Let me contextualize: As a fourth-generation midwestern Japanese American, with an American historical narrative that includes the Japanese Internment not only as a moment of historical significance but the event that shaped and defined my family's migratory pattern to Southeastern Michigan after WWII, I have heard of the Japanese American National Museum. What an understatement. More accurately, I have worshipped the site from afar for years as this magical place where the walls of silence that my grandmother keeps to deal with her pain will come down and I will finally have a better understanding of what it means for me to be mixed, of color, Asian, Japanese American... you name it.
The silence is part of my history. And, I guess, so is the confusion, and notion of being conspicuous whereever I go. But I've always felt this drive and pressure to know and understand this part of my family's past--understanding, I recognize, will never be complete and never can be--so I already knew a lot of the facts that Babe told us about. The Munson Report, for example, I am familiar with. I have seen the map of the US with those squares and triangles denoting the camps more times than I can count. But his stories and personal anecdotes...
I'm tearing up now. I nearly cried in the museum on several occasions.
Mr. Karasawa spoke like my grandma. Same inflections, "foggy" voice. But he's in great shape (physcial and mental, more than I can say about my grandma in regards to the former) and... not afraid to share. He gave a voice, a real voice, to all of the second-hand accounts, oral histories, and personal narratives I've read to fill my grandma's silence.
The one thing my grandma will say is that, on some Fridays, her camp would have a bonfire and everyone would dress up in their kimonos if they had them and dance. Her children told her she was crazy. I had never read anything like it anywhere. But when cleaning out her flat in Detroit, my mom found a picture, and my grandma was so excited that she could prove it wasn't something she had dreamed up.
The JANM has these books, one for each camp, where survivors can write their names, their time in the camp, and a memory, or person they want to find. I want to go back and look at these books. We didn't have much time on Friday. Really, I need to go back anyway, to fully absorb everything.
My brother and I made a detour to the Rohwer site on the way out to L.A. All that's left is a cemetery, in the middle of a farm, in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas. We almost passed it and left, having found the "Rohwer Memorial Cemetery" sign but no cemetery. Steven knew how much it meant to me and offered to go drive by again, this time taking the road into the fields. And in the grove of trees in the middle of the field... was the cemetery. And that was all that was left. I mean, the government's smarter than that... to waste land and keep a physical reminder of what they subjected citizens to. So it wasn't a surprise. But it was a pilgrimmage of sorts nonetheless.
The JANM had a barrack moved from the Heart Mountain site.
Then, to top it all off, the JANM currently has a Kip Fulbeck exhibit! Way to cater to me and my interests, JANM!
I have thought about going to the JANM for years, but L.A. seemed a little far to visit just for a museum. And now, not only did I get to see the museum, but I got a tour!
I definitely need to go back. You know, since I'm here and all.
Besides, I couldn't decide what to buy from the gift shop, and I can't just leave that opportunity go to waste.
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