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Authors: Constance O'Keefe

Tags: #World War II, #Japan, #Kamikaze, #Senninbari, #anti-war sentiment

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BOOK: A Thousand Stitches
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Returning to the front of the platform, Principal Tomihisa cleared his throat and began a talk in his own voice. This I could understand. It was what I had heard for years at Raymond Weill and at Kimmon: stay healthy, study hard, obey your teachers, and respect your fellow students. But I didn't really pay much attention to this familiar advice because I was trying to figure out what I had just witnessed. What was that ceremony? Why all the formality? Why such seriousness? What could it all mean?

I soon learned that what we had heard was the Imperial Rescript on Education. It dated from 1890 and was supposedly written and promulgated by Emperor Meiji for the benefit of his subjects. It followed by one year Japan's first Constitution, also promulgated as a gift from the Emperor to his subjects.

With the overthrow of the Tokugawa Shoguns and the restoration of the Emperor to power in 1868, Japan re-engaged with the rest of the world, from which it had kept itself isolated for almost three centuries. The Meiji Era was one of tremendous change in Japan, and compulsory education for all—through the sixth grade—was first introduced in 1872. The Imperial Rescript was the blueprint for Japan's national public educational system. Its obscure language delivered a familiar message—obedience to parents, love of country, and harmony among siblings and classmates.

It all sounds rather innocuous and charmingly archaic, but Professor Ienaga, who studied the war in great detail and delivered landmark lectures at Tokyo Educational University in the 1960s, described the Rescript as inspired by a blend of Confucianism, state-oriented authoritarian constitutionalism, and militaristic patriotism. He highlights the militaristic phrases of the Rescript, such as “Should an emergency arise, guard and maintain the prosperity of our Imperial Throne,” and notes that while the Rescript has references to the Constitution, the emphasis is on the obligation of the people to obey the law; there is no acknowledgement of the rights of the people or any mention of limits on the power of the State. According to Professor Ienaga, the Emperor-centered patriotic ceremonies on the opening day of school each year—the veneration of the royal portraits and the solemn reading of the Rescript—were designed to instill an awed obedience to the Emperor and the State. I was certainly awed. The rest came later.

The next day classes began: reading, music, science, and arithmetic in the morning. Music was my favorite. Lunch was at the school, but unlike at Raymond Weill, there was no cafeteria—no spaghetti for me to pile on my plate. Mother had sent me off in the morning with a
bento
lunch box, and I ate with my classmates, all of us sitting at our desks. History was after lunch, and the last class of the day was ethics. At least I had heard of it at Kimmon, but the lessons at Bancho seemed much more serious; they had the same feel as the ceremony with the Imperial Rescript. When I reflect now, I realize how the syllabus shifted in my years at Bancho—along with the newspapers, magazines, and movies—growing more militaristic with each passing year.

But our school day didn't end with the last class. Our final task was cleaning the school. The work was allocated on a strict rotation basis—there were crews for cleaning the classrooms, the playground, and even the toilets.

My lasting impression of my first week at Bancho was that I never wanted to experience anything like that again. On the first day of classes, Miss Tatsukawa kept me with her in the classroom at recess, making sure I was familiar with the Japanese textbooks and asking me questions, most of which I felt I wasn't answering well, about my Raymond Weill texts, teachers, and classmates.

The next day, Miss Tatsukawa walked with me to the playground at recess, telling me she was sure I was happy to be able to play. I stood just outside the doorway. The boys were playing ball on the far side of the open area, and a group of the girls were playing hopscotch. My cousin Yasuko was part of the group. She was standing in line, waiting her turn and cheering on the other competitors. I couldn't catch her eye. Miss Tatsukawa, seeing my hesitation, stood with me, pointing out what was going on in the playground and chatting about Bancho's history. After a few minutes, Principal Tomihisa appeared beside her in the doorway and said he needed to talk with her in his office.

Trying not to feel abandoned, I turned my attention again to the hopscotch game and saw Yasuko hopping back toward the beginning of the grid. I caught her eye as she finished, and started to take a step forward. She whispered to one of the girls cheering her on, and without turning to look at me, ran off toward another group of girls, who were jumping rope.

I stood in the same spot until the bell rang, thinking that there were two more days until the week would end.

The
last day of that first week, Mother was waiting for me in the doorway when I got back to the Nishiokas. “Give me your book bag,” she said. “Take this money and go to the barber shop. Tell him you want your hair cut like all the other schoolboys.”

When I repeated Mother's instructions, the barber said, “What a shame. Your long hair is quite nice. But your mother is right. It has to go now that you're a Japanese student.” When he finished, my head was prickly.

Mother was waiting for me again and laughed when she saw me scratching at my head. “Here,” she said, “try this on,” as she lifted a brand new Bancho uniform out of a box. It felt different from the loose weave of my San Francisco suit. It even smelled sharp and tight. I slipped my arms into the sleeves and shrugged it over my shoulders. The fit was perfect. Mother smiled as she knelt and helped me fasten the bright buttons, and then took my hand and walked me to the mirror in Aunt Yoshie's room. She stood behind me, still smiling. “Now you're just like any kid on the block,” she said. “Now you're a real Matsuyama Bancho kid.”

On Monday, no one seemed to notice at school; there were no comments in the classroom about my hair. At recess, however, I still had to force myself to walk toward the boys' ball game. When I was halfway across the playground, Shin, who was the liveliest student in my class, fell into step beside me. “Did you really live in America?” he asked.

As soon as I answered, he followed up with, “What was the name of the place where you lived?” Several more classmates joined us as we continued across the playground.

By the time we reached the edge of the ball game, I was surrounded, and the group was peppering me with questions. They demanded that I say things for them in English and collapsed in laughter when I obliged them.

After a few minutes of this, Shin said, “Let's go. I want to play.” I was swept along into the game.

From that day forward I no longer stood out. I really was just another Bancho kid. I was convinced I was really becoming Japanese.

Fourth
grade was the first year students studied Japanese history. My second week at Bancho I learned the story of Amaterasu. I believe that my class was the first for which the old origin myths were included in the syllabus and taught as historical fact. I had only heard passing references to Amaterasu in San Francisco and was impressed, albeit mystified, by the story.

As I listened to Miss Tatsukawa, I tried to take in the story of the god and goddess, Izanagi and Izanami, high above the clouds dipping their spears into the sea, stirring the waters, and then lifting those spears and letting drops of water fall from them—drops of water that turned into the four main islands of Japan. After they created Hokkaido, Honshu, Kyushu, and Shikoku, the god and goddess became the parents of two children—Amaterasu Omikami, the Great Sun Goddess, and Prince Susano.

There were a few stories about these gods, and I got somewhat confused by the details, but tried to retain as much of the stories as I could. Amaterasu's grandson, Ninigi-no-Mikoto, descended to earth and became Japan's first ruler. His grandmother gave him the three treasures of Japan's ruling family: her mirror, her jewels, and her brother Susano's sword. Later, Amaterasu's great-great-grandson, Jimmu Tenno, became Japan's first Emperor. The Imperial Family, Ms. Tatsukawa told us with reverence, had ruled from that day until ours in an unbroken line, and still retained the three treasures.

I realize now that in teaching these myths as history the government was attempting to indoctrinate the nation's children and convince them, to the depth of their souls, that Japan was a divine nation of chosen people. For me it was so grand and so far beyond the myths we had heard at Raymond Weill—like the story of George Washington and the cherry tree—that I related all of it that I could remember to Mother as soon as I got home from school that afternoon. She laughed, correcting me and supplying details when I faltered, and promised that someday we would take a trip to Amanohashidate, the place on the Japan Sea coast where the god and goddess stood as they dipped their spears and created the Japanese islands.

When
Mother and I arrived in Japan, the Manchurian Incident, when the Japanese garrison in Manchuria took possession of the whole of Manchuria, was a year in the past, and huge numbers of Japanese troops were already in China. About a month after we arrived, Mother and all the Nishiokas and I went to watch a parade that marched a group of recruits to the station. I was happy to be in my school uniform, and admired the young men, who all looked brave and determined. And I loved how the instruments glinted in the sunshine and how the band music blared. The shining trumpets made a sound I found absolutely thrilling. The crowds waved flags and shouted,
“Banzai! Banzai!”
The shouts of the crowd and the music were so loud I couldn't tell if the noise was inside me or outside me. Towards the end of the parade, the shouts of the crowd swelled to a crescendo of
“Tenno Heika Banzai!”
My youngest cousin, Yuriko, slipped her hand into mine and held on. Our hands together, we flowed into and with the noise and the crowd.

Mother was flushed with excitement as we walked back. “Yoshie, things have changed so much,” she said to her sister. “What an impressive parade! The young men looked so resolute and so proud.”

“Well, we want to show our support and send the troops off in style,” said Aunt Yoshie. “The girls like the excitement of seeing the soldiers and being part of the crowd.”

“Yes,” said Mother, “they looked so cute waving their flags.”

It was all over by noontime, and that afternoon Mother and I moved into our city house. I was now a resident of the Yanai-machi neighborhood of Matsuyama City on Shikoku Island, in Japan. Japan, the Land of the Rising Sun. I was Japanese.

We settled in, establishing our routines. I was fitting in fine at Bancho. We went a few times to the Ishii Village house, and I loved the wide-open spaces there. But I wouldn't be playing there in the summer because, on the Japanese schedule, school continued through most of the summer months.

On June 1, we switched to our summer uniforms, trading the heavy black wool for cooler gray cotton. It was about then that a visitor arrived one day on a motor scooter. He introduced himself to Mother as Yamamura, a teacher at Matsuchu. Everyone talked about Matsuchu all the time: it was the city's prestigious middle school. “Middle” school for Japanese boys of those days followed eight years of elementary school and was the equivalent of high school in the States.

I listened to Yamamura-sensei explain to Mother that he taught English and music at Matsuchu, and that he had heard that her son spoke perfect English. “I'm sure you're aware, Mrs. Imagawa, that young children can easily forget a second language if they don't have a chance to use it. That would be a tremendous waste in the case of your son. I think I could help by introducing your Isamu to the American missionary family that has been living in the big house just across from Bancho for about a decade.”

“Well,” she said, “I suppose that would be fine. Isamu's father has always been proud that his skills in both languages are so good.”

When Yamamura-sensei explained that he had already spoken to the Graham family, and that they were willing to have me visit them every Sunday, Mother readily agreed. She was pleased to be able to take Yamamura-sensei's advice; he was an important person in Matsuyama. Plus, since he had made all the arrangements, she didn't have to try to deal with the Grahams in English. Mother was, without question, completely Japanese herself, and I know she was happy to be home in Japan where she could communicate perfectly rather than stumbling as she always did in San Francisco. But still, I think she missed our old life somewhat. Maybe she thought I did too. And I think it must have been lonely for her without Father.

The next Sunday was the first of many I would spend with the Graham family. Morgan, their oldest son, was exactly my age, and we became great friends. Sundays were now given over to hiking with Reverend Graham, who was eager to be outdoors when morning services were finished, to games and sports of all sorts with Morgan, to family dinners of fried chicken and apple pie, and to hymn singing in the parlor after dinner. There were no more excursions with Mother to watch the parades of new recruits marching to the station and off to war. My Sundays were now taken up with “Rock of Ages.”

BOOK: A Thousand Stitches
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