I was sitting down in the bus one day,
when I caught that stare of yours.
I know what you're thinking.
No,
what the system is telling you to think.
They tell you that the blackness of my hair has tainted my soul,
that the darkness of my skin makes me less than you,
that because I am not part of their fictitious imagination,
I should be striped off my only civilization.
Now,
let me break it to you.
Matthew C. Perry and his puppet of insecurity arrived in 1853.
They opened up the door to modernization and the start of retrogression.
In 1924, my grandfather arrived in Hawaii with a dream.
A dream so similar to yours.
And there's my grandmother.
They say a photo is worth a thousand words.
She chose “I Do”.
She came here not knowing her soon to be husband would be 30 years of his youth.
She was only 19.
She had a dream too.
A dream so similar to yours.
Now, look behind you.
94-695 Waipahu Street , a reconstruction of their stay-cation.
“But the breeze did not always come.
Twelve feet in height, the cane enclosed and dwarfed the Asian workers.
As they cleared the cane 'forests', cutting the stalks close to the ground,
they felt the heat of the sun, the humidity of the air,
and found themselves
surrounded by iron red clouds of dust” (Takaki 136).
Then came World War 2.
You see this isn't the end of my story.
On the morning of December 7, 1941,
the radio blasted “This is the real McCoy! Sporadic air attack has been made on Oahu....The rising sun has been sighted on the wingtips!” (Murayama 78).
My grandfather, a proud nihon, reached into the forbidden drawers and took out a piece of paper.
My father followed him to the chicken coop and saw him on his knees.
He was only 6 but understood the complexity of situation
Suddenly, the color of our skin seems to tell our future.
The identity of being Japanese and American became a double edge sword.
“Their houses are boarded up and empty now” (Otsuka 115).
“With each passing day the notices on the telephone poles grow increasingly faint.
And then, one morning, there is not a single notice to be found, and for a moment,
the town feels oddly naked, and it is almost as if the Japanese were never here at all” (Otsuka 121).
That was 72 years ago.
But suddenly, You repeat history.
As I walked through Pearl Harbor,
You looked me up and down.
Just by looking at my black hair and the darkness of my skin,
my American-ness escaped your eyes.
I was suddenly one of them
as if the words “Japanese” and “enemies” bounced off my tiny frame.
You see, I am as American as you are.
I am as Japanese as you are.
I was born and raised here in Hawaii
where the majority of the population has brown eyes and black hairs.
Where sumisen is said at the mall when we bump into each other
My native tongue still echoes through your mouth, my mouth.
Just because I am Japanese American, I became a double edge sword.
You think your education system has taught you all the history.
But they only taught you discrimination
even to this day.
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