Here's Where It Gets Interesting - Resilience: Only What You Can Carry

Episode Date: October 10, 2022

On today’s episode of Resilience: The Wartime Incarceration of Japanese Americans, Sharon talks about the military’s limitations on “enemy aliens” both before and after President Roosevelt’s Executive Order 9066. Japanese Americans were forced to scramble. They didn’t know the specifics of what was coming next, but they knew that everything was changing rapidly. Military police flooded into West Coast cities, curfews were enacted and enforced, businesses were forced to close indefinitely, and families were told to start packing up only what they could carry with them. Joining us today is Professor Lorraine Bannai and author Kimi Cunningham Grant who reads from Silver Like Dust. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hi friends, welcome. Welcome to another episode in our series, Resilience, the wartime incarceration of Japanese Americans. As the military sprung into action, executing new limitations on quote unquote enemy aliens, both before and after President Roosevelt's Executive Order both before and after President Roosevelt's Executive Order 9066, Japanese Americans were forced to scramble. They didn't know the specifics of what was coming next, but they knew that everything was changing rapidly. The military flooded into West Coast cities.

Carfues were enacted and enforced. Businesses forced to close indefinitely. Families were told to start packing up only what they could carry with them. I'm Sharon McMahon, and here's where it gets interesting. For some of us, one of our earliest exposures to the incarceration of Japanese Americans was when we read Farewell to Manzanar, a memoir written by Jean Wakatsuki. When Jean was seven, her family was forcibly removed from their home in Ocean Park, California, and held in Manzanar during the war. It's a book that's sometimes used as assigned reading in middle school and high school, and one of the early scenes has always stuck with me.

The Wakatsuki family is sorting through their belongings, having been given 48 hours to pack up to be shuffled, along with dozens of other families in their neighborhood, to temporary accommodations, and from there to an incarceration camp. Jean writes, the secondhand dealers had been prowling around for weeks like wolves, offering humiliating prices for goods and furniture they knew many of us would have to sell sooner or later. Mama had left all but her most valuable possessions in Ocean Park simply because she had nowhere to put them. She'd brought along her pottery, her silver, had nowhere to put them. She'd brought along her pottery, her silver, heirlooms like the kimonos Granny had brought from Japan, tea sets, lacquered tables, and one fine old set of china, blue and white porcelain, almost translucent. On the day we were leaving, Woody's car was so crammed with

boxes and luggage and kids, we had just run out of room. Mama had to sell this china. One of the dealers offered her $15 for it. She said it was a full setting for $12 and worth at least $200. He said $15 was his top price. Mama started to quiver. Her eyes blazed up at him. She had been packing all night and trying to calm down Granny, who didn't understand why we were moving again and what all the rush was about. Mama's nerves were shot and now Navy jeeps were patrolling the streets. She didn't say another word. She just glared at this man. All the rage and frustration She just glared at this man, all the rage and frustration channeled at him through her eyes.

He watched for a moment and said he was sure he couldn't pay more than $17.50 for that china. She reached into the red velvet case, took out a dinner plate, and hurled it to the floor in front of his feet. Mama took out another dinner plate and hurled it at the floor, then another and another, never moving, never opening her mouth, just quivering and glaring at the retreating dealer with tears streaming down her cheeks. It's hard to imagine the stress and the anxiety and the fear that rippled through the Japanese-American community as they faced increasingly strict orders that limited their freedoms. The U.S. Treasury Department began to freeze the assets of any Ise who were born in Japan, and the Department of Justice rounded up and arrested almost 1,500 Japanese American community and religious leaders.

They were afraid that these men, who held positions of influence, would give commands to their followers to plan acts of sabotage against the United States. But neither the FBI nor the military, both government agencies that did extensive digging into the backgrounds of Japanese Americans, found any acts of conspiracy, espionage, or sabotage. Japanese Americans were citizens, and many were fiercely proud to be Americans. Jimmy Sakamoto wrote an editorial in the Japanese American Courier saying, This is our country. We were born and raised here, have made our homes here. We're ready to give our lives

if necessary to defend the United States. About two weeks before President Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, the U.S. Army mapped out designated restricted areas, and any enemy alien inside the restricted area was required to observe a curfew and not travel more than five miles away from their homes. An enemy alien in this instance referred to all persons of Japanese, German, or Italian descent, but most of these restricted areas were racially targeted, like the little Tokyo neighborhood in Los Angeles. On March 29, 1942, under the authority of Roosevelt's executive order, General DeWitt issued his fourth public proclamation, which began the forced evacuation and detention of Japanese American West Coast residents with a 48-hour notice.

Only a week earlier, on March 21, Congress had passed Public Law 503, which made violation of Executive Order 9066 a misdemeanor. Anyone who violated the order could be punished with up to a year in prison and a $5,000 fine. The majority of Japanese Americans on the West Coast began to comply immediately. Store owners were forced to sell their merchandise at incredibly low prices, and those financial losses meant that many were never able to fully recover in the years following their incarceration. What Nisei remembers, people who were like vultures swooped down on us, going through our wares and belongings, offering us a fraction of their value.

When we complained to them about the low price, they would respond by saying, you can't take it with you, so take it or leave it. Another says, it's difficult to describe the feeling of despair and humiliation experienced by all of us as we watch the Caucasians coming to lure over our possessions and offering such nominal amounts, knowing we had no recourse but to accept whatever they were offering because we didn't know what the future held for us. And yet Japanese-American merchants taped signs to their closed shop doors, thanking their customers for their patronage. One said, hope to be serving you in the near future. God be with you until we meet again.

But like we saw in Farewell to Manzanar, while Japanese Americans complied, even as they were taken advantage of, many showed small acts of bravery, resilience, and resistance. Japanese American activist Ernest Iyama, who helped establish the Oakland chapter of the Japanese-American Citizen League, remembered how greatly farmers suffered during this time. He said, most farmers borrow money at the beginning. They buy seed and they have to hire people. And then when they get the crop, they sell it and they pay off all their debts. These farmers, they planted their things, but they were evacuated before the crops came out. So they had to leave it. And some of them were so mad.

I knew some lettuce farmers who poured kerosene on the lettuce and just burnt them because they were so mad and they didn't want to leave it for anybody. Let's hear from Professor Lorraine Benai to hear more about the reactions of japanese americans as they begin to leave their homes behind unsure of their futures it was a japanese american community it was a vulnerable community the immigrants could not vote they were not citizens so there was no culture resistance and secondly And secondly, how could they resist? They were confronted with military orders enforced at bayonet point. And so the other thing to keep in mind is that there was an organization called the Japanese American Citizens League at the time

that was an organization that said it spoke for Japanese Americans on a national level. And it decided to take a stance of cooperation and compliance to show that Japanese Americans were loyal citizens and to not make waves about it. And so they encouraged Japanese Americans to go to show their loyalty. So that's one aspect of the compliance. The other aspect is you're being ordered to leave. The only thing you can think about is getting your children out, packing your things up. You know, I mean, the whole idea of protest was not possible at the time. The other thing I would add to that is that there were no organizations protesting either. So you didn't even have organizations supporting Japanese

Americans. So how could you resist? So as far as the people who did resist, there were a few people who decided not to comply with the military orders. There were three men. One was Min Yasui. He was a 22-year-old lawyer in Portland, Oregon, who went out the day the curfew orders came down with a copy of the curfew order in his hand and walked the streets of Portland looking for someone to arrest him. When an officer found him, the officer told him to go home and run along and not make trouble. So Min turned himself in to create a test case against the curfew orders. in to create a test case against the curfew orders. Gordon Hirabayashi was a student at the University of Washington when he decided to test the curfew orders, and he was arrested and convicted. And Fred Korematsu was a welder in Oakland, California, who defied the removal orders,

and all three men took their cases up to the U.S. Supreme Court. So there were these challenges to the orders through the means of defying them and getting arrested. Even though many complied, it doesn't mean that there wasn't anger and resentment and depression and fear and all of those things that went along with it. So the myth of compliance hides so much of the actual experience. I'm Jenna Fisher. And I'm Angela Kinsey. We are best friends. And together we have the podcast Office Ladies, where we rewatched every single episode of The Office with insane behind the scenes stories, hilarious guests and lots of laughs. Guess who's sitting next to me? Steve! It's my girl in the studio! Every Wednesday, we'll be sharing even more exclusive stories from The Office and our friendship with brand new guests.

And we'll be digging into our mailbag to answer your questions and comments. So join us for brand new Office Lady 6.0 episodes every Wednesday. Plus, on Mondays, we are taking a second drink. You can revisit all the Office Ladies rewatch episodes every Monday with new bonus tidbits before every episode. Well, we can't wait to see you there. Follow and listen to Office Ladies on the free Odyssey app and wherever you get your podcasts. We'll hear more about the Supreme Court cases Professor Benai mentioned in another episode,

but I do want to underline the important role the JACL played in relaying a message of compliance to their fellow Japanese Americans. Many families were in shock. They were afraid. Their neighbors threw rocks into their windows and looked at them with disgust. Military police patrolled their neighborhoods. They were not given much room for resistance. The JACL began to rally and encourage the community. They believed that their compliance would be seen as a sign of their loyalty to the United States and recognized that families and individuals needed someone to tell them that things would be okay. Mike Masaoka, who wrote the JACL's creed,

gave a public interview saying, we are preparing our people to move out. We want them to go without bitterness, without rancor, and with the feeling that this can be their contribution to the defense of the United States. We seek to make our people look at this movement as sort of an adventure, such as our fathers and mothers undertook when they came to this country. Many Japanese Americans have since talked about the fact that Japanese culture itself kept many from resistance and complaints. The culture places great emphasis on the samurai spirit, which embodies a philosophy of tranquility and acceptance. When challenges or difficulties arise, many Japanese were taught endurance without complaint.

A formerly incarcerated Japanese-American later explained to a government panel, to the Japanese, complaining is like breaking a samurai code. Ever since we were small, we were drummed with shumbo and gammon. The meaning of those two words is forbear, no matter what happens. So the majority of the Japanese Americans on the West Coast walked with dignity into the unknown, wearing a tag with a government issued number and carrying only what they could fit into a suitcase. Here's Kimi Cunningham Grant again reading from her book Silver Like Dust. Kimi's grandmother was a teenager when her family was removed from their Los Angeles home. Obatjen chuckles as she remembers something. What I recall being the most anxious about was the packing was the toiletries

part. We thought about sanitary napkins and we were terrified by the prospect of running out. We bought hundreds of them. She and the two cousins went out and bought large pieces of canvas and then sewed them into giant sacks. They filled each one with sanitary napkins, stuffing it with as many thick white pads as they could. We didn't know if we'd be able to She continues speaking about her grandmother's experience in leaving the city. Finally, buses with armed military police pulled up. Standing outside the bus, gripping their rifles and looking straight ahead, the police ordered everyone aboard. At this point, still not knowing where they were headed, hundreds of people filed into those buses, obedient, quiet. Nobody resisted, Obachan remembers. I think people had

the mindset that this was what we could do to help. We loved America just like everyone else, and if this was the way we could serve our country, we were willing to do it. We saw it as our duty. As a caravan of buses drove through the city of Los Angeles that April day, people stopped to stare. Some pointed and a few yelled, you don't belong here, hollered a middle-aged man. Dirty chaps, shouted a young girl. This is what you deserved, yelled a mother, holding her infant son to her chest. Even though my grandmother had always lived in, and was quite accustomed to, a country that resented her race, even though she had seen all the headlines and heard the radio reports with their accusations and assumptions, she had never felt so despised

as she did riding through Los Angeles that April afternoon. She was ashamed to be Japanese. She was ashamed to be American. She was ashamed to be Japanese. She was ashamed to be American. Let's return for a moment to John Iso, the young Nisei who, before the war broke out, had been a rising academic star from Los Angeles. His path took a different course than many West Coast Japanese Americans who were registered with numbers

and sorted into groups to be taken to temporary incarceration centers. A few years after he graduated from Harvard Law School and established his own successful law practice, he was drafted into the U.S. Army. Even with his impressive education and career, Aiso's first assignments were menial. He was an activeuty private and spent much of his time doing vehicle maintenance. But soon, ISO's Japanese language talents were spotted by Colonel Weckerling, who had been tasked with hastily organizing a school that would train men and officers in Japanese language and military intelligence. It was the summer of 1941, and though the bombing of Pearl Harbor didn't happen until December, Japan's movements in the Pacific pointed to the inevitability of war. With a budget of $2,000, the Military Intelligence Surface Language School was established in San

Francisco. John Iso became its chief instructor. At first, John wasn't convinced that the position was right for him, but he was moved to accept after Wackerling told him, John, your country needs you. The school formally opened on November 1, 1941, just a few short weeks before the outbreak of war in December. Once the forced removal of Japanese Americans from the West Coast to incarceration camps began, the language school was transferred from San Francisco to Fort Snelling in Minnesota and was placed directly under the watch of the Army's Military Intelligence Division. However, it was John as the director who was responsible for the development and implementation of the program,

director who was responsible for the development and implementation of the program, and at a time when distrust and racism against Japanese Americans was at an all-time high, he was under a lot of pressure to make sure that the school was a success. He rose to the challenge. Under his direction, the program rapidly expanded. After his first class graduated and deployed in May of 1942, the school was flooded with requests to train more specialists. As the war moved from months to years, ISO oversaw the entire operation. By the end of the war in 1945, the Military Intelligence Service Language School and its 150 instructors produced over 6,000 military intelligence specialists. General Charles Willoughby, who served as the chief of intelligence during the war, stated that the school's men shortened the war by two years and saved a million lives.

As I mentioned in our last episode, before evacuees were moved to incarceration camps outside of Military Area 1, they were sent by bus or train to temporary assembly centers. There were 18 centers in total in cities like Portland, Oregon, Mayor Arizona, Puyallup, Washington, and Sacramento, California. These centers were nothing more than fairgrounds or racetrack stables. The center in Portland was literally a set of stables on the Pacific International Livestock Exposition Fairgrounds. The military had fortified these places by adding high guard towers and searchlights,

and by placing barbed wire around the grounds. Guards stood around the entrance and the perimeter. An observer was sent to write a report on one of the temporary camps for the government, and the report read, the guards have been instructed to shoot anyone who attempts to leave the center without a permit and who refuses to halt when ordered to do so. The guards are armed with guns that are effective at a range of up to 500 yards. At the beginning, the incarcerated Japanese Americans had been told that they would only be held at these temporary camps for a few days. But those days stretched on, turning into weeks, and in many cases, months. It took the military time

to build the long-term incarceration camps, and most were not ready until the late summer and fall of 1942. This meant that people continued to be held in the roughest of conditions, sleeping on cots or mattresses in horse and cattle stalls that had only recently been evacuated by animals. in horse and cattle stalls that had only recently been evacuated by animals. Lines for meals would sometimes take three hours to wait through, and people were fed hash, beans, and hot dogs, a far cry from the diet of fresh food that many Japanese Americans had been eating before they were removed from their homes. Even more humiliating than sleeping in horse stalls and waiting in line with a tin plate for a serving of beans was the lack of privacy when showering and using the bathroom. The showers were cold and communal, and there were often no toilets in the

temporary incarceration centers. People were forced to use latrine ditches that were dug into the ground. Many women avoided relieving themselves during the day and resorted to the cover of night in order to give themselves some semblance of privacy. On weekends, one Nisei remembered, white people would come and look at us from the outside as if we were people in the zoo. By the time the Japanese Americans were told they were finally leaving the temporary camps, many felt relief. They didn't know exactly what they'd find in the long-term incarceration camps that awaited them, but they hoped that they would be larger, better-run centers where they could start to feel human again. And while the incarceration camps that awaited them were in some ways larger and less crude than the temporary ones they were

leaving, the hopeful Japanese Americans were placed on buses that set off for some of the harshest and most desolate land in America. Thanks for being here today, friends. I will see you next time. Thank you so much for listening to Here's Where It Gets Interesting, and I'm wondering if you could do me a quick favor. If you enjoyed this episode, would you consider leaving us a rating or review or sharing a link to it on your social media? All of those things help podcasters out so much. Here's Where It Gets Interesting is written and researched by executive producer Heather Jackson. Our audio engineer is Jenny Snyder, and it's hosted by me, Sharon McMahon. See you again soon.