Manzanar

I’ve driven by this place countless times in my life.  For most of the beginning of my life I had no idea it was even there.  During my adult life, I’d heard rumors.  I didn’t have time, didn’t take the time to pay attention.  If it weren’t for a dear friend,  I would still be oblivious.  It’s just up Highway 14, almost unnoticeable.  There’s a guard house right before the turn-in and a guard tower shortly after as you are heading north.  I never paid attention.

This was Manzanar.  A relocation camp for the Japanese in the 1940′s, located in the shadow of the Sierra’s, heading north on Highway 14.

But today…today I paid attention.  Not at first, to be honest.  I walked toward the building there, nondescript, not terribly interesting on the outside.  I walked in the front door.  The entry was again, nondescript.  A counter at the front by the restrooms.  A gift shop.  A gift shop?  Here?

I hadn’t come to buy stuff.  I’d come to see what this was about.  A little cynical, I didn’t expect much.

But I was mistaken.  There was much indeed, and I paid attention to every little thing.  The exhibits, the stories, the photographs, the maps.  The newspaper clippings.  With each bit and piece of information the reality of the camp became more and more clear to me.

A docent came out to the main room and announced that there would be a 22 minute film showing in about 5 minutes.  It seemed that 22 minutes was an incredibly long time to spend.  My friend and I had big plans for the day.  I reluctantly agreed to see it.  It probably ranks way up with there at the top with other important 22 minute spans during my life.  It was important.

I spent the next 22 minutes watching a film that touched me deeply.  I could see and feel the reality of the lives of the American citizens who were taken from their homes and businesses and friends and placed behind the wire fences, under the protection of guns.  I sat in the dark, eyes glued to the screen, tears running down my face.   People.  I just don’t understand people.

That was enough.  I walked out of the theater, tear stained cheeks, red face, red eyes.  I didn’t care.

We left the museum and headed out to the parking lot.

“There’s a driving tour,” he told me.  Let’s take it.

“Yes,” I whispered.  I thought we should.

He had been completely without judgement during the movie.  He’d seen it before.  He didn’t intrude on my emotions.  He understood.  He let me cry.  He didn’t ask.  He knew.

As we headed down the roads that wound through the camp, we would jump out here and there and take photographs, both photographers, both interested in each detail.

Finally we came to the cemetery at the back west end of the compound.  The monument stood tall in the fenced in area.  The Japanese symbols in deep black against the white stone.  We parked outside of the area and walked towards it.  Taking photographs as we got closer.  We saw a small car drive up and drive completely around the outside of the fenced in cemetery.  I watched and I waited as I tend to do.

The little car parked outside of the fence, close to the entrance.  Out of the car emerged two women, probably in their late 50′s, maybe 60′s, two young men about 20 something perhaps.  They were Asian.  I watched them.

They all walked into the cemetery and up to the monument.  Looking at all of the articles people had left there over time in memory of this or them or that.  Stones, bibles, flowers, rocks.  Things.  I watched as they took out their camera and started taking turns taking pictures of each other in front of the monument.  This was my opportunity.

I walked over toward the monument, toward the group.

“Can I take your picture?”  I called to them.  They all stopped and looked at me, walking towards them with my large black digital camera swinging from my neck.

“Yes, please, that would be nice,” one of the women said.  They handed me the camera, showed me the correct button to push and all lined up in front of the monument.  I pointed the camera, “Smile”, I said and took a couple of shots.

“Thank you,” they said.  We stood there, a moment of uncomfortable silence.   I had to ask.

“Do you know about this?” I asked the women.

They smiled and looked at each other.  A slight hesistation, then…

The younger one spoke first, “My sister, May, was in a camp in Topaz.  Our family was sent there shortly after the war started when May was in about third grade.  I was born in the camp there.”  She was Nancy.  They had been from San Francisco.  They had a home and a business and friends and family there.  And then they were in Topaz.

We talked a little about what it was like to live in that time and be of Japanese descent.  It was difficult.  People treated them horribly.  The Chinese would put labels on their children stating they were Chinese before they sent them out of the house to protect them from derision.

Our talk was open and our talk was important. Here were two amazing women who had lived through this.  Sisters.