Ripper J. American Stories: Living American History. Volume 2: From 1865

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AMERICAN STORIES

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passed “alien land laws,” which stated that resident aliens could not own

property. Because of the government’s ongoing adherence to the Naturaliza-

tion

Act of 1790, ﬁrst-generation Japanese (issei) residents stayed permanent

“

aliens” ineligible for citizenship. Recognizing the antagonism of many other

Americans to their presence, the issei and nisei (American-born, second-

generation) Japanese were careful and conspicuous to demonstrate their

genuine loyalty. Organizations like the Japanese American Citizens League

(JACL) upheld patriotism and American values as the guiding virtues of all

Japanese-Americans. Most of the Japanese on the West Coast were successful

farmers, applying techniques of intensive agriculture learned in land-scarce

Japan; Japanese farmers typically produced crop yields of twice the volume

that their Anglo counterparts managed. Resentment followed the beanstalks

and snap peas of their prosperity, adding to the dislike and mistrust they al-

eady inspired. When the war came, resident-alien issei and their nisei children

wanted to help, to participate, to sacriﬁce for their home just as many other

Americans were preparing to do. After Pearl Harbor, about 9,500 Japanese men

on Hawaii immediately volunteered for armed service, and more than 1,100

lined up for service from inside the concentration camps in early 1943.

Eight

percent of married women in the United States had a husband serv-

ing

in the military. Another 350,000 women joined the armed services, of

whom 1,000 served in the Women’s Airforce Service Pilots (WASPs), ﬂying

every plane in production, delivering bombers from Boeing to deployment,

and even pulling targets behind their tails while novice artillery recruits took

target practice from the ground. Sixteen percent of working women toiled

in war factories, symbolized by their larger-than-life poster sister, Rosie the

Riveter, glamorous in her grime. At Boeing, in the Seattle-Everett corridor of

Washington State, nearly half the workforce of more than 50,000 was women,

who helped to roll out “sixteen B-17s every twenty-four hours.”

These real-

life Rosies waved the ﬂag of democracy every day they rose at 5 am, prepared

breakfast for their brood, rode to Boeing on a bus to spend eight to ten hours

riveting B-17 Flying Fortresses, and went home to prepare dinner and do all the

housework. In 1943, when a new long-range bomber, the B-29 Superfortress,

lumbered out of the hangar in Kansas, it quickly developed a reputation for

difﬁcult handling and crashing (once, right into a meatpacking plant where

everyone aboard died). Two WASPs came to the rescue and ﬂew a B-29 nick-

named

“Ladybird” on a “see, it does ﬂy” tour of the country, shaming their

airborne brothers into trusting the Boeing behemoths (one of which became

the Enola

Gay, the plane used to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima). Some

600,000 African-American women worked in defense industries, and another

4,000 were in the military. Black women typically received “the most danger-

ous

jobs in the factories. In airplane assembly plants, black women worked

169

OUT OF THE DEPRESSION AND INTO WAR

in the ‘dope rooms’ ﬁlled with poisonous fumes of glue, while white women

were in the well-ventilated sewing rooms.”

In 1944, women planted about

20 million victory gardens whose every onion, carrot, and cabbage provided

tabletop calories for the cause. In all these cases, patriotism and opportunity

went hand in hand. While women had been asked not to take a job during

the 1930s so that their husbands could have one, now they faced government

posters and short ﬁlms admonishing them not only to get a job fast, but to

avoid selﬁsh smoke breaks because while they were outside hufﬁng smoke,

a “cartridge [could] go through the assembly line uninspected” and lead to

an American GI’s death.

All the beehive activity of war production created more dislocation in

American society than had perhaps ever happened. Teenagers in New York

City had so little supervision while their fathers trained to ﬁght and their moth-

ers

went to work that rates of venereal disease rose by 200 percent in four

years. Idaho actually lost population during the early 1940s as its young men

and women ﬂooded the coastal states for good jobs. A half million African-

Americans left the South and headed to Chicago, Detroit, Seattle, Portland, Los

Angeles, and other cities where segregation was less strict and jobs were more

plentiful. Black people in the West often viewed southern African-American

arrivals as uncouth and uneducated, responding with disdain to their southern

drawl. Kaiser shipyards in seven West Coast locations—the steel-slamming,

rapid-assembly creation of construction mogul Henry Kaiser—advertised for

new employees nationally, offering to pay transportation costs. At the yards in

Portland, which went from nonexistent to employing 100,000 workers nearly

overnight, Kaiser promised to have a new home ready on the employee’s

arrival. Little did the newcomers know they would be living in Vanport, a

cookie-cutter company town whose houses had bedbugs, rodents, thin walls,

and no foundations. Still, the workers had coins jingling in the pockets of

clean trousers and opportunity in every direction they looked.

owever, no wartime dislocation was more intense or, as it turns out,

unconstitutional than the internment of Japanese-Americans like Kazuko

Itoi, who had to prove their loyalty to the nation of their birth—the United

States—by submitting to the loss of their homes, their businesses, their friends,

and their plans by living for months and sometimes years in remote, desolate,

foreboding camps.

The Inter

nment of Monica Sone

Seattle and Japan are about equidistant from Pearl Harbor. While 158,00

Japanese-descended people lived in Hawaii in 1941 (about one-third of

Hawaii’s population), Seattle was home to about 8,000 Japanese and

AMERICAN STORIES

170

Japanese-Americans, a noticeable fraction of the nearly 120,000 on the

West Coast. Monica Sone was born Kazuko Itoi in 1919 in Seattle, where

the issei and nisei population centered in the downtown core of steep streets

leading directly to Puget Sound, with the snow-capped Olympic Mountains

in the distance.

As Monica Sone recalled in her 1953 memoir, Nisei Daughter, “The ﬁrst

ﬁve years of my life I lived in amoebic bliss . . . at the old Carrollton Hotel

on the waterfront of Seattle.”

After brieﬂy studying law in Japan, her father

had come to the States in 1904 to complete his legal education, but he found

the costs too high, so he cooked food on coastal ships, “toiled stubbornly in

the heat of the potato ﬁelds of Yakima,” and eventually ran a dry-cleaning

shop. Almost ﬁfteen years after his arrival and now part of the lively Japa-

nese

community of Seattle, the man Sone simply referred to as “Father” was

overjoyed to hear of an incoming boat full of eligible young Japanese women.

Seventeen-year-old Benko disembarked with her two sisters, all looking “like

exotic tropical butterﬂies” in silk kimonos of royal purple, plum, and blue.

Before long, Mother and Father were married and had saved enough to buy

the Carrollton, which they ran together “a stone’s throw from the bustling wa-

erfront and the noisy railroad tracks.” Tattooed teamsters, marching Salvation

Army formations bugling “Hallelujah” to the poor, and burlesque women with

“carefully powdered wrinkles” added to the hubbub of the neighborhood.

ith a ﬁrst name meaning “peace” and a second name borrowed from Saint

Augustine’s mother, Kazuko Monica Itoi had nearly free run of the grand old

hotel, which catered ﬁrst to army doughboys when the Itois bought it in 1918 and

then to every downtown’s collection of the odd and unnoticed. Until 1942, when

the Itois and all their Japanese friends were ordered to prepare for evacuation to a

relocation center, Kazuko’s days were a jumble of Anglo and Asiatic, her parents

having blended American and Japanese traditions into a melting pot of hot dogs,

hamburgers, and lacquered tea sets. Sacks of rice and jugs of soy sauce were

lined up in the cupboards next to canisters of ﬂour, sugar, and coffee; an “Oriental

abacus board” used for keeping the books resting underneath a “somber picture

of Christ’s face.” For playmates, Kazuko and her siblings romped with other nisei

children and also with “men like Sam, Joe, Peter and Montana, who worked for

Father,” a rough collection of good men who helped police the hotel.

The bliss of earliest childhood was shattered the day Kazuko’s mother an-

ounced that Kazuko would “attend Japanese school after grammar school

every day.” Monica Sone thought back to that moment in the kitchen: “Terrible,

terrible, terrible! So that’s what it meant to be a Japanese—to lose my afternoon

play for hours! I ﬁercely resented this sudden intrusion of my blood into my

affairs.” Like many other children of color in America’s past, Sone grew up

thinking of herself as “Yankee,” not as somehow different, not as Japanese-

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OUT OF THE DEPRESSION AND INTO WAR

American. Her parents’ “almond eyes” had been no different than “one person’s

being red-haired and another black.” She did not understand how she could be a

“Yankee and Japanese at the same time. It was like being born with two heads.”

To her “it sounded freakish and a lot of trouble.” And trouble it would be. From

then on, what black historian W.E.B. DuBois called the “double-consciousness

of race” followed Monica Sone wherever she went. In the late 1920s, when

she was about ten years old, a family steamship trip to far-off Japan taught her

that she was not considered fully Japanese by the people of Japan (due to her

alien, comparatively boyish habits like ﬁst ﬁghting), any more than she was

considered fully American by many Americans. Despite her mostly idyllic

childhood, Monica Sone felt the occasional sting of anti-Japanese bigotry, as

when her family tried to rent a house on Alki beach in Seattle and were told to

their faces, “I’m sorry, but we don’t want Japs around here.” To Monica, that

was like “a sharp, stinging slap.” However, in every case of this sort, her parents

stiffened their shoulders, marshaled their pride, and told their children, “there

are people like that in this world. We have to bear it . . . when you are older, it

won’t hurt quite as much. You’ll be stronger.”

After the bombing of Pearl Harbor and after Germany and Italy declared

war on the United States, some German- and Italian-Americans came under

suspicion of disloyalty, particularly leading members of groups like the Ger-

man

American Bund, a right-wing group that held rallies in Madison Square

Garden with portraits of their idols swaying overhead: George Washington,

Abraham Lincoln, and Adolf Hitler. During the war, more than 250 Italian and

1,300 German “enemy aliens” were incarcerated, as were more than 1,000

Japanese from Hawaii. In these cases, however, it was not the detainees’ ances-

try

or nationality alone that caused their jailing, and each detainee’s case had

received an individual review. But the West Coast Japanese were interned en

masse with no individual screening. Their civil liberties were stripped away.

Japanese-Americans “looked like the enemy” and could be “wiped off the

map”—as General DeWitt put it—without fear of ruining an economy they

were only a small, though noticeable, part of; in Hawaii, massive relocation

would have devastated the economy and wrecked the civil defense network,

of which the Japanese population was a sturdy and trustworthy part, but

on the Coast, Japanese farmers could plausibly be replaced with Mexican-

American braceros. The pervasive attitude that “a Jap is a Jap”—also uttered

by DeWitt—underwrote the feelings of California’s Grower-Shipper Vegetable

Association, which frankly admitted in the May 1942 Saturday Evening Post,

“W

e’ve been charged with wanting to get rid of the Japs for selﬁsh reasons.

We might as well be honest. We do. It’s a question of whether the white man

lives on the Paciﬁc Coast or the brown man. . . . If all the Japs were removed

tomorrow, we’d never miss them in two weeks.”

AMERICAN STORIES

172

For Monica Sone, now twenty two years old, December 7, 1941, started an

intensiﬁed ordeal of racial awareness, ﬁrst at a fairgrounds in Washington and

then amid the winter freeze and summer melt of Camp Minidoka in Idaho,

one of ten internment camps that the U.S. government established from rural

Idaho to rural Arkansas. The Itois were in church practicing Handel’s Mes-

siah when the radio brought news of Pearl Harbor. Kazuko could feel herself

“

shrinking inwardly” from her “Japanese blood, the blood of an enemy.” With

oracular presentiment, she knew that being “American by birthright” would

not help her “escape the consequences of this unhappy war.” During the next

six months, she was cast out of her home, stuck into the “gray, glutinous mud”

of Puyallup, Washington’s county fairgrounds (renamed “Camp Harmony”),

watched intently from high towers by guards armed with tommy guns, and

confused with thoughts of her predicament: “What was I doing behind a fence

like a criminal? If there were accusations to be made, why hadn’t I been given

a fair trial? Maybe I wasn’t considered an American anymore. My citizenship

wasn’t real. . . . Of one thing I was sure. The wire fence was real.”

The next few months were a jostled settling in: nailing together two-by-four

furniture; squeezing into cramped quarters in the wet slop of the fairgrounds,

barbed wire fences ringing her steps; learning to overcome modesty in public

bathrooms not built for anonymity; working for the camp itself, keeping track

of the internees’ pay stubs (almost every adult got a job that paid a pittance);

and receiving an unexpected visit from one of her father’s hotel employees, Joe

Subovitch, who dropped by with nuts and candy bars. From May through August

the Itois lived in Camp Harmony’s barracks with 10,000 other internees. Japanese-

American children were even taken out of orphanages and placed into relocation

centers like Harmony. These people had been given bare weeks to wrap up their

affairs at home, including selling their worldy possessions—often entire houses,

businesses, and furnishings—on the cheap: according to author Robert Asahina,

“The losses would be equivalent to about $6.4 billion in current dollars.”

May’s “quiet hysteria” turned into “one steamy morning” in August when

aged railroad cars bore the Itois and their camp fellows to Camp Minidoka

in the middle of semiarid Idaho. They were greeted by jackrabbits and a dust

storm, the kind that had driven tens of thousands of Okies out of the country’s

barren middle ten years before. Compared to the temperate shores of western

Washington, Idaho’s 110-degree sun made Sone feel like “a walking Southern

fried chicken.” Extra-constitutional as these camps were, they were not totally

lacking in amenities. Schools were started; mess halls had enough food (more

food in the Rowher, Arkansas, camp than the local residents claimed to have);

victory gardens were planted; but old ways of living were largely overthrown.

Friends became family, and family never felt the same. Previous traditions of

eating dinners together gave way to teens at their tables, adults at theirs. Fathers’

173

OUT OF THE DEPRESSION AND INTO WAR

traditional authority was eroded because they made no money, felt little pride,

and were often worn out at advanced ages by the struggle against unusual and

trying circumstances. And though all Japanese-Americans in the camps had

originally been labeled 4-C by the military, “enemy aliens,” that decision was

reversed in early 1943 when President Roosevelt decided that enlisting Japanese-

American men could combat German and Japanese propaganda that depicted

the United States as a land inhabited by hypocritical racists.

Twenty-two percent of the 21,000 age-eligible men in the camps refused to

consider enlisting, the notion seeming preposterous in light of their current cir-

umstances. Hundreds of others signed up after debating which choice would

be most just, which choice would better serve the country and the individual.

Monica Sone heard the arguments, but they affected her less than the War

Relocation Authority’s decision, in early 1943, to begin releasing FBI-cleared

internees back into the United States, either to work or to go to school. By

1945, there were fewer than 80,000 residents still in the camps, and Monica

was one of those who had been freed. She was ﬁrst sent to work for a dentist

in Chicago. But the dentist had a problem with the way “inferior people”

worked, so she decided to ﬁnd a less bigoted boss. Better yet, she enrolled at

Wendell College in Indiana and worked toward a PhD in psychology. In her

second year of studies, Sone returned to Minidoka to visit her parents. The

place was “quiet and ghostly,” the young people having gone to war or work.

As she was leaving to go back to college, her mother said, “We felt terribly

bad about being your Japanese parents,” as though they had burdened their

children with birth. Sone’s reply not only soothed her mother’s feelings but

evidenced the transformation she had made during the whole ordeal: “No,

don’t say those things, Mama, please. If only you knew how much I have

changed about being a Nisei. It wasn’t such a tragedy. I don’t resent my

Japanese blood anymore. I’m proud of it, in fact, because of you and the Issei

who’ve struggled so much for us. It’s really nice to be born into two cultures,

like getting a real bargain in life, two for the price of one.”

Kazuko Monica Itoi Sone’s sacriﬁces were not a matter of choice, and in no

way did her internment help the United States win the war. While Sone did not

legally challenge her incarceration, four other Japanese-Americans resisted one

part or another of the internment process and had their grievances heard before

the Supreme Court (in three instances as the ﬁnal stop in an appeals process).

The court upheld Minoru Yasui’s conviction (June 1943) for violating curfew;

upheld Gordon Hirabayashi’s conviction (June 1943) for both breaking cur-

ew and not reporting for relocation; and upheld Fred Korematsu’s conviction

(December, 1944) for refusing to evacuate a restricted area. But the Supreme

Court did not uphold the conviction of the one woman whose case they heard,

Mitsuye Endo, decided on the same day in December 1944 that they ruled on

AMERICAN STORIES

174

Korematsu’s case. In the case of Endo, the Supreme Court decided that because

she was a loyal citizen, she could no longer be held against her will. Endo’s

release reopened the West Coast to Japanese-Americans and suggested that

exclusion from military areas had been acceptable but incarceration no longer

was. In 1982, the congressionally appointed Commission on Wartime Relocation

and Internment of Civilians found that “not a single documented act of espio-

age, sabotage or ﬁfth column activity was committed by an American citizen

of Japanese ancestry or by a resident Japanese alien on the West Coast.”

Then

in 1984—because of evidence that demonstrated the military had knowingly hid

information from, lied to, and misled the Supreme Court during the 1940s—a

federal judge expunged Fred Korematsu’s 1944 conviction.

The same stoic determination to prove their loyalty and decency that enabled

more than 110,000 wrongfully interned Japanese-Americans to face their in-

arceration with grace also enabled them to return to their old homes or to new

ones and integrate positively into the swell of larger community life. Historian

Howard Droker suggests that “the most important element in the preservation

of civic peace” when the Japanese-Americans internees were resettled back

in Seattle “was the demeanor of the Japanese themselves: their acceptance of

evacuation, their suppression of bitterness, and their quiet determination to

rebuild their lives,”

all attitudes demonstrated by Monica Sone.

Sergeant E.B. Sledge and Shakespeare:

“What a piece of w

ork is a man”

With the exception of ships being sunk off the coasts by Axis U-boats, the occa-

ional shelling from Japanese submarines, and a Japanese incendiary balloon that

landed in Oregon and killed two picnickers, the land of the United States never

underwent invasion or material harm during the war other than at Pearl Harbor.

However, Americans suffered the loss of 405,000 dead men and women who

served overseas in the armed forces during some of the worst ﬁghting the planet

has ever known. President Roosevelt explained America’s participation as a clash

of civilizations: democracy against tyranny, truth against lies, and freedom against

slavery. “Democracy’s ﬁght against world conquest,” Roosevelt called it.

Democracy may offer a good chance at safeguarding individual liberty and

freedom, but democracy is no guarantee against human frailties, particularly

when the democratic process of decision making is muddled by fear and

animosity. With each branch of government and the citizenry playing their

parts, dislike and mistrust led to the mass incarceration of 110,000 Japanese-

Americans, a choice upheld three times during the war by the Supreme Court

when a single Japanese man from each one of the West Coast states challenged

relocation. And according to most accounts, the ﬁghting in the Paciﬁc was

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OUT OF THE DEPRESSION AND INTO WAR

unparalleled for the atrocities and basic meanness evidenced by both Japa-

nese and American forces. The Japanese tortured prisoners of war. American

soldiers lopped off ears from dead “Japs” and knocked out their gold teeth

to keep as souvenirs. In an interview some forty years after the end of the

war, Sergeant E.B. Sledge recalled the state of mind that overcame American

forces in the jungle ﬁghting of the Paciﬁc: “We had all become hardened.

We were out there, human beings, the most highly developed form of life on

earth, ﬁghting each other like wild animals.”

If the human spirit faces its greatest struggles under duress—torn by con-

ﬂicting impulses to ravage and yet to preserve—war may be the crowning

challenge. In Shakespeare’s play Hamlet, Hamlet muses about man’s potential:

“What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how inﬁnite in facul-

ties!

in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an

angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon

of animals!” Where Abraham Lincoln had called on his countrymen to express

“the better angels of our nature”; where E.B. Sledge found himself surrounded

by a uniformed company of “wild animals” brought low by a “hatred toward

the Japanese”; and where Hamlet ends his musing about human nobility by

characterizing man as “this quintessence of dust”; a World War II veteran

named Robert Lekachman savored a different, guileless remembrance of the

war generation: “It was the last time that most Americans thought they were

innocent and good, without qualiﬁcations.”

There may be no good way to ﬁght a war. There may be only trying to do

good in an endeavor that tugs everyone’s soul toward the abyss. When Americans

went to war in 1941, many of them meant to do good, and many of them did.

Notes

1. “Radio Listeners in Panic, Taking War Drama as Fact: Many Flee Homes to

Escape ‘Gas Raid’” New York Times, October 31, 1938, 1.

. Jim Harmon, The Great Radio Heroes (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2001), 39, 3.

3. Mervyn Peake, Shapes and Sounds (London: Village, 1974), 1.

Franklin D. Roosevelt and J.B.S. Hardman, Rendezvous With Destiny: Ad-

resses and Opinions of Franklin Delano Roosevelt (Whiteﬁsh, MT: Kessinger,

2005), 170, 167.

Harry A. Gailey, War in the Paciﬁc: From Pearl Harbor to Tokyo Bay (Novato,

CA: Presidio, 1995), 78.

. Carl Smith, Pearl Harbor 1941: The Day of Infamy (University Park, IL:

Osprey, 2001), 27.

7. Roosevelt and Hardman, Rendezvous With Destiny, 185.

Walter Lord, Day of Infamy, 60th Anniversary: The Classic Account of the

Bombing of Pearl Harbor (New York: Henry Holt, 1985), 43–45.

9. An oral-history retelling of Private McDonald’s experiences can be found at www.

pearlharbor.org/eyewitnesses/mcdonald-account.asp, where McDonald’s son, George,

recounts the detail about rocks being thrown at the low-ﬂying Japanese planes.

AMERICAN STORIES

176

10. Stanley Weintraub, Long Day’s Journey Into War: December 7, 1941 (New

York: Truman Talley, 1991), 233–234; and Gordon W. Prange, Donald M. Goldstein,

and Katherine V. Dillon, Dec. 7 1941: The Day the Japanese Attacked Pearl Harbor

(New

York: McGraw-Hill, 1988), 109–110.

11. The Perilous Fight: America’s World War II in Color, “Journal of George

Macartney Hunter,” Seattle: KCTS Television, 2003,

www.pbs.org/perilousﬁght/

battleﬁeld/pearl_harbor/letters/.

12. “Joint Address to Congress Leading to a Declaration of War Against Japan,”

December 8, 1941, Franklin D. Roosevelt Digital Archives,

www.fdrlibrary.marist.

edu/oddec7.html.

13. Ronald Takaki, Double Victory: A Multicultural History of America in World

War II (Boston: Little, Brown, 2000), 198.

14.

Takaki, Double Victory, 200.

15.

Stephen Ambrose, To America: Personal Reﬂections of an Historian (New

York: Simon & Schuster, 2003), 95.

16. Roger Daniels, Prisoners Without Trial: Japanese Americans in World War II

(New

York: Hill and Wang, 1993), 46.

17. Carlos Schwantes, The Paciﬁc Northwest: An Interpretive History (Lincoln:

University of Nebraska Press, 1996), 411.

18. Elaine Tyler May, “Pushing the Limits: 1940–1961,” in Nancy F. Cott, ed.,

No Small Courage: A History of Women in the United States (Oxford, UK: Oxford

University Press, 2000), 482.

19.

Gail Collins, America’s Women: 400 Years of Dolls, Drudges, Helpmates, and

Heroines (New York: HarperCollins, 2007), 372.

20. All quotations pertaining to Monica Sone’s life were taken—with gracious

permission from the author—from Monica Sone, Nisei Daughter (Seattle: University

of Washington Press, 1979).

21. Takaki, Double Victory, 147, 148, 149.

2. Robert Asahina, Just Americans: How Japanese Americans Won a War at Home

and Abroad (New York: Gotham, 2006), 26.

23. Tetsuden Kashima, foreword, Personal Justice Denied: Report of the Com-

mission

on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (Seattle: Civil Liberties

Public Education Fund and the University of Washington Press, 1997), 457.

24. Howard Droker, “Seattle Race Relations During the Second World War,” in

Experiences in a Promised Land: Essays in Paciﬁc Northwest History, ed., G. Thomas

Edwards and Carlos Schwantes (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1986), 367.

25. Quoted in Douglas Brinkley, ed., Franklin Roosevelt, “The Arsenal of Democ-

racy

, December 1940,” World War II The Axis Assault, 1939–1942: The Documents,

Speeches, Diaries, and Newspapers Accounts That Deﬁned World War II (New York:

Times Books, 2003), 185.

26. Studs Terkel, The Good War: An Oral History of World War II (New York:

Pantheon, 1984), 64.

27.

Terkel, Good War, 67.

WORLD WAR II

World War II

Allied commander U.S. general Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1944. (AFP/Getty Images)

177