Chapter 22 Present Day
PRESENT DAY
JULIA
After the pain and heartbreak of Minidoka, Julia went all in with the search for her family lineage.
Still a long day’s drive to Angel Island from the Idaho internment camp, she was too close to finding out more about her great-great-grandmother, the picture bride, than she’d ever come to turn back now.
Who was this woman who’d survived so much anguish?
If I look like her, I hope I too have that kind of strength.
Julia had checked in with her parents. They didn’t relish the idea of a young woman driving through the deserted part of Nevada on her own, so when she arrived at the David Walley’s Resort Hot Springs outside of Lake Tahoe, they sounded relieved.
She could have stayed in a fancier place, but the hot springs were perfect. Nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the historic resort offered everything she needed—a quiet and warm sanctuary to process the past few days.
Chaotic and scary dreams had filled the last two nights of sleep.
Julia couldn’t remember a time where she’d dreamt and seen herself as Japanese, but her subconscious processed the racism and trauma she’d witnessed.
She tried recording all she could remember of her dreams in her journal, reminding herself that she should check in with her doctor one of these days.
The resort had several hot spring pools, and she soaked in the largest that overlooked the mountains.
The setting sun back lit a rainstorm caught on the mountain peaks, causing a brilliant double rainbow to arch across the range.
Julia intentionally relaxed her neck, sending waves of serenity down her spine.
She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and blew it out slowly, thinking about her new blue-haired friend, Zoey.
Her vulnerability and humor were refreshing—so unlike the posing classmates from medical school.
After extracting what they could from the Minidoka archives, Zoey suggested they brave the weather and go to the exact spot of the Block apartment where Julia’s family lived for three years.
In the middle of a barren field, the foundation of barrack 13 lay cracked and abandoned.
Only the footprint of the six, twenty-foot by twenty-foot apartments remained visible in the cement.
Julia could imagine the army cots lining the wall.
Did they make some sort of handmade dresser?
I guess since they only brought small suitcases, they wouldn’t have needed much storage space.
The only other piece of furniture the museum displayed were the wooden chairs that the government allowed the lucky occupants to make.
Zoey found a lone desert daisy and gave it to Julia who placed it on the floor of the apartment as a tribute to her lost family. But the wind sent it sailing. Julia looked at Zoey and frowned. It had seemed so appropriate to this place where unforeseen circumstances blew lives apart.
The Block’s latrine and shower room foundations stood a good fifty yards from the family’s apartment, and she imagined Grandmama’s mother trudging through the snow to take her to pee.
The now empty holes in the ground where the toilets had sat were indeed back-to-back, and Julia thought about the fourteen-year-old girl trying to endure the embarrassment of defecating so close to someone.
They also visited the Honor Roll display, filled with mostly the names of second-generation Japanese Americans—brave men and women who’d volunteered to fight for their country, even during the worst of circumstances.
“I always hated Pearl Harbor Day,” Zoey had said.
“It never failed that some jerk would say something nasty to me. Like I needed some excuse to feel even more shameful. I always knew that great-grandmother’s brother fought in the war.
I always assumed he’d fought for Japan. It wasn’t until recently that I learned he gave his life for the U.S. How screwed up is that?”
Julia and Zoey embraced and wept in the middle of it all. Yes, it was a part of them now.
Julia took another deep breath, letting her body relax in the hot springs. Could this be the root of the shame I carry?
Her heart pounded in her chest, and she decided that she probably had enough heat for a while.
She begrudgingly pulled herself up from the hot pool, dried herself with her towel, and wrapped the fuzzy robe the hotel provided around her.
She picked up her journal and the growing stack of papers she’d accumulated and sat down in an Adirondack chair.
Traces of the rainbow lingered over the mountains.
Julia pulled the papers from her journal and looked at the map the ranger had printed off.
She planned on leaving in the morning. The highway went through Sacramento to Angel Island.
A less direct route would take her south to Stockton, past her great-great grandparents’ farm and she decided it would be worth the extra few hours of travel.
It had only been a week since she’d sent in her DNA.
Maybe this was why more people neglected to trace their lineage.
It was challenging. The sheer number of people rapidly increases with each generation—two parents, four grandparents, eight greats, and on it goes, each pathway with its own story.
But there was only one true maternal line, mother to daughter.
That special bond held them together for all generations.
Something in this direct line of succession seemed to call out to her, wooing her on.
Julia searched the mountain peaks, thought of Zoey’s great-grandmother arriving at Minidoka as a fourteen-year-old girl, opened her journal to a blank page, and wrote:
ECHOES
What did he do wrong?
Daddy, why have they taken you?
Quickly now, pack what you can.
You look like the enemy.
A Jap is a Jap.
Stern looking men barking orders.
Pressed into coal cars. No windows.
Can’t breathe. Barbed wire. Men with guns.
Searchlights and guard towers.
Mommy, what have we done?
Dust everywhere. Wind.
The ever-relentless wind.
A blanket on the concrete.
Outhouses until the latrines are finished.
No, not the rain. Mud everywhere.
Now the winter.
Colder than I’ve ever been.
Afraid. Confused. Shameful.
Dear, it will be okay.
Mommy, what did we do?
We look like the enemy
It was all a mistake.
Just forget about it.
It will be okay.
Shikata ga nai…It cannot be helped.
Julia closed her journal and blinked tears from her eyes.
* * *
The following morning, it did not take long for Julia to drive over Donner Pass and down into the San Joaquin Valley of California. She had turned south off Interstate 80 onto 99 and followed Google Maps past the small town of Lodi. Farm and wine country surrounded her.
Near the junction of Eight Mile and Alpine Roads, Maps announced she had arrived at her destination.
Another car came roaring up behind her, and she quickly turned into a dirt road to avoid getting hit.
The driver of the Ford truck with oversized tires stuck his hand out his window and flipped her the bird.
“Yeah, welcome to California,” she steamed.
Large agricultural fields surrounded her on every side. Fruit trees blossomed to her left and rows and rows of grapevines to the right. Having no idea if Maps had led her astray, she didn’t know what to do next.
She stared at her phone when a loud diesel honk came from behind her. In the rearview mirror she saw the grill of a John Deere tractor pulled up behind her. It gave another loud blast from its air horn.
With the tractor taking up the entire width of the road and no clear turn around, Julia threw her hands up in frustration.
Before she had decided what to do, an older man in coveralls and a cowboy hat climbed down a ladder from the cab.
He limped badly as he came to her window.
“Howdy ma’am. You lost or somethin’?” He tipped his hat.
Julia rolled down her window. “I’m so sorry…yeah, I think I’m lost.”
“Well, what’s you lookn’ for? Grapes?” he laughed loudly and spit tobacco onto the dirt. “We got plenty of those.”
“It’s kind of a long story,” Julia said.
“Well, I’s afraid I got to get to my chores,” he said with a toothless smile. “You ain’t gonna get turned around here, but just go up a quarter mile and you can turn around at the ol’ Yamamoto house.”
“Did you say Yamamoto house?”
“Well, the house is no longer there. More like the Yamamoto foundation.” He must have read the shock on her face. “That’s what your lookin’ for, ain’t it? I just had a feelin’. You’s one of ’em?”
Julia stared at the man in shock and anger, but he seemed to mean no insult. She restrained herself and said, “My great-great grandparents owned the place.”
“And my grandpappy bought the land from ’em. Shame what they did to them folks. Story is that he tried giving ’em as much as he could afford. All ’em folks had to sell penny on the dollar. Darn shame.”
Julia swallowed. She didn’t want to talk about the camps or the rotten treatment of her people. Instead, she asked, “How much land did they own?”
“If I remembers right, around a hundred acres. Survived the dust bowl then lost it to the government, such a shame.” This time, he took off his cowboy hat and smacked it against his leg. “Had a couple fruit stands here, too. Best damn grapes, my grandpappy use ta say.”
“You own all this land, then?” Julia tried not sounding too accusatory.
The man spit again. “Hell no. We lost her just like your family did. A few bad years and the big fellas just came in and bought up the places. I’s just work here now.” His face clouded. “Guess that’s the way of the world, ain’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” Julia said.
“Yeah, sorry to you, too. But I’d best be gettin’ back to work.” The man looked down the road. “You keep drivin’ a little way and you’ll see the turnout. Wish there was something left for you,” he said and limped back to his tractor.
Julia closed her window and drove down the dirt road. Soon, just like the man said, the foundation of an old home appeared near the road.
She pulled to the side as the passing tractor showered her car with dust. The old man waved.
Julia waited for the dust to clear to get out of the Land Cruiser.
She walked to the cement slab and stood in the middle.
The same sadness filled her as when she stood on the foundation in Minidoka.
The injustice of it was unbearable. Zoey’s great-grandmother’s word came to her: Gaman, bearing the unbearable.
Julia looked around and shook her head. How could anyone bear such horrendous injustice!
The grapevines came up to what had been the back door. Clumps of reddish-purple grapes hung from the vines. “The grapes of wrath,” she huffed and screamed at the top of her lungs.
* * *
The catharsis felt good, expelling all the negativity she had seen and heard in the past few days, especially hearing that the government had come to her ancestors’ home, taken them away, and forced them to sell everything for pennies.
That is the height of unbearable. It left her exhausted and angry.
She needed respite. She licked her dry lips and realized she was thirsty.
She ducked into her car and found her water bottle.
It was empty. She frowned and noticed the reddish-purple grapes.
Wonder where I can a find a glass of wine.
She got into the car, turned around, and drove away from the old homestead. She didn’t have to go far and pulled into the first winery she came to.
Julia sat alone at the wine tasting bar, cradling a glass of Pinot Grigio in her hands. Still early for even wine connoisseurs, only a handful of other people sat at tables in the room.
“How’s that pinot working out for you?” the muscular bartender asked and smiled. “It’s better if you drink it,” he teased.
“Yeah, sorry,” she said, looking into the glass.
“You want to try something else?” He wiped his hands on a white bar towel.
“No, no…it’s good. I’m just processing a few things.”
“That pinot is the most popular of the Hoshed Winery. Don’t know if you know, but the Grauburgunder is from the vitis vinifera grape.” He pointed to a poster with a beautiful clump of rose grapes backlit by the sun. “They’re grown right here.”
“Yeah, I just saw some down the road.”
The young man motioned to her glass. “And now you are enjoying them, yes?”
Julia looked up at the large sign above the bar and asked, “The Hoshed Winery own all the land around here?”
“Well, only around two thousand acres,” he said smugly.
Julia nodded and stared at the wine swirling in her glass. Probably should have gone to another winery. Ignoring the bartender, she raised the glass. Here’s to you, great-great-grandfather and your best damn grapes. She sipped the wine. It tasted bitter in her mouth.
The bartender frowned at her lack of attention but continued his spiel anyway. “We’ve made that wine here since 1918, when Jean Maurice Hoshed emigrated from France. He started the winery right here in the basement of the old farmhouse. Now look at this place.”
“Hmm,” Julia grunted, wishing he would just go away.
He leaned closer to her. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he whispered. “The fourth generation of Hoshed wine maker is sitting right over there, the guy in the coveralls.” He brought his hand up to his chin and extended his index finger.
Julia sighed loudly into his face, but dutifully turned her head and noted the table near the back where two men were talking.
She turned back to the bartender and shot him a glare to leave her alone. But, as if something clicked in her mind, she turned back to the men at the table.
Her brow furled at the young man sitting across from the owner. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks just like the guy who changed my tire. She was tempted to get a closer look but shook her head—the two men seemed engaged in an unfriendly exchange, and besides, it couldn’t possibly be him.