Silver Like Dust: One Family's Story of America's Japanese Internment by Kimi Cunningham Grant

Author:Kimi Cunningham Grant [Grant, Kimi Cunningham]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Biography
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 2012-01-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

THE TRADITIONAL JAPANESE SYSTEM FOR ARRANGING A marriage was complicated, so my grandmother’s decision to say yes to my grandfather was only the first in a series of steps leading to a wedding. First, both of my grandparents had to choose a representative, someone who could attest to their good character and respectability. Obaachan selected an older couple from Los Angeles, folks who had known her all her life and who were also interned at Heart Mountain. The couple paid a formal visit to my grandfather and assured him that Obaachan was a moral person from a solid family. Had Ojichan’s parents been around, they would have been part of the conversation. Likewise, my grandfather found someone at the camp who was willing to speak to Obaachan and her parents on his behalf. He asked John Tamura, who was a “block manager” and an esteemed person at Heart Mountain, to serve as his representative. John Tamura was older, closer to Obaachan’s parents in age, and his broad shoulders and straight back gave the impression of someone with dignity and authority. Also, Obaachan’s parents had known him back in Los Angeles, which gave him that much more credibility in their eyes. They knew he was not simply some guy whom my grandfather had paid to speak on his behalf. They trusted Tamura’s judgment. After Ojichan had been formally represented by Tamura, he had to approach Obaachan’s parents himself and ask for their blessing.

Obaachan explains this system to me as we stand outside her house, in the courtyard, right after her radiation appointment. She pauses to inspect the two tomato plants she bought a few weeks earlier, kneeling and running her fingers along the slender branches and over the soft, furry leaves. A few tomatoes, still green, have grown to the size of golf balls. She pulls the planter a foot farther away from the house, out of the morning shade and into the direct sunlight. She squints, whispering to herself—she does this sometimes, to organize her thoughts, I think, but maybe also because she has lived alone now for over a decade and has learned to fill the silence with her own voice. After a moment she stands up, pulls her keys from her pocket, and walks to the front door.

“So you’d really only known Ojichan for, what, four or five months before you two were married?” I say as we step inside. I slip out of my shoes and place my purse on the floor beside me. My eyes slowly adjust to the dim lighting inside. To minimize the cost of air conditioning, Obaachan keeps the blinds closed, so it’s dark in the house compared to outside in the courtyard.

She removes her red-and-tan Easy Spirit shoes in the foyer, shuffles into the kitchen, and flips on the light. “I’m not sure. Maybe seven months, maybe eight,” she calls to me.

I can imagine how my own parents would have responded if, at twenty-one, I had announced I was going to marry someone I’d only known for a few months.

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