Lines We Draw: a Story of Imprisoned Japanese Americans by Camellia Lee

Author:Camellia Lee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUVENILE FICTION / Historical / Military & Wars / People & Places / United States / Asian American / Social Themes / Prejudice & Racism
Publisher: North Star Editions
Published: 2019-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

June 5, 1942

Dear Diary,

My name is Sumiko Adachi.

I live in Block 227, apartment 10-A in the Poston Relocation Center in Poston, Arizona.

My prisoner number is 22816-C.

Never mind that they call this place a relocation center. Make no mistake: I am in prison. The government says I am not a citizen anymore. I am a “non-alien.”

Here’s the truth: I am an American citizen, stripped of my constitutional rights. I am a prisoner in my own country. I sleep on a canvas cot under which is a suitcase with my life’s belongings, a change of clothes, a notebook, and a pencil. Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. What will happen to me and my family?

Sumiko

Clang! Clang! Clang! A sharp sound, like a rock hitting something metal, broke through the gray dullness of the room.

Sumiko ran to the door to see what all the commotion was about. People were hurrying back in the direction of the front gate.

“Time for chow! Mess hall,” one of them said.

The last thing Sumiko wanted to do was eat. She hadn’t had an appetite since she woke up this morning.

Her mama and papa were at her side now.

“We better go get some food. I don’t know when they’ll offer it next,” her father said.

Sumiko thought back to their last dinner at home and choked back tears. She stepped outside in a half daze and followed her parents and the other prisoners down a long path, past five or six rows of barracks.

In the drab and dark interior of the mess hall, she saw silhouettes of a few helpers busily moving back and forth. The whole place had a strong smell of mutton stew. It made her nauseated.

At about five o’clock, the cook banged on the back of an aluminum pan with a smaller skillet; the first call for supper. Servers behind the counter dished out stew and rice. A few kids wrinkled their noses. Sumiko pushed her misery and homesickness away and joined her parents, who were helping to fill teapots and water pitchers.

When the work was done, her family got in line for their supper. They found a spot at a far table against the wall to eat. After a whole day of snacking on their prepared snacks, it felt good to Sumiko to sit down with her parents and eat together. She scooped the white rice untouched by the stew into her teacup. To her surprise, it tasted good. But it wasn’t the same as her mother’s cooking.

Sumiko looked around, surveying the room. There are more people here than I thought. The mess hall was like the other barracks except that it was not partitioned into separate rooms. It was hot and had an overwhelming and unappetizing smell that was almost suffocating.

Mama tried to joke with Sumiko about some sashimi for the rice, but Sumiko couldn’t make herself crack a smile. The leftover bread with milk and raisins wasn’t bad, but she couldn’t tolerate the mutton. Mama must have thought the same thing. She hated to waste food, but she hardly touched it.

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