Chapter 11 Present Day
PRESENT DAY
JULIA
Julia found the large skeleton key her grandmother had asked her to retrieve from the top dresser drawer and inserted it into the old, weathered chest at the end of the bed.
The dark brown chest had seen better days.
Two longitudinal cracks ran the length of the lid, and someone had repaired one large chunk of the wood above the lock.
Julia ran her finger along the rough top and wondered its age and how many miles it had traveled.
“Are you sure it’s okay, Grandmama?” Julia asked, worried she’d break the rusted key or the lock. She also wondered why Grandmama kept the trunk locked when it would fall apart with one swift kick. She looked at her grandmother for an answer.
Her grandmother nodded, and Julia carefully turned the key.
At first, the lock wouldn’t budge, but with a little more pressure, a clunk sounded from under the lid.
The repaired top showed damage from someone prying the lid off without the key, adding to the mystery.
Unexpectedly, Julia ached with anticipation to learn about her ancestral past. What secrets this must hold!
She looked to her grandmother for more instructions, and Grandmama indicated with her hands to open it.
Using both hands, Julia slowly lifted the lid with squeaky complaints from the rusted hinges and rested it against the bed frame.
She put her hand to her nose to block the pungent odor of antiquity, old wood, some sort of hoary incense, and mothballs. Then, glancing at her grandmother, she lowered her hand so as to not offend Obāchan.
But she couldn’t hold back propriety any longer and erupted with a violent sneeze into her elbow.
Grandmama laughed. “Our ancestors are a little dusty, I’m afraid. Now, if you would lift the silk blanket and put it on my bed, we can start with the picture book underneath.”
Julia wiggled her hands underneath the red silk fabric, embroidered with delicate white flowers. “This is beautiful, Grandmama,” she said and arranged it on the bed.
Her grandmother simply nodded, looked over the edge of the chest, and pointed to a scrapbook. “Here she is,” she said excitedly, like seeing an old friend from afar. “Hand her to me and wheel me out to the kitchen where you can get this old woman a glass of water,” she wheezed.
* * *
After carefully lifting the scrapbook from its resting place, Julia saw the treasures that filled the chest: silken fabrics, pieces of jade and jewelry, and boxes of yet-to-be-discovered family heirlooms. Her mind swirled with a mixture of intrigue and regret at not taking more interest in Grandmama and her lineage.
Julia couldn’t deny her sense of awe, but as they stepped out of the bedroom, she felt a wave of relief at leaving the pungent mothball smell behind.
Julia wheeled her grandmother to the kitchen, filled a glass with water from the refrigerator, took a chair, and sat beside her grandmother, who clutched the scrapbook to her chest. “Here you go, Grandmama.”
“Kazoku wa watashi no tsuyomi de mo ari, watashi no yowami de mo aru,” she said with a sober look.
Julia tilted her head and shrugged.
“Are you ready to learn about your family? Our families are both our strength and our weakness.”
Julia smiled, but when Grandmama returned a serious look, Julia worried she had opened a door she could never close.
Obāchan laid the antique, black lacquered book on the table and fussed with the ribbon that held the book closed.
Old twine bound the hinge of the album where time and use had chipped off some of the lacquer. A faded, hand-painted scene of Japan’s famous Mount Fuji, framed by bamboo leaves and red and white flowers, adorned the cover.
“May I help you, Grandmama?” Julia reached to help, but her grandmother’s arthritic fingers finally loosened the knot. Then her grandmother smoothed the ribbon down neatly on the table and opened the fragile cover.
She placed her hands on the first page, closed her eyes and whispered under her breath.
Julia waited patiently.
When she had finished, Obāchan turned and smiled. “Your ancestors are all eager to meet you.”
Obāchan pulled at the only picture on the first page and removed it from the glued-on photo corners.
She looked at it for a moment, before handing it to Julia, who took it by the edges.
The faded black-and-white photo portrayed a young Japanese woman sitting on a chair with fancy, fringed edges next to a small table with a delicate bouquet in the center.
The girl wore a striped kimono and sash; a white cloth covered her hands.
Julia stared at the girl’s face, framed by perfectly combed, jet-black hair. Her expression appeared blank, neither sad nor happy, secure nor frightened. She has a secret. Also, she has no hair comb. Most old photos of Japanese woman Julia had seen displayed the most ornate hair pins.
What struck Julia most about the photo was the uncanny feeling that she was staring at her own reflection.
She looks like me! The antique photo resembled Julia’s medical school photo identification badge.
Her friends had often teased her about how deadly serious she looked on the badge.
“Just trying to look professional,” she’d reply and walk off in a huff.
Julia’s grandmother watched with amusement at her granddaughter’s reaction. Finally, she said with a twinkle in her eye, “Meet my grandmother, your great-great-grandmother.”
Unexpectedly, a tear had formed in the corner of Julia’s eye. She wiped it with her knuckle and looked at Grandmama for answers.
“Yes,” Grandmama smiled, “you look just like her.”
“When was this taken, Grandmama? Where?” Julia turned the picture over to see if it held any markings. In one corner and barely visible, she made out Japanese characters and the year 1917.
“Nineteen seventeen,” Julia said. “And these characters, what do they say?” She handed the photo back side up to her grandmother.
Her grandmother held up the corner of the picture and squinted. “I may have known once what it said, but now I don’t remember. I can barely see it, I’m afraid. Your great-great-grandmother was born in 1894.” She turned the photo over. “So, in this picture, she is twenty-three…a picture bride.”
“Picture bride?”
“Hai, shashin hanayome.”
Julia didn’t understand. She focused on the photo. “She is so young. So beautiful, but why are her hands covered with the white cloth?”
“I’m sure it was to let her future husband know she was…
untouched,” Grandmama said, and shrugged.
Her pale cheeks reddened. “Her husband, your great-great-grandfather, came to America in 1900.” She turned the scrapbook page and pulled a weathered photo from its place and handed it to Julia.
The smiling man in the crinkled photo wore a clean white shirt and had a large clay pot balanced on his shoulder with some sort of plant sticking out.
The back of the photo contained only a yellowed stain.
“What is his name, Grandmama?”
“Hai, that is an interesting question, because when Japanese immigrated to America, the immigration offices often gave them new names. It is why it is difficult to trace our family. Like many Japanese men, he came to Hawaii before America stopped immigration in 1908.”
“The U.S. stopped immigration?” Julia grabbed her phone from the table and typed in “Japanese immigration 1908.” Sure enough, the text stated that the Gentlemen’s Agreement of 1908 forced the Japanese government to restrict immigration of laborers to the U.S.
She looked at her grandmother with new appreciation that dementia had not affected her long-term memory. It also frustrated Julia that the U.S. education taught her very little about Japanese American history.
“Then how did your grandmother immigrate in 1917?”
This brought a knowing smile to her Obāchan’s face. “Many of these young men who had come to America got stuck here with no money and no Japanese women to take as brides. They often wrote home in desperation. These are the pictures they sent back and forth.”
“Did they know each other?”
“Iie.” She shook her head. “They probably knew someone who knew someone who knew a nakōdo, a matchmaker. That is how parents arranged marriages back then.”
“No wonder she looked so pensive.”
“The U.S. government allowed for brides to immigrate,” Julia’s grandmother continued. “They first met on Angel Island.”
“Where?”
“An island near San Francisco where immigration officials interrogated and processed all the picture brides. Then they meet their husbands and were married on the spot.” She took another picture out of the album and handed it to Julia.
The black-and-white photograph showed a line of young Japanese women in simple kimono.
Julia recognized her great-great-grandmother.
“There she is in the middle,” Julia said and showed the photo to Grandmama for verification.
Her grandmother nodded and continued the story.
“Remember dear, World War I raged during this time and the immigration officers were quite strict.” She peeled out another picture.
“Immigration took this picture of the two, first meeting. She is twenty-three—old for a picture bride.” Grandmama cackled.
“My mother once confided to me that when my grandmother arrived, she did not recognize him because he used a picture of when he was twenty-one. When she arrived, he was actually thirty-seven!” She grinned. “That was the game they played.”
Julia looked back at the picture and shook her head. What a different world she lived in.
“Then came 1924,” Obāchan added.
Julia picked up her phone again and scrolled the article that had populated her screen. Further down, it discussed that year. She read from the summary.
“The Immigration Act of 1924 prevented immigration from Asia and set quotas on other countries. They also established the U.S. Border Patrol that year.” Julia continued to scroll.
“It says that proponents of the act sought to establish a distinct American identity by preserving its ethnic homogeneity.” She puffed out a loud breath. “Geez.”
“Their first year together brought the birth of my mother.” Her grandmother turned a few pages and found a picture of a beautiful Asian baby. “This is my mother, your great-grandmother, your Hii-Bāchan.”
“Where were they when she was born?”
“They stayed in California and worked in the farms. They were very poor. But what is most tragic, they lived peacefully until 1942. The government rounded up all Issei, first generation Japanese Americans, and their families during World War II and sent them to internment camps. They took away our homes and most of our possessions.” Grandmama gestured to the bedroom. “That trunk is all I have left.”
Julia stared at her grandmother in shock. “Were you alive then?” Julia tried to do the math.
“Hai, I was five when we were sent to the camp.”
“You were? Where did they send you?” She could hardly get the words out.
“I think they sent us to Fort Missoula. We lived there until I was eight.”
“Missoula…Missoula, Montana? You lived there for three years? Do you have memories of that time?”
“Hai, us kids had a grand time. I remember our family all crammed into the dorms. Mom and Dad were there along with Obāsan and Ojiisan, my grandmother and grandfather.” She picked up the glass of water with both hands and sipped.
“But I’m sure the adults hated it with the lack of freedom. We just didn’t know any better as children.”
Julia’s grandmother grew quiet. Her eyes filled with tears at the memory. “My Ojiisan never made it out. He died the year before they released us.”
“I’m so sorry, Grandmama,” Julia said and patted her on the knee. “I knew none of this.”
Her grandmother turned several more pages and pulled out a photo of a darling five-year-old dressed in a lacy yellow dress and bonnet and holding an Easter basket.
Julia studied the picture and smiled at Obāchan. “This is you?”
“Hai…when we became Americans.”
Julia continued to stare at the picture.
Her stomach already bubbled with a well of emotions including anger, frustration, regret, and guilt.
Still, she felt relieved to finally understand why her family had always avoided discussing their history.
Her parents just wanted to blend in and to protect her from this cultural pain.
They had done it perfectly, until today.
“I’m so sorry, Grandmama. I should have asked you about all this years ago. I am so sorry.” She stood and hugged her grandmother around the neck.
“I no naka no kawazu taikai o shirazu,” Grandmama whispered in her ear.
Julia pulled back, waiting for the translation.
“A frog in a well knows nothing of the great ocean.” Grandmama smiled. “It is an old Japanese proverb meaning that sometimes we can get stuck in our own world and see nothing else.”
Julia’s grandmother began putting the photos back into their place holders. “Okay…let us save the rest for another day…this old woman is tired and needs a rest.”
Before her grandmother put all the pictures back, Julia picked up the photo of her great-great-grandmother and great-great-grandfather. “May I take a picture of these?”
Obāchan nodded, and Julia used her phone camera to take a picture of the photo and the back with the date and faint pencil Japanese characters.
Like getting a taste of her favorite food and having it snatched away, Julia was flooded with sorrow that her ancestral lesson had ended. There were so many more pictures in the scrapbook, not to mention the treasures in the chest.
Julia helped tie the red ribbon around the scrapbook. “What about before your grandmother?” Julia asked. “What about further back, Grandmama?”
Obāchan smiled at her, probably understanding the door she had just opened into Julia’s heart.
“I am Sansei. My mother was Nisei, and my grandmother was Issei, the first to come to America. I am afraid much of our family history is lost before them.” She reached for Julia’s arm, squeezed it, looked into her eyes, and suggested, “Perhaps you can find out more.”