The first thing you notice is the extraordinary scenery. There was a snowstorm brewing in the Sierra Nevadas the day we arrived, early February, and they looked capped and much shorter than they should have been. It can actually be overcome.
Of course, the whole thing is an illusion, a mini-scene from Lord of the Rings - until you're in it, and then it becomes so real that you almost feel like you can't leave if you want to, because you're flanked by those Surrounded by deceptive mountains on one side and endless barbed wire on the other. And then there's the damn watchtower.
This is Manzanar, now the National Park Service’s “Place of Conscience.” It was a World War II-era "war resettlement center," one of ten camps established to house Japanese Americans who were forced to relocate for a variety of reasons after the attack on Pearl Harbor. This year, this weekend, we mark the 75th anniversary of President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Executive Order on Relocation.
When my husband and I visited Manzanar earlier this year, we did so in the shadow of President Trump’s executive orders on refugees and immigration. We were also on our way to Death Valley, where we got married six years ago to celebrate our wedding anniversary.
Jim was usually happy to let me do what I wanted. He calls himself a simple man. What he meant was that it would be easier for me to spend our lives together, as long as he could fit in without giving up too much of his own morals. Wife wants to get drunk unreasonably? Well, as long as she doesn't complain about her hangover. Wife wants potato chips for breakfast? Well, as long as she doesn't complain about the thickness of her thighs. The wife wants to spend most of her life writing novels? Well, as long as she tells me if she's short of money so she doesn't wake up in the middle of the night wanting to talk about "budgeting."
Does the wife want to visit an internment camp as part of her wedding anniversary weekend? cricket.
To be fair, I did ask him in an email. When I called him later to ask if he had seen my email, he didn't hesitate. Of course we will go. Yes, he agreed that it was important for us to pay our respects and bear witness to this part of American history. He said it was more important now than ever, but it would be great if we could get to the Jeep Rental Center in Death Valley National Park by 4 p.m. I checked Google: "People usually stay here for 45 minutes to an hour." No problem.
At times like these, I’m reminded of those clichés people throw around when it comes to marriage: It’s a compromise; Learn to love the ordinary; thank you for your hard work, hahahahahaha. Overall, our marriage—indeed, our entire relationship—has not been hard work , compromise, or mundane. Most of the time, it's incredibly fun and makes you feel lucky to be alive.
Where we fail, however, is in the gulf between our two cultures—mine, a 1.5 generation immigrant; His, Bible Belt Wisconsin. I will never forget the day I discovered that Jim prayed for me every night. It was a thorough, drawn-out battle. I mean, where does he start praying for me? Did I ask Him to pray? On and on, until I understood through my thick mind that although Jim no longer practiced his family's religion, praying for someone was a rigid habit and his way of sending good thoughts to the world.
Not to mention that Jim had to go propose to my parents that day. He took a day trip from New York to Los Angeles, prayed to my ancestors through the huge intimidating altar in my parents' living room to see if he had their blessings, wore a suit, and came home visibly changed, thank God , a positive result. My ancestors and my parents agreed.
Then one day I found out he voted for Bush. twice! I had to calm down all the horror of the information to hear that funding for his education had been drastically reduced by the Clinton presidency. You see, I never had to pay for my own education.
Not long after, I discovered in a conversation with a friend that Jim’s main voting litmus test was the environment. At the time, Jim was on the board of an environmental nonprofit I founded, so I was okay with that. But part of me still whispers, "Doesn't he care about the fact that he's partnered with an immigrant woman? Shouldn't women's rights be just as important?"
Then there was an ugly driving incident in which a man interrupted our traffic by screaming obscenities in a foreign language. Jim shot back: "Go back to where you came from! We don't drive like this here."
I was stunned. I was really shocked and burst into tears because he was saying things I had been told many times growing up.
That day, our relationship was work. I spent hours talking this out, trying to rationalize in words what it feels like to be told you don't belong here. Jim gets the message quickly, when he realizes that this isn't something you can say , even if you're angry and don't really mean it. This is not an acceptable thing to do. It was several hours before I was able to see him. A few days ago, I recalled this incident without feeling any shame for either of us.
That day in Manzanar we first visited the indoor exhibition, located in the "Community Hall" built in 1944. We stood in front of an exhibition of pre-war sentiments beneath the highest part of the ceiling. As I puzzled over the idea that they would build the Hall, a permanent structure, late in the war, Jim whispered, pointing to a photo of a sign that read “The Japanese moved on; the Japanese moved on; the Japanese moved on; go ahead". It was a white community," and "I didn't realize, even before the war, there was so much racism. ” I winked at him and walked away.
We then visited the reconstructed reception barracks. We read on another monitor that the wind was so strong that the planks of the hastily built walls of the barracks were not quite flush with each other, so the living areas were kept cold. Wrapped in my tech padded coat, wrapped in a scarf and boots, I can still feel it, on the floor beneath my feet, whipping the building in a tiny swirl of unease. The whole damn place shook.
"It's too cold in here, Ish," my husband said, and I nodded, leaning over a reconstructed army cot with a straw mattress. I lay on it. The springs protested, sagging from my core to my shoulders and hips. I fell to the ground. The springs popped open again and the straw on the mattress parted, this time letting the metal and wind hit my skin.
We walked or drove through the rest of the campground. We see bathrooms without partitions so you can do your thing within a knee-width of another person; cafeterias that look like something out of a nightmare from a bad summer camp movie; gardens that residents build for themselves so they You can find some comfort and beauty. Excess wire, concrete and scrap wood were fashioned into bridges and turtle sculptures. Residents also built a waterfall.
There is a ranch. Soy sauce and miso factory. A school, a hospital. A small city, far away where no one can see, like a carpet stain you hide under a new side table.
Behind Manzanar, away from the front door, outside the chain-link fence, there is a cemetery. Of the 149 people who died in custody at Manzanar, only five are still buried there. A monument now stands in the cemetery. People leave offerings. Peace crane skewers. Regretful note. amulet.
There I stood before the grave and cried. Jim came over and stood next to me. "They're Americans ," I said angrily, and he nodded.
"I know."
We didn't have a reservation at the 4pm jeep rental location. Jim said he didn't care, and I believed him.
Does the wife want to visit an internment camp on our anniversary weekend? Yeah, well, because here, in a dark, shameful part of American history, we can better understand each other and what it means to be part of something bigger.
