of our civil rights in so cavalier a manner, but we had been raised to respect and to trust those in authority. To us resistance or confrontation, such as we know them today, was unthinkable and of course would have had no support from the American public. We naively believed at the time that cooperating with the government edict was the best way to help our country. …

We knew it was simply a matter of time before we would be notified to evacuate Berkeley as well. A five-mile travel limit and an 8:00 p.m. curfew had already been imposed on all Japanese Americans since March, and enemy aliens were required to register and obtain identification cards. Radios with short wave, cameras, binoculars, and firearms were designated as “contraband” and had to be turned in to the police. Obediently adhering to all regulations, we even brought our box cameras to the Berkeley police station where they remained for the duration of the war.

We were told by the military that “voluntary evacuation” to areas outside the West Coast restricted zone could be made before the final notice for each sector was issued. The move was hardly “voluntary” as the Army labeled it, and most Japanese had neither the funds to leave nor a feasible destination. The three of us also considered leaving “voluntarily,” but like the others, we had no one to go to outside the restricted zone.

Some of our friends warned us to consider what life would be like for three women in a “government assembly center” and urged us to go anywhere in order to remain free. On the other hand, there were those who told us of the arrests, violence, and vigilantism encountered by some who had fled “voluntarily.” Either decision would have been easier had my father been with us, but without him both seemed fraught with uncertainties. …

Each day we watched the papers for the evacuation orders covering the Berkeley area. On April 21, the headlines read: “Japs Given Evacuation Orders Here.” I felt numb as I read the front page story. “Moving swiftly, without any advance notice, the Western Defense Command today ordered Berkeley’s estimated 1,319 Japanese, aliens and citizens alike, evacuated to the Tanforan Assembly Center by noon, May 1.” (This gave us exactly ten days’ notice.) “Evacuees will report at the Civil Control Station being set up in Pilgrim Hall of the First Congregational Church . . . between the hours of 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. next Saturday and Sunday.”

This was Exclusion Order Number Nineteen, which was to uproot us from our homes and send us into the Tanforan Assembly Center in San Bruno, a hastily converted racetrack.

All Japanese were required to register before the departure date, and my sister, as head of the family, went to register for us. She came home with baggage and name tags that were to bear our family number and be attached to all our belongings. From that day on we became Family Number 13453.

Although we had been preparing for the evacuation orders, still when they were actually issued, it was a sickening shock.

“Ten days! We have only ten days to get ready!” my sister said frantically. Each day she rushed about, not only taking care of our business affairs, but, as our only driver, searching for old crates and cartons for packing, and taking my mother on various errands as well.

Mama still couldn’t seem to believe that we would have to leave. “How can we clear out in ten days a house we’ve lived in for fifteen years?” she asked sadly.

But my sister and I had no answers for her.

Mama had always been a saver, and she had a tremendous accumulation of possessions. Her frugal upbringing had caused her to save string, wrapping paper, bags, jars, boxes, even bits of silk thread left over from sewing, which were tied end to end and rolled up into a silk ball. Tucked away in the corners of her desk and bureau drawers were such things as small stuffed animals, wooden toys, kokeshi dolls, marbles, and even a half-finished pair of socks she was knitting for a teddy bear’s paw. Many of these were “found objects” that the child in her couldn’t bear to discard, but they often proved useful in providing diversion for some fidgety visiting child. These were the simple things to dispose of.

More difficult were the boxes that contained old letters from her family and friends, our old report cards from the first grade on, dozens of albums of family photographs, notebooks and sketch pads full of our childish drawings, valentines and Christmas cards we had made for our parents, innumerable guest books filled with the signatures and friendly words of those who had once been entertained. These were the things my mother couldn’t bear to throw away. Because we didn’t own our house, we could leave nothing behind. We had to clear the house completely, and everything in it had either to be packed for storage or thrown out.

We surveyed with desperation the vast array of dishes, lacquerware, silverware, pots and pans, books, paintings, porcelain and pottery, furniture, linens, rugs, records, curtains, garden tools, cleaning equipment, and clothing that filled our house. We put up a sign in our window reading, “Living room sofa and chair for sale.” We sold things we should have kept and packed away foolish trifles we should have discarded. We sold our refrigerator, our dining room set, two sofas, an easy chair, and a brand new vacuum cleaner with attachments. Without a sensible scheme in our heads, and lacking the practical judgment of my father, the three of us packed frantically and sold recklessly. Although the young people of our church did what they could to help us, we felt desperate as the deadline approached. Our only thought was to get the house emptied in time, for we knew the Army would not wait.

Organizations such as the First Congregational Church of Berkeley were extremely helpful in anticipating the needs of the panic-stricken Japanese and provided immediate, practical assistance. Families of the church offered storage space to those who needed it, and we took several pieces of furniture to be stored in the basement of one such home. Another non-Japanese friend offered to take our books and stored more than eight large cartons for us. In typical Japanese fashion, my mother took gifts to express her gratitude to each person who helped us. …

By now I had to leave the university, as did all the other Nisei students. We had stayed as long as we could to get credit for the spring semester, which was crucial for those of us who were seniors. My professors gave me a final grade on the basis of my midterm grades and the university granted all Nisei indefinite leaves of absence.

During the last few weeks on campus, my friends and I became sentimental and took pictures of each other at favorite campus sites. The war had jolted us into a crisis whose impact was too enormous for us to fully comprehend, and we needed these small remembrances of happier times to take with us as we went our separate ways to various government camps throughout California.

The Daily Californian published another letter from a Nisei student that read in part:

We are no longer to see the campus to which many of us have been so attached for the past four years. . . . It is hoped that others who are leaving will not cherish feelings of bitterness. True, we are being uprooted from the lives that we have always lived, but if the security of the nation rests upon our leaving, then we will gladly do our part. We have come through a period of hysteria, but we cannot blame the American public for the vituperations of a small but vociferous minority of self-seeking politicians and special interest groups. We cannot condemn democracy because a few have misused the mechanism of democracy to gain their own ends. . . . In the hard days ahead, we shall try to re-create the spirit which has made us so reluctant to leave now, and our wish to those who remain is that they maintain here the democratic ideals that have operated in the past. We hope to come back and find them here.

These were brave idealistic words, but I believe they reflected the feelings of most of us at that time. …

The night before we left, our Swiss neighbors invited us to dinner. It was a fine feast served with our neighbors’ best linens, china, and silverware. With touching concern they did their best to make our last evening in Berkeley as pleasant as possible.

I sat on the piano bench that had been in our home until a few days before and thought of the times I had sat on it when we entertained our many guests. Now, because of the alarming succession of events that even then seemed unreal, I had become a guest myself in our neighbors’ home.

When we returned to our dark empty house, our Norwegian neighbors came to say goodbye. The two girls brought gifts for each of us and hugged us goodbye.

“Come back soon,” they said as they left.

But none of us knew when we would ever be back. We lay down on our mattresses and tried to sleep, knowing it was our last night in our house on Stuart Street.

Neat and conscientious to the end, my mother wanted to leave our house in perfect condition. That last morning she swept the entire place, her footsteps echoing sadly throughout the vacant house. Our Swiss neighbors brought us a cheering breakfast on bright-colored dishes and then drove us to the First Congregational Church designated as the Civil Control Station where we were to report.

We were too tense and exhausted to fully sense the terrible wrench of leaving our home, and when we arrived at the church, we said our goodbyes quickly. I didn’t even turn back to wave, for we were quickly absorbed into the large crowd of Japanese that had already gathered on the church grounds.

It wasn’t until I saw the armed guards standing at each doorway, their bayonets mounted and ready, that I realized the full horror of the situation. Then my knees sagged, my stomach began to churn, and I very nearly lost my breakfast.

Hundreds of Japanese Americans were crowded into the great hall of the church and the sound of their voices pressed close around me. Old people sat quietly, waiting with patience and resignation for whatever was to come. Mothers tried to comfort crying infants, young children ran about the room, and some teenagers tried to put up a brave front by making a social opportunity of the occasion. The women of the church were serving tea and sandwiches, but very few of us had any inclination to eat.

Before long, we were told to board the buses that lined the street outside, and the people living nearby came out of their houses to watch the beginning of our strange migration. Most of them probably watched with curious and morbid fascination, some perhaps even with a little sadness. But many may have been relieved and glad to see us go. …

As we rode down the highway, the grandstand of the Tanforan racetrack gradually came into view, and I could see a high barbed wire fence surrounding the entire area, pierced at regular intervals by tall guard towers. This was to be our temporary home until the government could construct inland camps far removed from the West Coast.

The bus made a sharp turn and swung slowly into the racetrack grounds. As I looked out the window for a better view, I saw armed guards close and bar the barbed wire gates behind us. We were in the Tanforan Assembly Center now and there was no turning back.

Review

1. 1) How did the evacuation order effect the Uchida family and other Japanese American families? What did they need to do to comply with the order?

2. 2) How did non-Japanese Americans treat Japanese Americans after the war broke out?

3. 3) How did the United States government justify the internment of Japanese Americans? Was it just to deny American citizens their rights during wartime?