Historical Memories of the Japanese American Internment and the Struggle for Redress 9781503620278

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Historical Memories of the Japanese American Internment and the Struggle for Redress

asian america A series edited by Gordon H. Chang The increasing size and diversity of the Asian American population, its growing significance in American society and culture, and the expanding appreciation, both popular and scholarly, of the importance of Asian Americans in the country’s present and past—all these developments have converged to stimulate wide interest in scholarly work on topics related to the Asian American experience. The general recognition of the pivotal role that race and ethnicity have played in American life, and in relations between the United States and other countries, has also fostered this heightened attention. Although Asian Americans were a subject of serious inquiry in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, they were subsequently ignored by the mainstream scholarly community for several decades. In recent years, however, this neglect has ended, with an increasing number of writers examining a good many aspects of Asian American life and culture. Moreover, many students of American society are recognizing that the study of issues related to Asian America speak to, and may be essential for, many current discussions on the part of the informed public and various scholarly communities. The Stanford series on Asian America seeks to address these interests. Works from the series will come from the humanities and social sciences, specifically history, anthropology, sociology, political science, American studies, law, literary criticism, and interdisciplinary and policy studies.

Historical Memories of the Japanese American Internment and the Struggle for Redress

Alice Yang Murray

stanford university press stanford, california 2008

Stanford University Press Stanford, California © 2008 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Murray, Alice Yang. Historical memories of the Japanese American internment and the struggle for redress / Alice Yang Murray. p. cm. — (Asian America) Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-8047-4534-5 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Japanese Americans—Evacuation and relocation, 1942–1945. 2. Japanese Americans—Reparations. 3. World War, 1939–1945— Japanese Americans. 4. Collective memory—United States. I. Title. d769.8.a6m88 2008 940.53'1773—dc22 2007001251 Typeset by Newgen in 10/14 Garamond

For my husband, Steve Murray

Contents

List of Figures Acknowledgments Introduction: Historians, Objectivity, and the Politics of Knowledge Production 1. 2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

xi xiii

1

The History of “Military Necessity” and the Justification for Internment

15

Dillon S. Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation, Reintegration, and Rehabilitation”

52

“We Pledge Our Fullest Cooperation”: A History of Loyalty and Patriotism in the Japanese American Citizens League

103

The History of “Helpful” Administrative Advisers and “Objective” Researchers Within the Camps

140

The Resurrection of the History of Internment in the 1960s and 1970s

185

America’s “Concentration Camps”: Revisionist Histories and Activism in the 1960s and 1970s

232

“Three Strands Woven into a Single Fabric”: Japanese American History and the Struggle to Obtain Redress

287

Multiple Histories of Internment and the Passage of Redress Legislation

333

x Contents 9.

Representations of Internment in Art and Media, and the Lessons of History Epilogue: The Legacy of Japanese American Internment and Redress

382 435

Notes

455

Bibliography

529

Index

569

List of Figures

1

John J. McCloy, assistant secretary of war

18

2

Evacuation Order

40

3

Japanese Americans “tagged” for transport to an assembly center

42

4

War Relocation Authority sites

62

5

War Relocation Authority Custody statistics

64

6

Typical layout of WRA housing block

65

7

Dillon S. Myer and Eleanor Roosevelt visit the Gila Relocation Center

70

8

Barrack homes at Manzanar

75

9

Mike Masaoka, national secretary and field executive of the Japanese American Citizens League

104

10

Soldiers of the 442nd train at Camp Shelby

126

11

Sgt. Tatsumi Iwate on furlough in Gill, Colorado

127

Residents are fingerprinted at the Tule Lake Segregation Center

167

Edison Uno teaches the history of America’s concentration camps

190

Manzanar cemetery monument

209

12 13 14

xii

Figures 15

Michi Weglyn at a tribute for her contributions to the Japanese American community

248

California Historical Landmarks plaque at Manzanar

275

17

Fred Korematsu wears his Medal of Freedom

331

18

Kiku Hori Funabiki displays her father’s jacket at the commission hearings

362

President Ronald Reagan signs the Civil Liberties Act

378

U.S. Attorney General Richard Thornburgh presents first redress check and apology

379

Chizu Iiyama and Kiku Hori Funabiki, organizers of the Strength and Diversity exhibit

400

16

19 20 21 22 23 24

Billboard for the exhibit America’s Concentration Camps

411

Crane sculpture, part of the National Japanese American Memorial

422

Lillian Nakano, speaking at the candlelight vigil in L.A.’s Little Tokyo

448

Acknowledgments

This book would not have been possible without the support and assistance of many people and institutions. I am indebted to the individuals who shared with me their views of the history of internment and redress in oral interviews: Patty Adachi, Nancy Araki, Joan Bernstein, Noriko Sawada Bridges, Hung Wai Ching, Tom Crouch, Roger Daniels, Sue Kunitomi Embrey, Alice Esaki, Ron Fujiyoshi, Kiku Hori Funabiki, Aiko HerzigYoshinaga, June Hibino, William Hohri, Yuriko Hohri, Alice Hokama, Tow Hori, Sandra Hoshida, Chizu Iiyama, Daniel Inouye, Peter Irons, Karen Ishizuka, George Chiyoji Iwao, Miya Iwataki, Bruce Kaji, Bill Kaneko, Richard Katsuda, Sox Kitashima, Nelson Kitsuse, Jennifer Locke, Angus MacBeth,William Marutani, Robert Matsui, Owen Matsunaga, Jim Matsuoka, Norman Mineta, David Monkawa, Art Morimitsu, John Nakahata, Don Nakanishi, Bert Nakano, Lillian Nakano, Mei Nakano, Brian Niiya, Judy Niizawa, Alan Nishio, Charles Nishioka, Elsie Nishioka, George Nozawa, Kay Ochi, Franklin Odo, Gary Okihiro, Pat Okura, Merry Fujihara Omori, Susumu Ono, Haru Ozaki, Sam Ozaki, Eddie Sato, Rita Takahashi, Allicyn Hikida Tasaka, John Tateishi, Mary Toda, Rudy Tokiwa, Jack Tono, Fuku Tsukiyama, Ted Tsukiyama, Cherry Tsutsumida, Karen Umemoto, Clifford Uyeda, Kenneth Uyeda, Ron Wakabayashi, and Rochelle Wandzura. I owe special thanks to Roger Daniels, Kiku Hori Funabiki, Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga, William Hohri, George Nozawa, and Jim Matsuoka for providing amazing documents that transformed my thinking, research,

xiv

Acknowledgments

and writing. I also received valuable research assistance from the staff of the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley, the Japanese American National Museum, the National Japanese American Historical Society, the Green Library and Hoover Library at Stanford University, the McHenry Library at the University of California, Santa Cruz, the National Archives, the Office of Historic Preservation at the California Department of Parks and Recreation, the Smithsonian Institution, and the University Research Library at the University of California, Los Angeles. Photographs were provided by Richard Goode, Fumi Hayashida, Lillian Nakano, Rick Rocamora, Norman Sugimoto, Isago Isao Tanaka, the Bancroft Library, the Japanese American National Museum, the National Japanese American Historical Society, and the World Bank. Insightful comments by many scholars shaped the evolution of this project. At Stanford University, Estelle Freedman was an exemplary adviser and mentor. She continues to be an inspiring role model. Stanford historians Gordon Chang, Jack Rakove, and Al Camarillo also deserve my gratitude for their advice and support. I benefited from conversation and correspondence with distinguished scholars Sucheng Chan, Yuji Ichioka, Lon Kurashige, Valerie Matsumoto, Peggy Pascoe, Dana Takagi, Jere Takahashi, Eileen Tamura, David Yoo, Henry Yu, and Judy Yung. For their critical feedback on the text I am indebted to Alan Christy, Karen Dunn-Haley, Dana Frank, Ariela Gross, Art Hansen, Leslie Harris, Gail Hershatter, Wendy Lynch, Renee Romano, Paul Spickard, Wendy Wall, and David Yoo. Joel Wilson, Hiroyuki Matsubara, and Rene Meijer were dedicated research assistants. I am eternally grateful to Roger Daniels for his ongoing support, his generous sharing of documents and perspectives, and his suggestions for revisions that were perceptive, extremely detailed, and on target. His help has made this a much better book. My research and writing were generously funded by the Civil Liberties Public Education Fund, the Rockefeller Foundation, the American Historical Association, the History Department of Stanford University, and the Academic Senate, the Committee on Research, and the Institute for Humanities Research at the University of California, Santa Cruz. Thanks also to Muriel Bell, John Feneron, Carmen Borbon-Wu, Kirstin Oster, Rob Ehle, and the Editorial Board at Stanford University Press for their assistance. I am especially indebted to Merrill Gillaspy for her fine

Acknowledgments

xv

copyediting, to Michael Jin for his excellent indexing, and to Andy Sieverman for his superb work coordinating the production at Newgen-Austin. Finally, I thank my parents Kisuk and Sharon Yang, my in-laws Charles and Hilda Murray, and my children David and Michael Yang-Murray for inspiring and sustaining me throughout this endeavor. The book is dedicated to Steve Murray for being the ideal friend, partner, spouse, and father. He encouraged me to conduct this research, volunteered with me at different community events, listened to me as I recounted interviews and archival documents, remembered material I often forgot over the years, offered feedback on countless drafts, and made numerous sacrifices to help me complete this project. His enthusiasm, patience, and love were unbounded, and I cherish every moment I had with him. While he did not live to see the publication of this book, his spirit is contained within every page. Alice Yang Murray Santa Cruz, California

Introduction Historians, Objectivity, and the Politics of Knowledge Production

In 1995, I was going through a box of letters from Japanese Americans to the Smithsonian’s Tom Crouch, the man who curated the institution’s 1987 exhibit A More Perfect Union: Japanese Americans and the U.S. Constitution. Many of these letters criticized early drafts of Crouch’s exhibit script for emphasizing a history of Japanese American military heroism during World War II. Accusing Crouch of preparing a script that “borders on [the] thin edge of propaganda,” one writer reminded him of a quote from Miguel de Cervantes: “Historians ought to be precise, faithful, and unprejudiced; and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor affection, should make them swerve from the way of truth.”  If I’d read this quote in 1990 when I first began to explore the history of Japanese Americans, I would have agreed with the writer and Cervantes. But spending five years conducting archival research on and recording oral histories of Japanese American experiences during and after World War II exposed me to a very different view of “truth” and the role of historians. Consequently, this book is quite different from the one I set out to write in 1990. I began my research convinced that I could be an objective scholar of the Japanese American redress movement. My scholarship would analyze the struggle for landmark legislation that held the United States government accountable for violating between 1941 and 1946 the civil rights of 110,000 Japanese Americans, two-thirds of whom were American-born citizens. The facts were clear. Japanese Americans had mobilized a successful mass movement. During congressional hearings held throughout the country in 1981, more than five hundred Japanese American men and women 1

2

Introduction

expressed publicly—many for the first time—the pain and anger caused by the internment. By speaking about their experiences at community events, participating in letter-writing and petitioning campaigns, and lobbying politicians, Japanese Americans altered historic attitudes about internment and redress. This display of communal solidarity and grassroots activism contributed to the passage of the Civil Liberties Act of 1988, which authorized a national apology and $20,000 to each survivor of the wartime injustice. With hindsight I realize that I wanted to document the inspiring story of how victims of racism won justice from the government. My study would join a growing list of books recounting a history of agency and resistance by people of color against racial oppression. Like many of these scholars, I wanted my research to do more than simply shed light on groups ignored by earlier historians. I hoped to promote a history of protest that could empower Asian Americans today. The history of Japanese American redress activism might provide a model of how an ethnic community could come together to achieve important political change. Of course I did not reflect on these issues when I began my research. I was forced to reconsider my scholarly agenda and interpretations by the very process of conducting research. It quickly became apparent that the battle for redress was not the product of a unified mass movement. Japanese Americans participated in three separate campaigns that were led by the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL), the National Council for Japanese American Redress (NCJAR), and the National Coalition for Redress/Reparations (NCRR). I thought that interviewing activists in all three groups would allow me to understand the evolution of the goals and strategies of each campaign. But as I conducted these interviews and became more familiar with the activists in each group, it became obvious that these three organizations disagreed about much more than just tactics. One might expect a bit of rivalry over the role played by each group in the movement. I never anticipated, however, that the history of internment would be such a major source of controversy between these groups. I assumed that Japanese Americans had been victims of wartime racism and had banded together in the 1980s to pursue redress. I couldn’t see much conflict in this seemingly straightforward fact. But I learned that much of the rivalry between the groups during the redress movement was rooted in the different views of what actually

Introduction 3

happened during the war, the impact of internment on the Japanese American community, and the lessons of internment for the rest of the nation. In other words, I could not understand the redress movement without examining the development of these different histories of internment. Of course some activists belonged to more than one group, and not all members of one group always promoted the same history. In fact, many of the harshest critics of JACL accounts of internment were activists who joined the league in the 1970s and 1980s. Yet almost all of the activists associated each organization with a particular history of internment. The JACL was affiliated with a history of wartime cooperation and military service. Many JACL activists who had joined the organization in the 1940s and 1950s urged me to recognize that Japanese Americans who served in the military during the war were the true heroes of the community. They emphasized the importance of demonstrating Japanese American loyalty and patriotism to combat the racism that caused internment. They praised the record of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, a Japanese American unit and the most decorated of all outfits for its size and length of service. The combat team helped Japanese Americans gain acceptance and repeal discriminatory legislation after the war. According to these activists, it was the history of military heroism that led the government to support the passage of redress legislation in 1988. Supporters of the NCJAR often denounced the depiction of Japanese Americans as military heroes. Many attacked wartime JACL leaders who cooperated with the government as collaborators who usurped leadership of the community. Instead they promoted the history of Japanese Americans who protested against the government during the war. Individuals who refused to sign a loyalty questionnaire or comply with draft procedures were the true heroes of the community in the eyes of NCJAR activists. They based a redress campaign of confronting the government in court on this heritage of wartime resistance. Moreover, they accused JACL leaders of accommodating the government during the war and during the redress movement. They hoped I would help publicize a forgotten history of resistance during the war and during the redress movement. Many NCRR activists were born after the war and were less likely to criticize internees for their conduct during it. In fact, the NCRR often paid tribute to all internees, regardless of their response to military service or the loyalty questionnaire. The organization did emphasize, however,

4 Introduction

a particular interpretation of the history of internment. Its activists often linked the mass incarceration of Japanese Americans with the confinement of Native Americans on reservations, the enslavement of African Americans, and the economic exploitation of Asian immigrant laborers. That is, they emphasized the importance of viewing internment within the context of a long history of racial and economic oppression against people of color. Also, NCRR activists urged Japanese Americans to support other victims of discrimination. The NCRR’s view of redress emphasized the mobilization of former internees and their children in grassroots campaigns and the creation of multiethnic and multiracial alliances. They hoped I would help them celebrate the “power of the people” in past and present struggles against injustice. Moreover, the way in which I learned about this history of conflict between the groups forced me to reassess my assumptions about historical scholarship. I had to acknowledge that changes in my research agenda had elicited very different accounts of the history of internment and redress from my interviewees. In other words, I had never just recorded other people’s histories but had played an active role in shaping their presentations of the past. It became clear that the larger historical context and my relationship with the people I interviewed affected my questions, their responses, and the information they gave me off the record. At the beginning of my research, I asked individuals to describe how they became activists and how redress affected the Japanese American community. Most of these interviews were spent discussing the suffering Japanese Americans experienced during the war, the reasons it took forty years for the community to support the struggle for redress, and the sense of power the community gained from the passage of redress legislation. Two people I met with not only granted interviews but let me copy their extensive files of redress-organization literature. Thanks to William Hohri and Jim Matsuoka, I was able to read several years’ worth of back issues of the NCJAR Newsletter and the NCRR Banner. Both collections either include or refer to many articles from the JACL’s Pacific Citizen and several ethnic newspapers. This material made me curious about several articles that reveal impassioned debates about cooperation, military service, the loyalty questionnaire, and redress. Once my questions began addressing these issues, I began hearing stories of communal conflict during the war and during the redress movement.

Introduction 5

Recognizing that these interviews were very different from the first interviews I had conducted, I was prompted to examine theories about oral history. Reflections by Akemi Kikumura and Valerie Matsumoto on conducting oral histories as both an insider and an outsider were quite helpful. Kikumura describes the process of interviewing her mother. Kikumura might be an insider as a family member, yet she was also an outsider because she was culturally remote from her mother’s Japanese upbringing. Matsumoto, as well, recounts how her background gave her an outsider and insider status among the people she interviewed in a Japanese American agricultural community. Although she had not grown up in this community, she was a Sansei (third-generation Japanese American) woman whose parents had raised tomatoes in southern California and been interned during the war. Consequently, she was able to establish bonds of understanding, responsibility, and affection with the people she interviewed. At first I was much more of an outsider to the people I interviewed. Introducing myself as a graduate student of history at Stanford University, and then later as an assistant professor at the University of California, Santa Cruz, people could tell from my name that I was not Japanese American. Sometimes they asked about my ethnicity and learned that I was a secondgeneration Korean American. Later I heard that some people assumed from my name that I was Chinese American. Frequently asked to explain my interest in the history of internment and redress, I often spent the first ten to fifteen minutes of an interview describing my views on the injustice of internment and the need for all Americans to know the history of racism and of social movements. Realizing what little I knew about the community and wanting to show my gratitude for the assistance people gave me, I volunteered, as did my husband, for several activities around northern California; specifically, San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose. As I spent more time in the Japanese American community and individuals came to know I would never try to justify internment, they began to share accounts of the turmoil in the camps and the conflict during the redress movement. My being a sympathetic outsider may have made some people more comfortable discussing these topics with me. They did not have to worry that I had family members who had been in a camp or who had participated in the redress movement. Once people understood that I knew about this conflict but was not affiliated with any particular group, they often gave remarkably candid

6

Introduction

comments about why different redress organizations presented the history in different ways. In fact, several activists not only criticized the strategies of other groups but also accused them of misrepresenting the history of internment. My study of communal solidarity during the redress movement revealed multiple and conflicting views of the meaning of internment before, during, and after the redress movement. My research compared how representations of internment and redress by different groups of Japanese Americans, government officials, scholars, and the media had evolved over time. Trained as a social historian, I added an examination of what Chandra Talpade Mohanty aptly calls the “politics of knowledge production.”  Cultural theory provides insights about the construction of history. Michel Foucault notes that “effective” history analyzes “the reversal of a relationship of forces, the usurpation of power,” and “the appropriation of a vocabulary turned against those who had once used it.”  My book also needed to examine the power dynamics that affects the construction of histories and counterhistories. Instead of trying to discover and record the facts of the past, I had to recognize that all facts are interpretations of the past. The truth of what happened in history is relative to the standpoint of the observer. I myself was embedded in particular cultural and political perspectives that influenced my representation of the past. Nothing made this clearer to me than my decision to use the term internment to describe the mass incarceration of Japanese Americans during World War II. Ironically, I spend a lot of time in this book discussing debates from the 1970s to the 1990s about the language used to identify the wartime camps. Some groups, such as the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, used words like “relocation centers” and “evacuation” because they were the officially designated terms that appear most frequently in wartime government records. But as the commission recognized, these terms also reflected a deliberate government policy of using euphemisms to mask the reality of barbed wire compounds and armed guards. Denouncing this practice, scholars and activists declared that Japanese Americans were confined in “concentration camps” and cited evidence that wartime officials, Supreme Court justices, and members of the press had used the phrase. They noted that using the term internment to describe the ten camps administered by the War Relocation Authority (WRA) was technically incorrect. The Department of Justice ran specifically designated “internment camps” to confine “enemy aliens” in places like Crystal City, Texas, and Fort Missoula in

Introduction 7

Montana. Finally, they argued that the WRA camps fulfilled the dictionary definition of a concentration camp. Yet although I agree that places like Manzanar and Tule Lake in California fulfilled the dictionary definition of a concentration camp, I personally can’t accept this designation. The term concentration camp may once have been a euphemism for a Nazi “extermination camp.” Now the two kinds of camps are inextricably linked in the popular imagination. During World War II, officials and commentators could say Japanese Americans were confined in “concentration camps” without evoking images of Nazi atrocities. I don’t think this is true today, and I think the scholars and activists who insist on using the term know it will inspire controversy because the public associates the term with the Nazi camps. Many people spend a lot of time explaining the distinctions between the American and German camps because they recognize this link and anticipate the strong reaction the term will arouse. Consciously or unconsciously, they perhaps welcome the controversy for providing a means to educate the public about the oppressive aspects of the American camps and to provoke reflection on the meaning of incarceration. My book documents how these controversies have in fact drawn attention to the suffering of Japanese Americans during the war. Nevertheless, I would argue that for many Americans like me, internment camp has become associated with the mass incarceration of Japanese Americans during World War II in the same way that concentration camp has become associated with the Holocaust. I considered using the term “concentration camp” in the title of my book but then decided it might prevent me from reaching many potential readers. I want this book to be read by the very people who are alienated by the term “concentration camp” and would never pick up a book that promotes the term because they assume it reflects a particular bias. My hope is that after finishing my book readers will have a greater understanding of why people view history in such different ways and why the terminology has been so important to scholars and activists. This debate about the terms used to describe the wartime camps provides a perfect example of the importance of considering language, power, and politics in examining history. Yet although I appreciate cultural theorists’ analysis of history as an ideological construction serving particular interests, I reject the way some scholars reduce history to nothing more than a series of linguistic practices. The phrases relocation center, concentration camp, and internment camp are important because they have such differ-

8 Introduction

ent meanings for different groups of people. One can acknowledge that all perceptions of the social world are mediated by language and still believe in the merit of analyzing the relationship between a text and its context. I may no longer claim to be an objective scholar discovering the truth, but I can, as Gail Hershatter suggests, still try to “triangulate the shifting relationship between what was recorded, who was recording it,” and myself.  Consequently, I agree with Joyce Appleby, Lynn Hunt, and Margaret Jacob when they declare that scholars “can admit their cultural fixity, their partial grasp of truth, and still think that in trying to know the world it’s best not to divert the lens from the object—as the relativist suggests—but to leave it on and keep trying to clean it.” 

Memory, History, and Identity I would argue that oral history provides an invaluable tool for analyzing the construction of memories and narratives of history. Human memory is always the product of a collective context. Social psychologists have demonstrated that the process of remembering always involves an imaginative reconstruction that can be selective and distorted. Several studies have challenged the reliability of eyewitness testimony and repressed memory recovered by suggestive therapists. But oral history, as Alessandro Portelli notes, can shed light on how memory functions as “an active process” in the “creation of meanings.” The way an individual tries to “make sense of the past,” . . . “give a form to their lives,” and “set the interview and the narrative in their historical context” can become a subject of historical analysis. The interview may not confirm what really “happened” in the past, but it can help us understand why people subscribe to a particular belief about the past and why they represent that belief in specific ways. Oral history can help scholars explore how people “connect individual experience and its social context, how the past becomes part of the present, and how people use it to interpret their lives and the world around them.”  Researchers can ask questions during an interview that address these complex interactions between memory and history and between history and narrative. Most scholars acknowledge the importance of contextualizing all sources, written as well as oral, in our research. We try to learn about the factors affecting the creation of a source—including the background of

Introduction 9

the author, the author’s possible motives, and the impact of the intended audience. Often, however, the documentary record is so fragmentary or so sparse that we have little choice but to speculate about how the larger historical context or the specific dynamics associated with the creation of that source might have influenced the way an individual or a group recounted an experience. Scholars who study more recent history have the opportunity to use oral history to address these issues of contextualization. Moreover, using oral history in conjunction with written records allows researchers to compare representations of the past under different conditions. One can compare the memories and histories presented orally with representations in government records, memoirs, ethnic newspapers, organizational material, court documents, political speeches, and scholarship. One can ask former internees why they couldn’t confront memories of the war until 1981, and why they now denounce the camps as concentration camps. I can ask lobbyists why there were differences in the ways they described the history of Japanese Americans in congressional testimony and in a community Day of Remembrance program. I can even ask someone interviewed for the second or third time to reflect on how my questions, their responses, our relationship, and our discussion of the past may have changed over time. In other words, one can combine methods from social, cultural, and political history to examine relationships among lived experience, representational practices, and political change. Oral history can provide a vital resource for scholars interested in the interconnections between personal and collective memory. Scholarship on historical memory has proliferated in recent years. In a landmark multivolume study, French historian Pierre Nora articulates the concept of lieux de memoire, or “sites of memory,” which elicits diverse and changing interpretations of national identity and consciousness. Nora notes how periods of rapid change drive individuals, groups, and nations to want to preserve a connection to the past. The creation of sites of memory reflects the deliberate attempt to limit forgetfulness and to establish a sense of historical continuity, regardless of whether the continuity is real or imagined. Nora’s definition of lieux de memoire thus includes not only archives, monuments, and historical scholarship but also legends, songs, and paintings. Whereas Nora draws our attention to the multiple manifestations of historical memory, scholars like David Thelen promote the value of analyzing

10 Introduction

the interconnections between historical memory and constructions of identity. This research acknowledges that memories can be distorted by selective perception, intervening circumstance, and hindsight. Yet as Thelen points out, the study of how people construct and narrate memories can illuminate the process of shaping and reshaping identity. A study of historical memory can therefore provide new perspectives on the social, communal, and political contexts in which memories are created and modified to fulfill changing needs. Much of the scholarship on historical memory examines the role of the nation-state in perpetuating versions of the past that affirm dominant institutions and values. Eric Hobsbawm, for example, has delineated how historical traditions were invented to serve the interests of national leaders. He provides many examples of how national leaders invented traditions to “give any desired change (or resistance to innovation) the sanction of precedent, social continuity and natural law as expressed in history.” Hobsbawm thus emphasizes the powerful role of traditions in establishing social cohesion, institutional authority, and the inculcation of value systems and conventions of behavior. Other researchers note that the presentations of historical memory by national leaders are often contested by other groups and individuals. This seems particularly true for memories of war and other traumatic events. Commemorations, edited by John R. Gillis, provides many articles on memories of war and wars over memories in several countries. Henry Rousso documents ongoing controversies among politicians, political parties, historians, and filmmakers over interpretations of the Vichy government in postwar France. There is a veritable industry of studies on memories and representations of the Holocaust by scholars such as Saul Friedlander, Lawrence Langer, Dominick LaCapra, and numerous others. Studies in American history also have explored how different groups select and interpret particular memories of war to serve changing needs. There have been struggles over how to commemorate battlefields as sacred ground. War monuments have spawned debates about heroism and honor. The participants, events, and places associated with the Civil War or the War between the States have evoked battles over the meaning of union, emancipation, freedom, race, citizenship, and reconciliation. Abraham Lincoln, for example, has been reinvented by different groups in different generations as a hero, tyrant, emancipator, racist, and pragmatist.

Introduction 11

Conflicting interpretations of the end of World War II were spotlighted by the very public battle among veterans, historians, curators, and politicians over the Smithsonian Institution’s proposal for an exhibit on the atomic bomb. The tumultuous era of the 1960s and 1970s has received comparatively less attention. But studies on the 1968 Democratic Convention, the Vietnam War, and Watergate also demonstrate the promise of examining how people remember, forget, and commemorate this period of turmoil in American history. Several scholars also have shed light on the impact of historical memory on constructions of racial, ethnic, class, and gender identities. Many groups have developed traditions that challenge national myths of consensus and assert alternative perspectives. As Stephen Cornell observes, the relational ordering and framing of events and experiences in these narratives situates groups among events and situates events in larger matrices of relations. Not only does it give coherence and meaning to what might otherwise seem isolated episodes; it places the group at the center of the tale. It specifies the group’s relationship to those events, and in so doing it not only makes sense of events; it makes sense of the group itself.

Researchers have shown how people have used particular narratives of the past to present an oppositional history of the nation. Slave testimonials, stories of the violation of Indian treaties, and accounts of workers’ strikes can preserve memories of injustice and resistance. Community rituals, such as celebrations of Kwanzaa, Cinco de Mayo, and Norway’s “discovery” of America, can provide occasions to redefine national culture and assert pride in an ancestral heritage. The very process of reclaiming a history that has been ignored or suppressed by dominant groups can be empowering. Alternative histories can even serve as catalysts for social movements. The most ambitious scholarship analyzes multiple depictions of historical memory over a broad span of time. James Goodman’s Stories of Scottsboro shows how the 1931 trial of nine young black men accused of raping two white women generated a variety of interpretations of race, class, gender, and justice. Comparing the accounts of the alleged rape and trial by the plaintiffs, accusers, lawyers, journalists, white Southerners, and the Communist Party, Goodman is able to explore how white and black groups in the South and North constructed and reconstructed the events over six decades. John Bodnar’s examination of communal, regional, and national

12 Introduction

examples of public commemoration throughout the twentieth century suggests how patriotic values can be reinforced and revised by different groups. Leaders might try to use monuments, landmark designations, reunions, and centennials to foster ideals of social unity or civic duty, but ordinary people could accept, reformulate, and ignore such messages. This research leads Bodnar to call for more studies of the role of public discourse and exchange in the creation of traditions and more analysis of the “multivocal quality of such inventions.” Bodnar urges scholars to investigate how different communities are able to maintain what he calls a “vernacular memory” that reinforces individual sentiments and local concerns against the “official memory” promoted by powerful institutions. This book explores the interaction of official and vernacular memories of Japanese American internment over a sixty-year period. However, I also try to show the variability within these categories. Different groups of government officials and Japanese Americans presented multiple interpretations of Japanese American history and the meaning of internment. For example, internment advocate Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt and WRA head Dillon S. Myer each gave very different accounts of the history of Japanese American assimilation before the war. DeWitt insisted that Japanese Americans could never be assimilated, and Myer, frequently paternalistic and offpoint throughout the war years, believed that they could prove themselves “good” Americans. Myer worked with JACL leaders like Mike Masaoka to push depictions of internee loyalty and patriotism. In the 1960s and 1970s, scholars and Japanese American activists criticized WRA and JACL histories of internment and presented new accounts of internee suffering and protest. Multiple and often conflicting histories of internee responses were advanced by different groups of Japanese Americans during and after the redress movement. Moreover, these portrayals were validated, revised, and rejected by various public officials. In other words, there were not always clear-cut distinctions between official and vernacular memories. Consequently, I analyze how groups claiming to represent the government and the ethnic community constructed and represented histories of internment within specific “memory arenas.” I examine the role of the larger historical context, the particular dynamics of each arena, the backgrounds of the arena participants, and the impact of these presentations of history. In some arenas there were battles between different representatives of the government. In 1984, for example, conservative members of a congressional

Introduction 13

subcommittee rejected the report and testimony of representatives of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians. There were also numerous debates among Japanese Americans over who had the authority to represent the history of internment. Different groups of activists emphasized particular interpretations of the causes and consequences of internment before representatives of the government, the ethnic community, and the general public. There were times when the history of internment presented within the ethnic community differed from that presented before particular government officials. Finally, I explore how struggles to control depictions of the history of internment affected political activism in the 1970s, the passage of redress legislation in the 1980s, and the creation of exhibits, monuments, and films in the 1990s. After studying how historical representations change over time and vary according to the audience, I have no illusions that this is a definitive book on the historical memory of internment or redress. On the contrary, this book intends to suggest promising lines of inquiry for other scholars interested in memory, history, internment, and redress. One could have devoted an entire book to a more detailed examination of how one individual’s memories and representations of internment evolved over time. There is more than enough material to complete a fascinating biography of individuals as different as JACL leader Mike Masaoka, social scientist Rosalie Hankey Wax, lawsuit plaintiff William Hohri, Congressman Norman Mineta, and redress opponent Lillian Baker. I also could have spent more time comparing the diverse depictions of internment history during a single period of time. One could easily write an entire book comparing the depictions of internment in WRA analyst reports and official publications or the multiple narratives of internment presented during the 1981 commission hearings. Instead my book explores how particular individuals and groups presented the history of internment in front of specific audiences over six decades. I selected government officials, activists, and scholars who presented influential interpretations that affected perceptions of the history of internment or redress. Of course many individuals and groups were neglected or ignored. For example, this book focuses on the experiences and perspectives of Nisei, second-generation Japanese Americans, who were active in the redress movement. I found it quite daunting to try and do justice to the diversity and historical changes in the presentations of even this small but important segment of the community. I hope others will analyze representations of

14 Introduction

internment from the perspective of the Issei, the first generation. I include some discussion of Sansei activists, scholars, curators, and filmmakers, and I fully recognize that they merit much more consideration than they receive here. However, I do not regret my decision to analyze the memories and views of former internees and redress activists while I still had the chance to interview them. The fact that several of the seventy-seven individuals I spoke with have since passed away convinces me I made the right choice.

one

The History of “Military Necessity” and the Justification for Internment

On November 2, 1981, John J. McCloy testified about his role as assistant secretary of war before the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (CWRIC). This congressional body was set up to investigate the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II. At first McCloy was treated with the deference usually accorded America’s elder statesmen. Commissioner Arthur J. Goldberg, a former justice of the Supreme Court, recounted McCloy’s distinguished career—high commissioner of occupied Germany, the president of the World Bank, chair of the Council on Foreign Relations, and a man who had “befriended and advised nine Presidents, from Franklin Roosevelt to Ronald Reagan.” But now, the eighty-sixyear-old McCloy, once dubbed “Chairman of the Establishment” by journalist Richard Rovere, was shocked to find himself on the defensive. Although Goldberg continued to address him as “High Commissioner,” most of the spectators at the hearing were former internees who now publicly mocked his account of the decision to intern Japanese Americans. Several hissed when McCloy claimed that he saw “pretty well-authenticated espionage” by Japanese Americans, and then they laughed when he maintained that “very pleasant” camps were established “for the protection of the Japanese population from possible local disorders, demonstrations and reprisals.”  Even though he had not been subpoenaed or required to testify under oath, McCloy brought a lawyer with him for his second day of testimony. He casually described attorney Adrian Fisher as an “associate from his War Department days,” whom he “just happened to see” the night before and 15

16 The History of “Military Necessity”

who “might be able to offer additional recollections” to the commission. McCloy’s nervousness was betrayed, however, when Fisher referred to him as his “client” while speaking to the CWRIC commissioners. Even though McCloy seemed more cautious during the second day of his testimony, he was thrown off guard when Commissioner William Marutani, a former internee, asked him directly whether racism had played a role in the decision to intern Japanese Americans. McCloy insisted that he “didn’t see the slightest suggestion.” He defended Secretary of War Henry Stimson as “a man of great integrity” who “saved the town of Kyoto from bombing.” As “compassionate, as thorough a statesman I know,” Stimson “couldn’t possibly decide this thing on racial grounds.” Marutani then pointedly asked, “What other Americans, Mr. McCloy, shared in the war by having their mothers, fathers, grandfathers, younger brothers and sisters incarcerated during the war?” Somewhat taken aback, McCloy responded: Lots of Americans. I saw what was done, the solicitude extended. I don’t think the Japanese population was unduly subjected, considering all the exigencies to which—the amount it did share in the way of retribution for the attack that was made on Pearl Harbor.

Observers held their breath as Marutani asked the stenotypist to repeat McCloy’s testimony. Realizing this was an important moment, the stenotypist decided to play the audio recording rather than read the transcript. The spectators listened intently as they heard McCloy again describe the “retribution for the attack that was made on Pearl Harbor.” Obviously flustered, McCloy tried to amend his statement: “I think ‘retribution’ is wrong . . . I don’t think I like to use the word ‘retribution’ in connection with it. I say ‘consequences.’ ” Other words McCloy had used during the war would come back to haunt him. The ever-persistent Marutani read to the former assistant secretary of war a transcript of a phone conversation in which the provost marshal, Major General Allen W. Gullion, said, “I think McCloy did say this to [Attorney General Francis] Biddle, you are putting the Wall Street lawyer in a hell of a box, but if it is a question of the safety of the country and the Constitution, why the Constitution is just a scrap of paper to me.”  McCloy, a lawyer, promptly denounced the statement as “hearsay.” He then proclaimed, “I don’t remember saying it; I don’t believe I could.” Even forty years later McCloy continued to equate the Japanese who attacked Pearl Harbor with people of Japanese ancestry who lived in the

The History of “Military Necessity” 17

United States. He continually referred to Japanese Americans as “the Japanese” and maintained they had posed a threat to national security. Angus MacBeth, special counsel to the CWRIC, asked McCloy to confirm that the “general history of the war” and the record of military service by Japanese Americans in the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, which McCloy had helped form, showed “the overwhelming history of loyalty to this country on behalf of Japanese aliens and citizens.” McCloy replied, “I think some of them—if [the Battle of] Midway had been lost—ah, there might have been some who were pledging allegiance to the other side.” Still convinced that ethnicity sometimes determines loyalty, McCloy argued that America might, in fact, need to intern another group of Americans in the future: Within ninety miles of our shores [there are] a hundred, roughly a hundred thousand people, thoroughly trained, thoroughly equipped, well trained in modern warfare, that are being set up to serve as proxies for the Soviet Union in the various strategic parts of the world. Suppose there was a raid some ten, twenty, thirty years hence on [Florida], wouldn’t you be apt to think about moving [Cuban Americans] if there was a raid there? You can’t tell.

The testimony before the CWRIC of Colonel Karl R. Bendetsen, former assistant chief of staff in charge of civil affairs for the Western Defense Command, also unintentionally exposed the racist motives for internment. At first Bendetsen, like McCloy, insisted that racism had nothing to do with the history of the decision. “The time is long overdue,” he declared, for the government “to make its own unprejudiced investigation and defend the government against the grotesque charges . . . that it was race prejudice and not realistic precautions which induced President Roosevelt’s order.” Bendetsen had been proud of his role during the war and boasted in his 1946 Who’s Who in America entry of having “conceived method, formulated details and directed evacuation of 120,000 persons of Japanese ancestry from military areas.”  In 1981 he was more circumspect and said he was responsible only for “methods” rather than “policy.” When asked by Commissioner Goldberg why he had eliminated the description of his internment role from subsequent editions of Who’s Who, Bendetsen smiled and said his secretary had probably made the change. At the beginning of his testimony Bendetsen echoed McCloy’s claim that Japanese Americans were “evacuated” for their own protection. News

18 The History of “Military Necessity”

f i g u r e 1 . John J. McCloy, Assistant Secretary of War. World Bank Group Archives.

of the atrocities Japan committed in the Philippines and the history of antiJapanese sentiment on the West Coast prompted, according to Bendetsen, concern for internees’ safety. But when pressed about whether internment was a mistake, Bendetsen defended the policy by attacking the loyalty of the Japanese Americans he said he had wanted to protect. Acknowledging

The History of “Military Necessity” 19

that if officials “had known then what we know today, the Order would never have been issued at all,” Bendetsen maintained: Under the then circumstances, entailing the destruction of most of our Pacific Fleet and of our defenses, the Japanese Naval, Air and Ground Forces were certainly in a position to invade the West Coast of the United States. They remained so for at least a year and a half to two years after December 7, 1941. They did invade the Aleutian Islands. Both the Nisei [second generation] and the Kibei [second generation educated in Japan] would have been in a very different position and their attitudes might well have been very different than you are now assuming they would have been. The situation could well have been disastrous.

Later, Bendetsen was even more assertive about the threat of Japanese American treachery. “If a major attack had come and if there had been no evacuation,” he proclaimed, “most Japanese residents along the Western Sea Frontier, whether U.S. or Japanese born, would have supported the invading forces, even though some would not have welcomed them.”  Thus despite initial attempts to portray internment as a measure to defend Japanese Americans from violence, McCloy and Bendetsen ultimately revealed the racial assumptions that led to the incarceration. Even in 1981 they refused to distinguish between soldiers in the imperial forces and Japanese immigrants and their children on the West Coast. Unfortunately for Bendetsen and McCloy, however, there was abundant evidence available in 1981 that contradicted their history of a concern for Japanese American safety and the “military necessity” of internment. After reviewing public statements, phone transcripts, intelligence reports, memos, and letters, the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians concluded in 1983 that internment was caused by “race prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political leadership.”  Historical documents showed not only that there was no military necessity for internment but that officials like Bendetsen and McCloy knew there was no evidence of Japanese American sabotage or espionage. In fact, the CWRIC learned both men had been aware of reports clearing Japanese Americans of disloyalty charges and advising against mass removal and incarceration. These reports came from the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), the Office of Naval Intelligence, and the Federal Communications Commission (FCC). Furthermore, the commission could find no evidence to support Bendetsen and McCloy’s claims that Japanese Americans were protected from

20 The History of “Military Necessity”

vigilantes. No government officials offered this justification when the decision was announced. However, the CWRIC did uncover a letter written by McCloy in 1943. In this letter he explicitly denied the military had a responsibility to defend Japanese Americans. He acknowledged that former internees who returned to California might suffer from sporadic violence. What’s more, McCloy insisted in 1943 that only local “civil authorities” were responsible for maintaining “the general public peace.”  The biggest problem with Bendetsen and McCloy’s attempt to conceal the role of racism in the decision for internment, however, was the fact that the government’s official history of the decision presented a blatantly racist rationale. The document, Final Report: Japanese Evacuation from the West Coast, 1942, included Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt’s “Final Recommendation” to Secretary of War Henry Stimson, dated February 14, 1942. His recommendation, drafted for him by Bendetsen, presented a forthright account of the supposed danger from the “Japanese race”: In the war in which we are now engaged racial affinities are not severed by migration. The Japanese race is an enemy race and while many second and third generation Japanese born on United States soil, possessed of United States citizenship, have become “Americanized,” the racial strains are undiluted.

In a press conference one year after Japanese Americans were interned, DeWitt justified the decision by stating simply, “a Jap’s a Jap.”  DeWitt’s Final Report, which was actually ghost-written by Karl Bendetsen, tried to put more of a military gloss on the rationale for mass exclusion and detention. The “surprise attack at Pearl Harbor by the enemy,” the report declared, “crippled a major portion of the Pacific Fleet and exposed the West Coast to an attack which could not have been substantially impeded by defensive fleet operations.” More than “115,0000 persons of Japanese ancestry resided along the coast and were significantly concentrated near many highly sensitive installations essential to the war effort.” The report went on to say: The continued presence of a large, unassimilated, tightly knit racial group, bound to an enemy nation by strong ties of race, culture, custom, and religion along a frontier vulnerable to attack constituted a menace which had to be dealt with. Their loyalties were unknown and time was of the essence. The evident aspirations of the enemy emboldened by his recent

The History of “Military Necessity” 21 successes made it worse than folly to have left any stone unturned in the building up of our defenses. It is better to have had this protection and not to have needed it than to have needed it and not to have had it—as we have learned to our sorrow.

Officials had no grounds “for assuming that any Japanese, barred from assimilation by convention as he is, though born and raised in the United States, will not turn against this nation, when the final test of loyalty comes.” The fact that no sabotage had taken place on the West Coast was a “disturbing and confirming indication that such action will be taken.”  Anyone who read DeWitt’s “Final Recommendation” or Final Report could have recognized the racism and circular logic underlying his justification for mass exclusion and detention. But few criticized the government’s announced plans for mass removal or the Final Report’s portrayal of the history of the decision. In the wake of Pearl Harbor, a century of racism against Asians made the public receptive to images of “treacherous Japs” in Hawaii and on the West Coast. An irresponsible press fanned the fires of hatred with sensationalistic but unsubstantiated rumors of Japanese American sabotage. Whipping up this public hysteria, opportunistic politicians clamored for the removal of these “enemy spies.” In this climate the architects of internment could proceed without serious challenge. Officials in charge of military intelligence and the FBI knew the incarceration was unjustified but remained silent. Attorney General Francis Biddle questioned the necessity of internment before the president but did not criticize it on constitutional grounds. After Roosevelt gave his approval, Biddle never publicly criticized the policy. Members of Congress praised the president’s executive order and enacted laws to imprison Japanese Americans who resisted internment. Lawyers at the Department of Justice who were preparing briefs to defend internment before the Supreme Court discovered that DeWitt and other government officials knew of intelligence reports that contradicted their claims of military necessity. These lawyers considered disclosing this information to the Supreme Court. Ultimately, however, they bowed to War Department pressure, withheld the evidence, and misrepresented their cases before the Supreme Court. Finally, the highest court in the land went on to not only approve internment but to cite many of DeWitt’s racist arguments in the process.

22 The History of “Military Necessity”

The “Enemy Race” Few Americans questioned Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt’s call to remove Japanese Americans from the West Coast because they shared his assumption that Japanese Americans were members of an enemy race and were predisposed to be spies and saboteurs. People throughout the nation had long viewed both Japanese immigrants and their American-born children as suspicious foreigners, but the West Coast had a particularly virulent history of racism. Anti-Asian activists who had first mobilized against Chinese immigrants when they began arriving in the mid-1800s employed the same “yellow peril” imagery to attack Japanese immigrants later in the century. They portrayed Japanese immigrant men as spies or sex fiends and immigrant women as “mindless-immoral-fecund laborers.”  Japanese immigrant women were accused of “breeding like rats” and producing more “unassimilable” Japanese children. Hoping to stem this tide of hostility, the Japanese foreign ministry stopped issuing passports to picture brides in 1920. Not satisfied with this measure, the anti-Japanese forces in California persuaded the federal government to terminate all immigration from Japan in 1924. Denied the right to become naturalized citizens, Japanese immigrants were barred from owning land in California and other western states. Although the Nisei were citizens by virtue of being born on American soil, they lacked political clout. Small in number, they were just reaching voting age by the time World War II began. The first weeks following the onset of war saw little organized activity against Japanese Americans; nevertheless, stories of sabotage at Pearl Harbor and Japan’s military victories in Asia energized anti-Japanese forces. In January 1942 the Native Sons of the Golden West along with its sister organization, the Native Daughters, proclaimed the attack on Pearl Harbor a vindication of the groups’ history of activism against the Japanese in America: Had the warnings been heeded—had the federal and state authorities been “on the alert” and rigidly enforced the Exclusion Law and the Alien Land Law; had the Jap propaganda agencies in this country been silenced; had the legislation been enacted . . . denying citizenship to offspring of all aliens ineligible to citizenship; had the Japs been prohibited from colonizing in strategic locations; . . . had Japan been denied the privilege of using

The History of “Military Necessity” 23 California as a breeding ground for dual-citizens (nisei);—the treacherous Japs probably would not have attacked Pearl Harbor.

The Joint Immigration Committee sent a manifesto to California newspapers on January 2 warning that as the Nisei might be “American citizens by right of birth,” they were liable “to be called to bear arms for their Emperor, either in front of, or behind, enemy lines.” Along with the California Department of the American Legion, both groups began to urge that Japanese Americans “be placed in concentration camps.”  Some who argued for the removal of Japanese Americans were clearly motivated by economic interest in addition to being swayed by cultural stereotypes. In the Saturday Evening Post, Frank Taylor of the Grower-Shipper Vegetable Association admitted: We’re charged with wanting to get rid of the Japs for selfish reasons. We might as well be honest. We do. It’s a question of whether the white man lives on the Pacific Coast or the brown man. They came into this valley to work, and they stayed to take over . . . If all the Japs were removed tomorrow, we’d never miss them in two weeks, because the white farmers can take over and produce everything the Jap grows. And we don’t want them back when the war ends, either.

By the end of January, many California papers were also lobbying for internment. Henry McLemore, a syndicated Hearst newspaper columnist, called for the “immediate removal of every Japanese on the West Coast to a point deep in the interior”: I don’t mean a nice part of the interior either. Herd ’em up, pack ’em off and give ’em the inside room in the badlands. Let ’em be pinched, hurt, hungry and dead up against it . . . Personally, I hate the Japanese. And that goes for all of them.

A rapid succession of victories by Japanese forces in the Pacific intensified the hostility against Japanese immigrants and their children in America. On the same day as the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Japan struck the Malay Peninsula, Hong Kong, Wake and Midway islands, and the Philippines. Thailand was invaded the next day. Guam fell on December 13. The Japanese took over Wake Island on December 24 and Hong Kong on the 25th. American forces had to abandon Manila on December 27 and retreat to the Bataan peninsula.

24 The History of “Military Necessity”

As Americans struggled to make sense of these defeats, reports of the attack on Pearl Harbor set off more alarm bells. Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox had gone to Hawaii on December 9 to investigate the reasons for American losses at Pearl Harbor. On December 15, he returned to the mainland, and speaking to the press, said, “I think the most effective Fifth Column work of the entire war was done in Hawaii with the possible exception of Norway.” Knox knew there was, in fact, no evidence of a Japanese “fifth column” on the islands, but he undoubtedly hoped the comment might relieve some of the public criticism directed at him and other officials for being unprepared for the attack. His official report, released to the public the next day, made no mention of any fifth column activities. The report described espionage by Japanese consular officers but praised Japanese Hawaiians who had manned machine guns against the attacking planes. This report, however, remained classified even as headlines blared “Secretary of Navy Blames Fifth Column for the Raid,” “Fifth Column Prepared Attack,” and “Fifth Column Treachery Told.”  As it happens, Knox wasn’t the only one misleading the public about Japanese American sabotage and espionage at Pearl Harbor. On January 25 the press was given a report by an official committee of inquiry led by Supreme Court Justice Owen J. Roberts. The report declared Japanese spies, including “persons having no open relations with the Japanese foreign service,” helped the enemy during the “sneak” attack. The false accounts by Knox and Roberts encouraged newspapers throughout the country to report wild rumors about the bombing of Pearl Harbor as fact. The Los Angeles Times announced that Japanese fliers shot down over Pearl Harbor were wearing class rings from the University of Hawaii and Honolulu High School. The paper also claimed a Japanese resident who was painted green “had camouflaged himself so he could hide in the foliage and aid attacking Japs.”  Papers all over the country declared on December 30 and 31 that Japanese residents in Hawaii pointed the attacking planes to strategic installations by cutting arrows in sugarcane fields. Investigations by Naval Intelligence, the FBI, and Military Intelligence would later affirm all these reports to be false and that no Japanese Hawaiians had participated in a single act of sabotage. Quick to report unsubstantiated charges against Japanese Americans, most West Coast newspapers ignored evidence of Japanese American patriotism. The Japanese American Citizens League (JACL) later gave a civil rights award to Walt and Milly Woodward, the owners and editors of the Bain-

The History of “Military Necessity” 25

bridge Review, because their paper was the only one on the West Coast that consistently supported the rights of Japanese Americans. In a special “War Extra” distributed on the night of the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Bainbridge Review reminded the residents of Bainbridge Island, “These JapaneseAmericans of ours haven’t bombed anybody.” Ironically, the first exclusion order was issued for Bainbridge Island because the navy considered the area strategically important. After the 272 Japanese Americans in the community were uprooted from their homes and confined at Manzanar, in the desert near Independence, California, the Woodwards published a weekly column about life in the camp, by Paul Ohtaki. By consistently presenting Japanese Americans as a part of the Bainbridge Island community, even if they were sequestered far away, these columns may help explain the lack of violence that greeted Japanese Americans who returned to the area after leaving Manzanar. “They didn’t come back as strangers,” Walt Woodward explained. “We already knew that So-and-So had married So-and-So and had a baby boy and we were looking forward to meeting the new baby.”  Other mainstream newspapers ignored Japanese American perspectives. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, the San Francisco Chronicle and San Francisco News each reported one comment by JACL president Saburo Kido pledging Nisei loyalty and cooperation but nothing else. The ethnic press, on the other hand, noted a flurry of activity in the weeks that followed designed to prove Nisei loyalty. The JACL sponsored a “Give a Bomber to Uncle Sam” bond drive in San Francisco. Other chapters vowed to raise between $25,000 and $75,000 for war bonds. A Red Cross drive was organized by the Berkeley JACL. The national JACL offered to aid the federal government’s program of registering alien enemies and urged a voluntary shut-down of all Japanese language schools. Immigrants in the Japanese Association gave $1,400 to the city and county of Fresno, California, to purchase an ambulance for civil defense activities. The Buddhist Mission of North America issued a statement declaring “the suddenness and the unwarranted and inhumane attack upon these United States of America leave us, the Buddhists in America, with but one decision: the condemnation of that attack.” The organization announced, “the loyalty to the United States which we have pledged at all times must now be placed into instant action for the defense of the United States of America.” This vow of patriotism was repeated by the Japanese American Committee for Democracy, a New York group of immigrants and citizens.

26 The History of “Military Necessity”

But the chorus of hysteria grew louder. Giving credence to every rumor, military intelligence on the West Coast and members of the press issued warnings about an imminent invasion of the West Coast. Major General Joseph W. Stillwell, who served under Lieutenant General DeWitt for a month after Pearl Harbor, recorded in his diary the numerous false alarms spread by DeWitt’s G-2 Army Intelligence Branch: Dec. 9 Fleet of thirty-four [Japanese] ships between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Later—not authentic. Dec. 11 [Phone call from 4th Army] “The main Japanese fleet is 164 miles off San Francisco.” I believed it, like a damn fool . . . Of course [4th Army] passed the buck on this report. They had it from a “usually reliable source,” but they should never have put it out without check. Dec. 13 Not content with the above blah, [4th] Army pulled another at ten-thirty today. “Reliable information that attack on Los Angeles is imminent. A general alarm being considered . . .” What jackass would send a general alarm under the circumstances. The Army G-2 is just another amateur, just like all the rest of the staff. Rule: the higher the headquarters, the more important is calm.

Stillwell concluded that “nothing should go unconfirmed” because “common sense is thrown to the wind and any absurdity is believed” at the Western Defense Command. The FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover also criticized the “hysteria and lack of judgment” at DeWitt’s intelligence division. Leaders of the army, he noted, had a tendency of “losing their heads as they did in the Booneville Dam affair, where the power lines were sabotaged by cattle scratching their backs on the wires, or the ‘arrows of fire’ near Seattle, which was only a farmer burning brush as he had done for years.”  Yet the press reported unsubstantiated sightings of Japanese ships and undocumented accounts of Japanese American subversion as actual events for the first few months of the war. By the end of January, prominent voices warned of “treacherous” Japanese Americans. Even Edward R. Murrow, speaking to a Seattle audience, said, “I think it’s probable that, if Seattle ever does get bombed, you will be able to look up and see some University of Washington sweaters on the boys doing the bombing.”  West Coast politicians began to clamor for internment. On January 16, 1942, U.S. Congressman Leland Ford, from California, wrote the secretaries of the war and navy as well as the FBI director, and requested that

The History of “Military Necessity” 27

“all Japanese, whether citizens or not, be placed in inland concentration camps.” To justify this action, Ford submitted: If an American born Japanese, who is a citizen, is really patriotic and wishes to make his contribution to the safety and welfare of this country, right here is his opportunity to do so, namely that by permitting himself to be placed in a concentration camp, he would be making his sacrifice and he should be willing to do it if he is patriotic and is working for us. As against his sacrifice, millions of other native born citizens are willing to lay down their lives, which is a far greater sacrifice, of course, than being placed in a concentration camp.

On February 13, U.S. congressional representatives from California, Washington, and Oregon met to discuss a resolution on internment. Only Senator Sheridan Downey and Congressman H. Jerry Voorhis, both from California, and Congressman John Coffee, from Washington, expressed any doubts about the need for mass removal. But they were eventually worn down by Ford’s strident attacks and demands for a resolution endorsing mass exclusion. Consequently, Congressman Clarence Lea, from California, sent a letter to President Roosevelt on behalf of the delegations, recommending “the immediate evacuation of all persons of Japanese lineage” from the three states. “We make these recommendations,” explained Lea, “in order that no citizen, located in a strategic area, may cloak his disloyalty or subversive activity under the mantle of his citizenship alone.”  Most other members of Congress showed little interest in the issue of mass removal. They neither supported nor opposed the proposal made by their West Coast colleagues. A trio of Southern Democrats, however, provided a ringing endorsement of the plan to force Japanese Americans from the West Coast. Senator Tom Stewart, from Tennessee, Representative John Rankin, from Mississippi, and Representative Martin Dies, from Texas, had no trouble accepting the racist rationale for internment. According to Stewart, the “cowardly and immoral” individuals of Japanese ancestry “are different from Americans in every conceivable way, and no Japanese . . . should have the right to claim American citizenship.” In his eyes, “a Jap is a Jap anywhere you find him, and his taking the oath of allegiance to this country would not help even if he should be permitted to do so.” Rankin declared, “This is a race war . . .” and “. . . the white man’s civilization has come into conflict with Japanese barbarism . . . I say it is of vital importance that we get rid of every Japanese whether in Hawaii or on the mainland.” 

28 The History of “Military Necessity”

Despite the calls for a West Coast evacuation, fueled by the purported “evidence” of sabotage at Pearl Harbor, there was never a mass removal of residents of Japanese ancestry from Hawaii. This was not because of any good will evinced by politicians in Washington. Intelligence agencies had kept Japanese Hawaiians under surveillance since 1932. Roosevelt even solicited proposals to intern Japanese Hawaiians five years before the attack on Pearl Harbor when in 1936 he asked the navy to prepare a list of Nikkei (individuals of Japanese ancestry) who visited Japanese ships in Hawaiian ports and urged that these individuals be placed in “concentration camps” in the event of war. In the aftermath of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii’s “enemy aliens” and “citizens of enemy ancestry” were singled out under martial law. The military established an Alien Registration Bureau and required enemy aliens to carry registration cards at all times. The bureau had to approve any proposed residential or occupational changes or plans to travel outside a home island. Ultimately, 1,250 Nikkei from the Hawaiian Islands, less than 1 percent of the 150,000, were interned. The manuscript History of the Provost Marshal’s Office later claimed, “It is certain that many persons who might have been tempted to give aid, support or comfort to our enemy were deterred from so doing by the severity and promptness with which punishment was meted out by the Provost Courts operating under the martial regime.” Governor Joseph B. Poindexter declared in an April 27, 1946 edition of the Honolulu Advertiser, “Internment of all suspected enemy aliens was the only safe course to put the ‘fear of god’ in the hearts of those who would assist the enemy.” Most Hawaiian Japanese avoided internment even though the islands had been bombed and seemed much more vulnerable to an invasion than the West Coast. Nikkei made up only 2 percent of California’s population, yet every third person living in Hawaii was of Japanese ancestry. The military commander of Hawaii, General Delos Emmons, resisted Washington’s calls for the mass incarceration of Japanese Hawaiians, not because of a commitment to civil rights, but because Japanese labor was critical to both the civilian and military economies of the islands. In Oahu, 90 percent of the carpenters, almost all of the transportation workers, and a significant proportion of the agricultural laborers were of Japanese ancestry. Emmons knew he needed Nikkei workers to help rebuild Pearl Harbor. Even with Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox demanding that “all of the Japs” be

The History of “Military Necessity” 29

removed from Oahu, and the War Department sending several requests to remove Nikkei residents to the mainland, Emmons stalled and delayed. In a letter, he tried to reassure Assistant Secretary of War John J. McCloy that “the feeling that an invasion is imminent is not the belief of most of the responsible people . . . There have been no known acts of sabotage committed in Hawaii.” When the pressure intensified, Emmons tried to placate the politicians in Washington by proposing to send out three hundred Japanese every two weeks “if berths were available.” Repeatedly citing the logistical and labor problems removing Nikkei to the mainland would entail, Emmons succeeded in fending off Washington calls for mass internment. The difference in the way Delos Emmons and John L. DeWitt responded to calls to remove and confine Nikkei living under their command shows how individual personalities could affect the history of internment. Emmons recognized that the rumors of Nikkei sabotage at Pearl Harbor were unfounded. A shrewd pragmatist, Emmons hindered Washington internment plans because he realized that he needed Nikkei labor to reestablish Hawaii’s defenses and economy. DeWitt, on the other hand, was insecure, inconsistent, and indecisive. Almost twenty years earlier he had helped devise a plan to militarize Hawaii in case of war, a plan that included the possible selective internment of civilians by the military. Witnessing the disgrace and removal of Lieutenant General Walter C. Short following the bombing of Pearl Harbor, DeWitt wanted to make sure he was never accused of sleeping at his post. At first, he did not distinguish between the threat posed by Japanese, Italian, and German “enemy” aliens. On December 19 his headquarters recommended that “all alien subjects fourteen years of age and over, of enemy nations” be removed to the interior of the United States and held “under restraint after removal” to prevent their clandestine return. This proposal caught the eye of Major General Allen W. Gullion, the army’s provost marshal. An ambitious bureaucrat, Gullion hoped to acquire control over enemy aliens through the Department of Justice. Transcriptions of phone calls recorded by the army reveal how the provost marshal and his subordinate, Colonel Karl R. Bendetsen, strenuously lobbied DeWitt and members of the departments of Justice and War to support a plan for mass exclusion. It was Gullion who urged DeWitt to round up Japanese American citizens as well as immigrants. DeWitt initially opposed the idea, and on December 26 told Gullion:

30 The History of “Military Necessity” I’m very doubtful that it would be common sense procedure to try and intern 117,000 Japanese in this theater . . . An American citizen, after all, is an American citizen. And while they may not be loyal, I think we can weed the disloyal out of the loyal and lock them up if necessary.

But Gullion and Bendetsen’s repeated calls and unreliable army reports of Japanese American radio transmissions gradually convinced DeWitt of the need to focus on the threat posed by “Jap” citizens as well as immigrants. Relying on improperly trained army personnel to monitor radio transmissions, DeWitt believed reports that Japanese Americans were communicating with the Japanese navy at sea. On January 9 George Sterling, head of the FCC’s Radio Intelligence Division, had warned DeWitt about the inadequacies of the general’s monitoring operations. Sterling’s memo on his conference with DeWitt characterized army personnel as “unskilled and untrained”: Most are privates who can read only ten words a minute. They know nothing about signal identification, wave propagation and other technical subjects, so essential to radio intelligence procedure. They take bearings with loop equipment on Japanese stations in Tokio . . . and report to their commanding officers, knowing no different, pass it on to the General and he takes their word for it. It’s pathetic to say the least.

Yet even as Sterling tried to make DeWitt aware of these problems, he could sense the general “seemed concerned and, in fact, seemed to believe that the woods were full of Japs with transmitters.”  Sterling’s assessment of the general’s irrational fears was correct, and on January 24, DeWitt told Bendetsen of “reports” that Japanese Americans were communicating with the Japanese navy at sea. Convinced of the existence of a spy network, he now saw the “Jap” problem in a “new light” and told Bendetsen, “The fact that we have [not even] sporadic attempts at sabotage clearly means that control is being exercised somewhere.” 

Executive Order 9066 By the end of January, DeWitt seemed to have accepted Gullion and Bendetsen’s advice to include citizens in his removal plans. On January 29 Bendetsen called DeWitt to confirm, “You are of the opinion that there will

The History of “Military Necessity” 31

have to be an evacuation on the West coast, not only of Japanese aliens but also of Japanese citizens, that is you would include citizens along with alien enemies.”  Even though DeWitt affirmed that internment was inevitable, Bendetsen called two days later to make sure the general had not wavered yet again. This time DeWitt was quite emphatic about his removal plans: “First the Japanese . . . the most dangerous . . . the next group, the Germans . . . the third group, the Italians . . . We’ve waited too long as it is. Get them all out.”  But when Assistant Secretary of War John J. McCloy called on February 3, just two days later, and said that the army “should not take the position, even in your conversations with political figures out there [favoring] a wholesale withdrawal of Japanese citizens and aliens from the Coast,” DeWitt declared, “I haven’t taken any position.” McCloy and Secretary of War Henry Stimson were still concerned about the legality of a mass removal of citizens. On February 3, Stimson wrote in his diary that although he distrusted the Nisei, he recognized that mass exclusion would constitute a racist violation of their citizenship rights: If we base our evacuation upon the ground of removing enemy aliens, it will not get rid of the Nisei who are the second generation naturalized Japanese, and as I said, the more dangerous ones. If on the other hand we evacuated everybody including citizens, we must base it as far as I can see upon solely the protection of specified plants. We cannot discriminate among our citizens on the ground of racial origin. We talked the matter over for quite a while and then postponed it in order to hear further from General DeWitt who has not yet outlined all of the places that he wishes protected.

In light of Stimson and McCloy’s concerns and after meeting with James Rowe, of the Department of Justice, and California governor Culbert Olson, DeWitt expressed a willingness to change his plans again. He said he would agree to allow Japanese Americans to move from the coastal zone to the interior of California, where they could “raise vegetables like they are doing now.” Colonel Archer Leach, another deputy of Gullion’s, called Bendetsen and complained about the “decided weakening on the part of Gen. DeWitt.”  But in the next few days, more false reports about Japanese Americans communicating with the Japanese navy were spread by the press and

32 The History of “Military Necessity”

politicians throughout California. There was talk of the possibility of another “Pearl Harbor” on the Pacific Coast. Gullion used these reports to solidify DeWitt’s support for mass removal and to convince McCloy to intern all Japanese Americans in “camps east of the Sierra Nevada.” McCloy, like Stimson, wanted to get rid of Japanese Americans but was concerned about the legality of mass exclusion. On February 3 he had called DeWitt to advocate a policy of designating restricted military zones and allowing reentry by permit. They could then allow back in “everyone but the Japs.” In the next two weeks McCloy and Stimson were nevertheless converted to the idea of mass exclusion. It is not exactly clear what caused them to overcome their concerns about what they recognized as a racist and unconstitutional policy. Public hysteria mounted as the press and West Coast politicians began calling for an evacuation. But McCloy had received a letter on February 9, from Archibald MacLeish of the Office of Facts and Figures, indicating that public opinion was not uniform. According to a California public opinion poll, between 23 and 43 percent of the population felt further action was needed. Most of these people tended “to cluster in the low income, poorly educated groups, and they are the ones who are most suspicious of local Japanese in general.” MacLeish concluded that although “the situation in California is serious, it is not as desperate as some people are said to believe . . . We can be pretty definite in saying that a majority of people think that the Government (chiefly the FBI) has the situation in hand.”  In his 1947 memoir, On Active Service in Peace and War, Stimson defended the decision to intern Japanese Americans, arguing, “Japanese raids on the west coast seemed not only possible but probable in the first months of the war, and it was quite impossible to be sure that the raiders would not receive important help from individuals of Japanese origin.” Stimson then went on to advance the “protective custody” rationale that McCloy and Bendetsen would try to revive in 1981. “More than that,” Stimson wrote, “anti-Japanese feeling on the west coast had reached a level which endangered the lives of all such individuals; incidents of extra-legal violence were increasingly frequent.”  Yet neither his public statements nor his diary ever evinced this concern about guaranteeing the safety of Japanese Americans before the decision was made. Stimson’s diary entry for February 10 indi-

The History of “Military Necessity” 33

cates that his only reservation about mass removal was a concern that it would be recognized as blatantly racist and unconstitutional: The second generation Japanese (Nisei) can only be evacuated either as part of a total evacuation, giving them access to the areas only by permits, or by frankly trying to put them out on the ground that their racial characteristics are such that we cannot understand or trust even the citizen Japanese. This latter is the fact but I am afraid it will make a tremendous hole in our constitutional system to apply it.

Perhaps Stimson decided that enough people might share his own view that the Nisei just couldn’t be trusted and would ignore the constitutional implications. In any case, the next day Stimson agreed to telephone Roosevelt to recommend the mass removal of Japanese Americans. Later that afternoon, McCloy called Bendetsen to tell him Roosevelt “says go ahead and do anything you think necessary . . . if it involves citizens, we will take care of them too . . . but it has got to be dictated by military necessity.”  Roosevelt had already received information that should have made him question the military necessity argument. The president’s own informal intelligence system, overseen by John Franklin Carter, a journalist, had earlier affirmed the overall loyalty of Japanese Americans. Carter relied on reports from Curtis B. Munson, a Chicago businessman who gathered intelligence by posing as a representative of the State Department. Munson based his intelligence reports on information from the FBI agent in charge of Honolulu, on British Intelligence in California, and on Naval Intelligence in southern California. On November 7, 1941, Carter forwarded to Roosevelt a report by Munson assessing Japanese Americans on the West Coast. Carter’s summary of the report quoted Munson’s conclusion that “there are still Japanese in the United States who will tie dynamite around their waist and make a human bomb out of themselves . . . but today they are few.” Carter also highlighted Munson’s horror that “dams, bridges, harbors, power stations etc. are wholly unguarded everywhere.” Nevertheless, Munson proclaimed, “There is no Japanese ‘problem’ on the coast.” Munson explained, “For the most part, the local Japanese are loyal to the United States, or at worst, hope that by remaining quiet they can avoid concentration camps or irresponsible mobs.”  Munson’s complete report stated, “Japan will commit some sabotage largely depending on imported Japanese as they are

34 The History of “Military Necessity”

afraid of and do not trust the Nisei.” He concluded, “We do not believe that they would be at least any more disloyal than any other racial group in the United States with whom we went to war.”  Munson sent three or four more reports to Carter between December—after the attack—and February that reconfirmed this estimate of the passive loyalty at least of Japanese Americans on the West Coast. These reports were shared with the Western Defense Command. One reason Munson felt most Japanese Americans did not pose a serious threat to security was because he respected the views of Lieutenant Commander Kenneth D. Ringle of the Office of Naval Intelligence in southern California. In the spring of 1941 Ringle had organized a break-in at the Japanese consulate in Los Angeles and found evidence that Japanese officials regarded both Nisei and first-generation Issei as “cultural traitors” who could not be relied on for espionage work. Consular officials felt white Americans would make better agents. After Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox made his unsubstantiated claims of a fifth column threat, Munson and Carter urged that a statement affirming the loyalty of ethnic Japanese be made by the president or vice president. Nothing was done, however, to contradict the hysteria Knox promoted. FBI chief J. Edgar Hoover also felt Knox’s claims of a fifth column were unfounded and that the great majority of Japanese immigrants were lawabiding, but he never stated this in public. Instead, he sent Attorney General Francis Biddle a memo. At Biddle’s request, he also sent an analysis of the proposal for mass exclusion. Hoover’s position was clear: “The necessity for mass evacuation” was based primarily on public and political pressure rather than on “factual data.” Attributing this political pressure to “public hysteria and in some instances, the comments of the press and radio announcers,” Hoover concluded that the case to justify mass removal on security grounds had not been made. Yet as this evidence was never made public, DeWitt, Gullion, Bendetsen, McCloy, and Stimson could proceed with their internment plans without worry of interference. The only government official who made any real effort to prevent internment was Attorney General Biddle. Throughout December, January, and February, he tried to calm public hysteria and persuade Roosevelt that mass removal was unnecessary. On December 8, 1941, shortly after Congress declared war on Japan, Biddle issued a statement in Washington. He let it be known that “only a comparatively small number” of

The History of “Military Necessity” 35

Japanese nationals were “dangerous to the peace and security” of the nation and would be taken into custody. He warned against any tendency to view all of them as enemies, and declared later in the day that “even in the present emergency, there are persons of Japanese extraction whose loyalty is unquestioned.” On December 10, he offered this assurance to the country: “The great majority of our population will continue to be loyal to our democratic principles if we, the citizens of the United States, permit them to be.”  Then on February 1 Biddle tried in vain to get the War Department to agree to a joint press release. In the release he wanted to reassure the public of these two facts: “There has been no substantial evidence of planned sabotage by any alien,” and both the Justice and War departments “are in agreement that the present military situation does not at this time require the removal of American citizens of the Japanese race.”  At a meeting to discuss the press release, Biddle and his aide James Rowe tried to counter the efforts of Gullion and Bendetsen to win Stimson and McCloy’s support for mass exclusion. In a phone conversation with General Mark Clark, Gullion recounted the battle between the two sides: [The Justice officials] said there is too much hysteria about this thing; said these Western Congressmen are just nuts about it and the people [are] getting hysterical and there is no evidence whatsoever of any reason for disturbing citizens, and the Department of Justice, Rowe started it and Biddle finished it—The Department of Justice will have nothing whatsoever to do with any interference with citizens, whether they are Japanese or not. They made me a little sore and I said, well listen Mr. Biddle, do you mean to tell me that if the Army, the men on the ground, determine it is a military necessity to move citizens, Jap citizens, that you won’t help me. He didn’t give a direct answer, he said the Department of Justice would be through if we interfered with citizens and writ of habeas corpus, etc.

The attorney general then tried to convince the president to oppose the plan at a luncheon conference on February 7. He informed Roosevelt, saying, “We believe mass evacuation at this time inadvisable, that the F.B.I. was not staffed to perform it; that this was an Army job not, in our opinion, advisable”; and “that there were no reasons for mass evacuation.”  In a last ditch effort Biddle sent FDR a memo on February 17. It was described as a briefing paper for a press conference that summarized his reasons against mass exclusion. Biddle hoped to convince the president that the

36 The History of “Military Necessity”

wild charges being made by national figures were unfounded. On Lincoln’s birthday, nationally respected columnist Walter Lippmann wrote of an impending invasion of the West Coast. Lippmann had met with DeWitt and was convinced by the general’s “evidence” of shore-to-ship signaling by Japanese Americans. Thus in his column he declared, “The Pacific Coast is in imminent danger of a combined attack from within and from without.” Lippmann also wrote: It is the fact that the Japanese navy has been reconnoitering the Pacific Coast more or less continually and for a considerable period of time, testing and feeling out the American defenses. It is the fact that communication takes place between the enemy at sea and enemy agents on land. These are facts which we shall ignore or minimize at our peril.

Acknowledging that there had been no sabotage on the Pacific Coast, he echoed DeWitt in insisting that this was a “sign that the blow is well organized and that it is held back until it can be struck with maximum effect.” Declaring the Pacific a “combat zone,” he insisted that “nobody’s constitutional rights include the right to reside and do business on a battlefield.”  Bolstered by Lippmann’s support for mass exclusion, Scripps-Howard news service commentator Westbrook Pegler proclaimed, “The Japanese in California should be under guard to the last man and woman right now and to hell with habeas corpus until the danger is over.”  A single column by Scripps-Howard commentator Ernie Pyle, extolling the loyalty of a Japanese American friend, and a series of San Francisco Chronicle articles by Chester Rowell, supporting Japanese Americans, could not counter the sensationalistic images of spies and saboteurs filling the public’s mind. Denouncing the baseless charges of Lippmann and Pegler, Biddle told Roosevelt, “It is extremely dangerous for the columnists, acting as ‘Armchair Strategists and Junior G-Men,’ to suggest that an attack on the West Coast and planned sabotage is imminent when the military authorities and F.B.I. have indicated that this is not the fact.” He also reminded the president that “under the Constitution 60,000 of these Japanese are American citizens.”  In his memoirs, published in 1962, Biddle speculated, “If, instead of dealing almost exclusively with McCloy and Bendetsen, I had urged [Stimson] to resist the pressure of his subordinates, the result might have been different.” Biddle explained, “But I was new to the Cabinet and disinclined to insist on my view to an elder statesman whose wisdom and integrity I greatly

The History of “Military Necessity” 37

respected.”  What the attorney general neglected to mention, however, was that although he had opposed mass exclusion, he had also advised Stimson in a letter, dated February 12, of how it could be “legally” justified: I have no doubt that the Army can legally, at any time, evacuate all persons in a specified territory if such action is deemed essential from a military point of view . . . No legal problem arises when Japanese citizens are evacuated but American citizens of Japanese origin could not, in my opinion, be singled out of an area and evacuated with the other Japanese . . . However, the result might be accomplished by evacuating all persons in the area and then licensing back those whom the military authorities thought were not objectionable from a military point of view.

Furthermore, even though Biddle voiced to Roosevelt his objections, he never declared to the president that mass removal was unconstitutional. He also never exposed to the public the intelligence reports that showed no evidence of sabotage or espionage. Once Roosevelt decided to support internment, Biddle ended his campaign because, as he said in his autobiography, “I did not think I should oppose it any further.” Instead, he sent a memo counseling the president as to how to justify the order and the powers it granted to the military. On February 19, Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, which gave DeWitt the authority to order mass exclusion. Ironically, later that day in Los Angeles, the United Citizens Federation held its first meeting, of around a thousand people, to persuade the public, the press, and the government that attacks on Japanese American loyalty and patriotism were unjustified. But the decision to uproot Japanese American immigrants and citizens from their homes had already been made. It was too late. Once internment was decided, Japanese Americans and their supporters were not in a strong position to mount an effective campaign to combat it. They didn’t know about the evidence that President Roosevelt, Attorney General Biddle, and the War Department had seen that could have been used to challenge the order. Not revealed to the public was the report by businessman Curtis Munson sent to journalist John Franklin Carter, Roosevelt, and the War Department; the naval intelligence reports of Lieutenant Commander Kenneth Ringle referred to by Munson; J. Edgar Hoover’s review of FBI intelligence; and Biddle’s recommendations against exclusion. Consequently, Japanese Americans couldn’t know that intelligence experts

38 The History of “Military Necessity”

such as Ringle and high-ranking officials such as Hoover and Biddle believed they posed no threat to national security. Lacking access to the complete historical record behind the decision as well as the evidence countering its rationale, Japanese Americans were at a loss to mount a good defense. How could declarations of patriotism relieve the “yellow peril” fears promoted by the anti-Japanese forces for more than four decades, which were reinforced by the “sneak attack” at Pearl Harbor and devastating military losses in the Pacific? How could a few individual and organizational vows of loyalty compete with the esteemed Lippmann’s description of “shore-to-ship signaling” and “imminent invasion”? How could bond-raising drives combat the secretary of the navy’s account of a fifth column? The inherently weak position of Japanese Americans and the few non– Japanese Americans who supported them became clear during congressional committee hearings held in February, after Executive Order 9066 was signed. The decree gave DeWitt the power to issue orders but not the power to punish those who disobeyed them. The War Department thus asked Congress to provide DeWitt with that authority. The General wanted noncompliance to be a felony punishable by mandatory imprisonment because “you have greater liberty to enforce a felony than you have a misdemeanor, viz. You can shoot a man to prevent the commission of a felony.”  Congressman John H. Tolan, from California, chaired the House Select Committee, which was charged with holding public hearings along the West Coast to examine mass exclusion. He noted Executive Order 9066 paralleled “the recommendation in almost the same words of the Pacific Coast delegation.”  The deck was clearly stacked against any thoughtful consideration of the evidence. Yet a small group of academics, ministers, labor activists from the Congress of Industrial Organizations, and Nisei appeared before many of the same politicians who had earlier signed a resolution demanding the removal of Japanese Americans. Less than one-tenth of the witnesses who testified in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle opposed mass removal. Most of the speakers had a long history of anti-Japanese activism and, therefore, endorsed exclusion. Some of the more vicious speakers also called for forced deportation to Japan, disfranchisement of Nisei citizens, and even sterilization. On the other side, those who defended Japanese Americans argued for individual investigations of suspects and selective removal. In San Francisco,

The History of “Military Necessity” 39

Rev. Galen Fisher, of the Pacific Coast Committee for Fair Play, emphasized that anyone who might have posed a threat had already been rounded up by the FBI. Consequently, even in the unlikely case that potential troublemakers remained at large, they had no leaders to guide them. Mass removal, moreover, was impractical and would not only wreak great suffering but would drain off financial resources better spent on supporting the war effort. Finally, Fisher warned that Tokyo could use the proposed measure as “devastating propaganda” against the United States. This argument was echoed by Rev. E. W. Thompson, pastor of the Japanese Methodist Church, in Seattle. “It would be defeating democracy, doing what Hitler did to the Jews,” Thompson declared. The few Nisei who were called upon to testify before the House Select Committee encountered condescension and skepticism from their questioners. Nisei who came to pledge their loyalty were grilled about where they had learned English so well and how they felt about the imperial “indoctrination” promoted by Japanese language schools. Mike Masaoka, a Nisei who testified on behalf of the Japanese American Citizens League, tried to recount evidence of patriotism by Japanese Americans. He was cut off by Congressman Tolan, who then proceeded to perpetuate the false history of fifth column activity during the bombing of Pearl Harbor to justify why the Nisei could never be trusted. “We had our FBI in Honolulu,” Tolan declared, “yet they had probably the greatest, the most perfect system of espionage and sabotage ever in the history of war, native-born Japanese.” Continuing, Tolan insisted, “On the only roadway to the shipping harbor, there were hundreds and hundreds of automobiles clogging the street, don’t you see.”  In Seattle, Congressman Laurence Arnold told another Nisei, “Of course, you probably recognize that if the Japanese in Honolulu and Hawaii had not conducted themselves as they did on December 7, that perhaps such drastic action would not be thought of in this area of the United States at this time.”  Months later the committee would receive information that directly contradicted this inaccurate history of spies and saboteurs at Pearl Harbor. Honolulu’s chief of police, W. A. Gabrielson, reported to the committee that there were “no acts of sabotage in the city and county of Honolulu.” Colonel Kendall J. Fielder, chief of Hawaii’s military intelligence, informed Tolan that there had been no sabotage on any of the Hawaiian Islands. Even Stimson, who authorized the mass removal, acknowledged to the committee that the “War Department has received no information of

DEVELOPMENT AND EXECUTION OF EVACUATION PLAN

WESTERN DEFENSE COMMAND AND FOURTH ARMY WARTIME CIVIL CONTROL ADMINISTRATION

Presidio of San Francisco, California

INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF

JAPANESE; ANCESTRY LIVING IN THE FOLLOWING AREA: All of that portion of the County of Alameda, State of California, within that boundary beginning at the point at which the southerly limits of the City of Berkeley meet San Francisco Bay; thence easterly and following the southerly limits of said city to · College A venue; thence southerly on College Avenue to Broadway; thence southerly on Broadway to the southerly limits of the City of Oakland; thence following the limits of said city westerly and northerly, and following the shoreline of San Francisco Bay to the point of beginning. Pursuant to the provisions of Civilian Exclusion Order No. 27, this Headquarters, dated April 30, 19:42, all persons of Japanese ancestry, both alien and non-alien, will be evacuated from the above area by 12 o'clock noon, P.W.T., Thursday May 7, 1942. No Japanese person living in the above area will be permitted to change residence after 12 o'clock noon, P.W.T., Thursday, April 30, 1942, without obtaining special permission from the representative of the Commanding Gen~ral, Northern California Sector, at the Civil Control Station located at: 530 Eighteenth Street, Oakland, California. Such permits will only be granted for the purpose of uniting members of a family, or in cases of grave emergency. The Civil Control Station is equipped to assist the Japanese population affected by this evacuation in the following ways: 1. Give advice an.d instructions on the evacuation. 2. Provide services with respect to the management, leasing, sale, storage or other disposition of most kinds of property, such as real estate, business and professional equipment, household goods, boats, automobiles and livestock. 3. Provide temporary residence elsewhere for all Japanese in family groups. 4. Transport persons and a limited amount of clothing and equipment to their new residence.

f i g u r e 2 . Evacuation Order. U.S. War Department, Final Report: Japanese Evacuation from the West Coast, 1942 (Washington, DC: GPO, 1943), 99–100.

THE FOLLOWING INSTRUCTIONS MUST BE OBSERVED: 1. A responsible member of each family, preferably the head of the family, or the person in whose napte most of the property is held, and each individual living alone, will report to the Civil Control Station to receive further instructions. This must be done between 8:00 A. M. and 5:00 P. M. on Friday, May 1, 1942, or between 8:00A.M. and 5:00P.M. on Saturday, May 2, 1942. 2. Evacuees must carry with them on departure for the Assembly Center, the following property: (a) Bedding and linens (no mattress) for each member of the family; (b) Toilet articles for each member of the family; (c) Extra clothing for each member of the family; (d) Sufficient knives, forks, spoons, plates, bowls and cups for each member of the family; (e) Essential personal effects for each mem~r of the family.

All items carried will be securely packaged, tied and plainly marked with the name of the owner and numbered in accordance with instructions obtained at the Civil Control Station. The size and number of packages is limited to that which can be carried by the individual or family group. 3.

No pets of any kind will be permitted.

4. No personal items and no household goods will be shipped to the Assembly Center. 5. The United States Government through its agencies will provide for the storage at the sole risk of the owner of the more substantial household items, such as iceboxes, washing machines, pianos and other heavy furniture. Cooking utensils and other small items will be accepted for storage if crated, packed and plainly marked with the name and address of the owner. Only one name and address will be used by a given family. 6. Each family, and individual living alone will be fur~ished transportation to the Assembly Center or will be authorized to travel by private automobile in a supervised group. All instructions pertaining to the movement will be obtained at the Civil Control Station.

Go to the Civil Control Station between the hours of 8 :00 A. M. and 5:00 P. M., Friday, May 1, 1942, or between the hours of 8:00 A. M. and 5:00 P. M., Saturday, May 2, 1942, to receive further instructions.

J. L. DEWITT Lieutenant General, U. S. Army Commanding April 30, 1942

See Civilian Exclusion Order No. 27.

42 The History of “Military Necessity”

f i g u r e 3 . Grandfather and grandchildren “tagged” for transport to an assembly center await evacuation bus in Hayward, California. Photographer: Dorothea Lange. Hayward, California. 5/8/42. Series 14, Group 29, Volume 59, Section G, WRA no. C-160, War Relocation Authority Photographs of Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement Collection, BANC PIC 1967.014—PIC, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

sabotage committed by Japanese during the attack on Pearl Harbor.” Also, James Rowe, assistant to the attorney general, wrote Tolan that he had been advised by Hoover that “there was no sabotage committed there [in Hawaii] prior to December 7, on December 7, or subsequent to that time.”  However, none of these reports were received before Congress voted on the issue. Still, the fact that there was little interest in discussing any

The History of “Military Necessity” 43

of the pros and cons of the bill that provided criminal penalties for failing to comply with the exclusion order raises doubts about whether such evidence might have made a difference. Accepting the rationale for internment, members of both houses simply assumed the bill would pass. The only debate concerned the wording of the bill and the definition of a “restricted area.” Once that was clarified, the bill passed easily and was signed into law by President Roosevelt on March 21. Defying the exclusion order was now a crime. The Tolan Committee’s decision to then support a bill punishing anyone who violated the exclusion orders was practically preordained. One speaker who appeared before the committee, however, would make a difference in the history of the decision to intern Japanese Americans. California’s attorney general Earl Warren, who later became chief justice of the Supreme Court, appeared before the committee to lend his vigorous support for forced removal. Armed with fifty pages of written testimony, lists of organizations and names, and reams of detailed maps, Warren impressed his listeners with his “expertise” on the history of California settlement patterns. In a professorial manner, Warren displayed maps showing suspicious “clusters” of Japanese American farms surrounding a “vast array of strategic installations,” including military bases, aircraft plants, airports, highways, dams, pumping stations, and bridges. When Congressman Laurence Arnold, from Illinois, asked why “it just couldn’t have happened that way,” Warren replied, “We don’t believe that it could in all of these instances, and knowing what happened at Pearl Harbor and other places, we believe that there is a pattern to these land ownerships in California.” No one challenged Warren’s misrepresentation of the history of Pearl Harbor or California. Later, Bill Hosokawa, a former internee and journalist, would wonder why no one had pointed out that “many of the areas had been wilderness when Japanese immigrants cleared the brush and leveled the land for farms—long before highways, military camps, power lines and the Wright brothers had appeared on the scene.”  Still, no one corrected Warren. On the contrary, DeWitt’s Final Report repeated Warren’s settlement “history” verbatim and without attribution. This official explanation of why Japanese Americans were removed from the West Coast repeated a presentation given after the decision had already been announced. Perhaps DeWitt felt justified in appropriating Warren’s statements for his

44 The History of “Military Necessity”

Final Report because the California attorney general’s testimony before the House Select Committee had a familiar ring. Warren had met with DeWitt right around the time the lieutenant general was articulating his analysis of why there was no evidence of sabotage on the West Coast. In any case Warren’s explanation of the lack of sabotage on the West Coast clearly paid tribute to DeWitt’s belief that “control is being exercised somewhere”: I take the view that this is the most ominous sign in our whole situation. It convinces me more than perhaps any other factor that the sabotage we are to get, the fifth column activities that we are to get, are timed just like Pearl Harbor was timed . . . we are just being lulled into a false sense of security.

Tolan readily agreed with Warren that any sabotage would naturally “come coincident with” a Pearl Harbor–type surprise attack on the Pacific Coast. The Nisei were left to ponder how they would ever prove their allegiance when all signs of innocence were seen as nothing more than a “sneaky plot.”

The History of the Decision Presented to the Supreme Court The baffling logic that a plot was afoot also dismayed Edward Ennis and the other lawyers at the Department of Justice who were supposed to justify mass exclusion and detention before the Supreme Court. Ennis, along with his boss Francis Biddle, had argued strenuously against the decision to uproot Japanese Americans from the West Coast. After DeWitt issued his orders, Japanese Americans Minoru Yasui, Gordon Hirabayashi, Fred Korematsu, and Mitsuye Endo challenged in court the legality of mass removal and detention. Ennis was then given the unenviable assignment of preparing the government briefs to defend policies he personally felt were indefensible. The blatant racism in DeWitt’s official explanation of why he interned Japanese Americans made that task even more difficult for Ennis and his colleagues. For even though most of the Supreme Court justices, like other Americans, might share DeWitt’s fear and hatred of the “Japs,” they might not be willing to proclaim that racism, and racism alone, warranted internment. They needed a more appealing account of why the government, in times of crisis, should defer to military authorities who deemed military

The History of “Military Necessity” 45

necessity required the incarceration of Japanese Americans. In other words, they needed a plausible “military” veil, one to shroud the racist assumptions surrounding disloyalty, that they could parade before the highest court in the land. But the twisted logic, unsubstantiated facts, and deliberate lies in DeWitt’s official history of the decision kept threatening to unravel the veil of military necessity members of the departments of Justice and War were weaving. Consequently, throughout 1943 and 1944, Department of Justice lawyers Edward Ennis and John Burling would grapple with the issue of how to use, or excuse, this problematic history. Ultimately, the lawyers representing the government would present before the Court a history of the decision that deliberately suppressed and misrepresented critical evidence. Some officials, Edward Ennis among them, would suffer a “crisis of conscience” over their roles in writing this deceptive history of military necessity. Others, like John J. McCloy, assistant secretary of war, and Colonel Karl R. Bendetsen, assistant chief of staff in charge of civil affairs for the Western Defense Command, had no qualms about conspiring to distort the historical record to promote false arguments of military necessity, before the Court and the public. At first McCloy was quite pleased when the Final Report: Japanese Evacuation from the West Coast, 1942 was printed in 1943. As he picked up one of the first copies, he had high hopes the report would provide the Justice Department with the evidence it needed for the Supreme Court. But a quick perusal alarmed the assistant secretary of war. Chapter 2, entitled “Need for Military Control and for Evacuation,” included the declaration that it was “impossible to establish the identity of the loyal and the disloyal with any degree of safety.” The next sentence explained, “It was not that there was insufficient time in which to make such a determination; it was simply a matter of facing the realities that a positive determination could not be made, that an exact separating of the ‘sheep from the goats’ was unfeasible.”  The rest of the chapter argued that the characteristics of this “tightly-knit racial group” made it impossible to distinguish a “good Jap” from a “bad Jap.” A perceptive lawyer, McCloy knew this passage would undermine the case the Department of Justice was mounting. Lawyers preparing the Hirabayashi brief, the argument for the curfew and exclusion orders, were claiming DeWitt’s task, “of promptly segregating the potentially disloyal from the loyal” among Japanese Americans, was “virtually impossible.” This

46 The History of “Military Necessity”

was because he lacked the time required to conduct individual loyalty hearings. The brief would later argue: “Many months, or perhaps years, would be required for such investigations.”  McCloy recognized that DeWitt’s statement confessing time was not a factor in his decision to recommend mass removal would undermine the military necessity pretense. He immediately called Bendetsen and learned only ten copies of the Final Report had been printed. McCloy then recalled these copies and ordered the “burning of the galley proofs, galley pages, drafts and memorandums” pertaining to the original report. He then had his legal deputy, Captain John M. Hall, work with Bendetsen to delete DeWitt’s dangerous statements and prepare a “final” Final Report that could be presented to the public and the Department of Justice. When lawyers at the Department of Justice asked to look at DeWitt’s official history, McCloy lied and told them it had not yet been printed. He should have said the expurgated version he and Bendetsen were preparing was not yet available. Lacking access to the military “evidence” they assumed was in the report, the Department of Justice lawyers prepared their own “historical” argument for the Hirabayashi brief. The final brief would admit “the record in this case does not contain any comprehensive account of the facts which gave rise to the exclusion and curfew measures here involved.” The brief, therefore, asked the Court to consider “historical facts” on the “general military, political, economic, and social conditions under which the challenged orders were issued.”  These “facts” indicated that Japanese Americans were likely to be disloyal not only because they were foreign and unassimilable but because they had been treated as such throughout their history in America. In other words, four decades of racism against Japanese Americans justified racist assumptions about them during the war. Staff member Nanette Dembitz combed the card catalog at the Library of Congress to find information on the “racial characteristics” of the Japanese and Japanese Americans. Her extensive list of sources on Japanese American family structure, religion, and education included studies in history, political science, anthropology, and articles from Encyclopaedia Britannica. Even though she knew she was supposed to find evidence to use against Japanese Americans, Dembitz tried to be evenhanded in her research, noting in the text and in footnotes evidence that contradicted negative portrayals of the Nikkei. She described, for example, “the stimulation of prejudice by opportunistic politicians and by the sensational press” as sources of hostility

The History of “Military Necessity” 47

toward Japanese Americans and as reasons for their “lack of assimilation” into mainstream culture. She also noted that “assaults and hoodlumism” led to the “keen realization” by Japanese Americans of “the fact of discrimination and prejudice against them.” In the final brief, however, this more sympathetic account of the history of discrimination against Japanese Americans was transformed into the conclusion, “An unknown number of the Japanese may lack to some extent a feeling of loyalty toward the United States as a result of their treatment.” The brief would go on to assert, without supplying any evidence, that this treatment produced “a consequent tie to Japan” and a “compensatory feeling of racial pride . . . in Japan’s achievements.” The very existence of Shinto shrines, Japanese language schools, mutual assistance organizations, and the like, supposedly proved that Japanese Americans were not “true Americans.”  The Court affirmed this interpretation of Japanese American history in its decision. Writing for the majority in Hirabayashi, Chief Justice Harlan Fiske Stone recounted the history of race discrimination that had barred assimilation and promoted ethnic solidarity. He then made the big leap that ethnic solidarity equaled potential disloyalty, legitimating the view of Japanese Americans as a security risk. Unwilling to endorse the racism underlying this justification for removal, Justice William O. Douglas recognized that it implied “Japs who are citizens cannot be trusted because we have treated them so badly.” He thus based his concurring opinion on the belief the Court could not “sit in judgment of the military requirements at that hour.”  McCloy must have breathed a sigh of relief that Douglas had not seen DeWitt’s original Final Report. By the time the Department of Justice lawyers began work on the next part of their defense, the Korematsu brief, the sanitized version of the report was ready. But even this revised history was full of land mines. Hoping to embarrass the Department of Justice for its initial opposition to the decision and bolster public support for internment, McCloy and DeWitt published the report and then released sections to the press. Headlines in the Los Angeles Times declared, “DeWitt Raps Biddle Failure to Check Japs” and “DeWitt Shows Plenty of Reasons for Removing Japs.” The Washington Post announced, “Japs Attacked All Ships Leaving Coast,” and quoted from the report that “signals from the shore aided the Japanese in attacks on the west coast early in the war.” Both to protect the Department of Justice from criticism that it overlooked this evidence justifying internment and because they needed the material for their brief,

48 The History of “Military Necessity”

Edward Ennis and colleague John Burling began to look for verification of these charges. Ennis and Burling discovered that not only was the “shore-to-ship” signaling evidence false but that DeWitt knew it was false before he included it in his report. They learned about George Sterling’s luncheon conference with DeWitt and his memo declaring the general’s monitoring operations “pathetic.” More important, they found out that early in 1942 the FCC complied with DeWitt’s request to establish a system of roving coastal patrols with mobile direction-finding units. Ennis and Burling had sent a memo to DeWitt about reports of 760 “suspicious” radio signals that occurred before July 1, 1942. Of these signals, 641 turned out not to be radio signals at all. The remaining 119 were traced to licensed commercial stations, police equipment, army and navy transmitters, stations located in Japan, and phonograph oscillators. The FCC thus informed DeWitt, “No cases involved signals which could not be identified.” Hoping perhaps that DeWitt was not really aware of this monitoring operation, the Department of Justice sent the FCC a letter asking about “the extent to which General DeWitt or his subordinates were informed of the operations of the Commission’s Radio Intelligence Division.” They were told in no uncertain terms that DeWitt and his staff “were kept continuously informed of the Commission’s work, both through occasional conferences and day-to-day liaison.”  Further investigation revealed to the lawyers that DeWitt and McCloy knew about the FBI and naval intelligence reports verifying Japanese American loyalty and advising against internment. Yet all of this evidence was excluded from the Final Report. Burling noted: We are now therefore in possession of substantially incontrovertible evidence that the most important statements of fact advanced by General DeWitt to justify the evacuation and detention were incorrect, and furthermore that General DeWitt had cause to know, and in all probability did know, that they were incorrect at the time he embodied them in his final report to General Marshall.

In light of this evidence, Burling wanted to attach a footnote to the government’s brief that disavowed use of the report’s deceptive and misleading rationale for internment: The Final Report of General DeWitt is relied on in this brief for statistics and other details concerning the actual evacuation and the events that

The History of “Military Necessity” 49 took place subsequent thereto. The recital of the circumstances justifying that evacuation as a matter of military necessity, however, is in several respects, particularly with reference to the use of illegal radio transmitters and to shore-to-ship signalling by persons of Japanese ancestry, in conflict with information in the possession of the Department of Justice. In view of the contrariety of the reports on this matter, we do not ask the Court to take judicial notice of the recital of those facts contained in the Report.

But Solicitor General Charles Fahy knew such an admission might irreparably damage the government’s case. He amended the footnote to read simply that “the views of this Department” differed from those of the War Department on the contested issues. The FBI and FCC reports were never presented to the Court, and the Department of Justice had now participated in the conspiracy to conceal evidence that exposed the myth of military necessity. Ennis and Burling protested against this evisceration of the footnote, acknowledging their reservations about the general’s justification for internment, and threatened not to sign the brief. But under pressure from higher officials in both the departments of Justice and War, the two gave in, signed the brief, and acquiesced to the cover-up. By tampering with and concealing historical evidence, the departments of Justice and War deliberately misled the public and the Court. McCloy’s suppression of DeWitt’s original report and the failure of the Department of Justice to note evidence clearing Japanese Americans of charges of sabotage and espionage undoubtedly influenced the history of the internment cases. In the Korematsu decision, Justice Hugo Black wrote, “The need for action was great, and time was short.” Deferring to military judgment, Black insisted that “real military dangers” and not racial antagonism justified the order for exclusion. Not everyone on the Court, however, failed to see the racism behind the veil of military necessity. Three justices wrote dissenting opinions in the Korematsu case. Justice Owen J. Roberts could not condone “convicting a citizen . . . for not submitting to imprisonment in a concentration camp solely because of his ancestry.” Justice Robert Jackson felt there was no way to test the soundness of DeWitt’s military decisions. Nevertheless, he concluded the evacuation was unconstitutional and that if the Court approved the procedure, “we may as well say that any military order will be constitutional and have done with it.” The dissent by Justice Frank Murphy provided a much harsher indictment of the rationale for internment.

50 The History of “Military Necessity”

Murphy found no credible evidence within the Final Report of a military necessity that justified denying Japanese Americans their “constitutional rights to procedural due process.” Murphy condemned DeWitt’s orders for going “over the brink of constitutional power” and into “the ugly abyss of racism.” In Murphy’s eyes the Court’s approval of the evacuation constituted a “ legalization of racism”: All residents of this nation are kin in some way by blood and culture to a foreign land. Yet they are primarily and necessarily a part of this new and distinct civilization of the United States. They must accordingly be treated at all times as the heirs of the American experiment and as entitled to all the rights and freedoms granted by the Constitution.

In 1945, calling the cases a “disaster,” legal historian Eugene V. Rostow wondered about the footnote in the government’s Korematsu brief that disclaimed use of the general’s justification for internment. Though not privy to the controversy that had produced the footnote, Rostow couldn’t help but observe the failure of the Department of Justice to use “the closest approximation we have in these cases to an authoritative determination of fact”: Not only was there insufficient evidence in those cases to satisfy a reasonably prudent judge or a reasonably prudent general: there was no evidence whatever by which a court might test the responsibility of General DeWitt’s action . . . the military proclamations record conclusions, not evidence of espionage or sabotage.

Yet even without the historical evidence that directly challenged DeWitt’s “conclusions,” Rostow bemoaned the obvious racism that caused internment: “General DeWitt’s Final Report and his testimony before committees of the Congress” clearly indicated that “his motivation was ignorant race prejudice, not facts to support the hypothesis that there was a greater risk of sabotage among the Japanese than among residents of German, Italian, or any other ethnic affiliation.”  Other Americans also condemned the rationale for internment. The Department of Justice received letters of protest from church groups, the American Association of University Women, the International Ladies Garment Workers Union, and the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP).94 The role racism played in the decision was pub-

The History of “Military Necessity” 51

licly denounced in the Crisis, the official magazine of the NAACP. Harry Paxton Howard’s article “Americans in Concentration Camps” pointedly noted that Japanese Americans had been “deprived of their constitutional rights and constitutional protection” because they had the “misfortune to include among their ancestors persons of a non-white country.” Internment was of “direct concern to the American Negro,” Howard explained, because “the barbarous treatment of these Americans is the result of the color line.”  Most other Americans had no problem endorsing this color line, however. They simply accepted the rationale presented in the Final Report. By appealing to racist images of Japanese Americans and suppressing evidence that showed there was not a single case of espionage or sabotage, officials successfully promoted the myth of military necessity for decades. In 1967 the Japanese American Research Project conducted a public opinion survey indicating 48 percent of Californians still approved of the internment. Even in 1981 McCloy and Bendetsen thought they could convince the government and the public that internment was justified. But by then scholars and Japanese American community activists had uncovered the reports, memos, and other documents that directly contradicted their testimony. McCloy and Bendetsen could no longer control how internment was remembered. In fact, even as they were testifying, law professor Peter Irons was completing archival research that would disclose how they had manipulated and concealed evidence before the Supreme Court. Through the Freedom of Information Act, Irons gained access to Department of Justice records for the wartime cases. While examining “dusty cardboard boxes” for a book about the lawyers who participated in the cases, Irons found the correspondence and memos that charged government officials with lying to the Supreme Court. In 1982 he contacted Korematsu, Yasui, and Hirabayashi, urging them to petition the court to overturn their wartime convictions. All three had their convictions vacated by federal courts between 1983 and 1988. It may have taken forty years, but the judicial system finally acknowledged that government officials such as McCloy and Bendetsen always knew that military necessity was nothing more than a myth.

two

Dillon S. Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation, Reintegration, and Rehabilitation”

On March 19, 1942, exactly one month after President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, the Tolan Committee issued a preliminary report that endorsed the mass removal of Japanese Americans from the West Coast but opposed proposals for mass incarceration. Although the congressional committee members condoned Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox’s false reports of a fifth column at Pearl Harbor and General John L. DeWitt’s portrayal of potential West Coast spies and saboteurs, they also expressed concern about the rights of uprooted Japanese Americans. “Serious constitutional questions,” the committee warned, “are raised by the forced detention of citizens against whom no individual charges are lodged.”  Therefore, the committee recommended that Japanese Americans be given loyalty hearings at “assembly centers” close to their homes, “followed by arrangements for job placement outside of the prohibited areas of all persons certified.”  Providing an astute prediction of problems later experienced in the camps, the committee proclaimed: The incarceration of the Japanese for the duration of the war can only end in wholesale deportation. The maintenance of all Japanese, alien and citizen, in enforced idleness will prove not only a costly waste of the taxpayer’s money, but it automatically implies deportation, since we cannot expect this group to be loyal to our Government or sympathetic to our way of life thereafter.

Nevertheless, West Coast Japanese Americans were forcibly removed from their homes and imprisoned in barbed wire compounds guarded by the 52

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 53

military and administered by the War Relocation Authority (WRA), a civilian government agency. Yet in 1946, just four years after these camps were established, the head of the WRA, Dillon S. Myer, received from President Harry S. Truman a Medal for Merit for having “won for American democracy a great and significant victory.” Conspicuously omitting any reference to an incarceration, the citation praised Myer’s “program for the readjustment” of Japanese Americans. Crediting Myer with avoiding the “threat of progressive disaffection, disloyalty and deportation,” the citation celebrated the WRA’s program of “progressive relocation, reintegration and rehabilitation of this racial minority.” The camps, according to the award, became “an affirmation of American faith in the validity of democratic processes.”  Myer’s citation for “outstanding service” was quoted verbatim from a WRA recommendation for the award, written by WRA historian Ruth E. McKee. This glowing recommendation, which also offered a whitewashed history of the WRA, denied that the mass removal was motivated by racism. Acknowledging that the federal government had sanctioned a “mass evacuation on the basis of race and ancestry,” the WRA feebly maintained that this “unintentionally gave apparent support to the doctrines of the racists” on the West Coast who had harassed Japanese Americans for forty years. A “war-shaken, misinformed public was increasingly inclined to support the racists’ demand that all Japanese Americans should be held in concentration camps for the duration of the war and then be deported to Japan.” Resisting these calls, Myer initiated a program “to replace misinformation and vicious invention with factual information and to win for the loyal evacuees public recognition of their right to be fully accepted as Americans.” The WRA director, according to McKee’s history, “battled ignorance and intolerance in America” outside the camps by issuing press releases, disseminating pamphlets, and giving lectures on Japanese American loyalty and patriotism. Within the camps, Myer was portrayed as an administrator who drew up WRA policies only after meeting and consulting with Japanese Americans in the camps’ barrack communities. McKee further wrote that even though “bewildered young Americans with Japanese faces were obliged to wait behind barbed wire and under armed guard for their country to grant them the right to work and live and die with other Americans, Mr. Myer never allowed them to forget that they had friends who believed in them and who were working for them.” Consequently, he “kept alive their faith in the American way of life.” 

54 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation”

One month later McKee sent Myer a report expressing her “complete enthusiasm” for her role in penning the recommendation that helped the director win his Medal for Merit. Also she detailed, however, her serious reservations about the way she had been employed to frame history according to the receiving audience. Entitled “Reflections on the Proper Care and Treatment of Historians,” McKee’s report declared the “proper function of the Historian is recording in detail and evaluating what happened; the Historian is writing for the benefit of serious students who need a full picture of what happened and why.” After only one month on the job, McKee was asked to write the agency’s quarterly report to Congress and the president. The division chief unsuccessfully tried to persuade McKee that preparing official agency reports “was a logical and helpful step toward the preparation of the overall history of the agency.” But as McKee explained to Myer: The writer of official reports to Congress, telling of current and controversial happenings must be careful to tell nothing but the truth, but he must be equally careful to select his truths with discretion. The difference in substance between the two kinds of reporting is the difference between cream and skim milk. It is bad for any writer to be expected to be thorough and scholarly half the time and disingenuously selective and superficial the rest of the time.

Myer never acknowledged McKee’s misgivings about selecting his truths with discretion. As McKee’s citation recommendation had noted, Myer and the WRA disseminated “factual information” to defend the WRA’s programs and to improve the image of Japanese Americans. Yet the particular set of facts Myer and his staff presented varied with different audiences. While dealing with groups sympathetic to Japanese Americans, Myer portrayed the camps as “normal communities” filled with cheerful Nisei going to school or playing sports, as their parents attended church or took English language classes. After Congress investigated charges the WRA “pampered” Japanese Americans, Myer emphasized the harsh conditions of the camps and the restrictions imposed upon those deemed disloyal. During WRA campaigns to gain community acceptance of “resettlers” released from the camps, Myer depicted Americans with “Japanese faces” eager to assimilate and to prove their love of democracy by volunteering for military service and by helping the war effort from within the camps. When confronted with Japanese Americans disillusioned by wartime losses, camp

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 55

policies, and anti-Japanese agitation outside the camps, Myer gave another version of the WRA’s history. Acknowledging an “abnormal” life in camp, he nevertheless celebrated WRA “public relations” successes and urged distrustful Japanese Americans to leave camp for “normal” communities.

Myer’s History of “Relocation” The WRA director wasn’t always consistent. His public views of mass exclusion and incarceration changed over time. In 1943 Myer told a congressional subcommittee suspicious he might be a reluctant jailer that he believed “the evacuation was within the constitutional power of the National Government.” The danger of an invasion on the West Coast; “the possibility that an unknown and unrecognizable minority” of a group “not wholly assimilated” might have greater allegiance to Japan than to the United States; and “the need for speed created the unfortunate necessity for evacuating the whole group instead of attempting to determine who were dangerous among them, so that only those might be evacuated.” Myer agreed: “That same need made it impossible to hold adequate investigations or to grant hearings to the evacuees before evacuation.”  In 1971, however, Myer contradicted this account in a memoir that clearly recognized the civil rights movement had changed many Americans’ views of internment. “As director of the WRA,” he wrote, “I believed, and still believe, that a selective evacuation of people of Japanese descent from the West Coast military area may have been justified and feasible in early 1942, but I do not believe that a mass evacuation was ever justified.”  In the same memoir, Myer declared the WRA’s triumph in “overcoming bitterness, ignorance, and discrimination” had “something important to contribute to the civil rights programs of today.” Myer boasted, “The results of the effort to correct what has sometimes been referred to as our worst wartime mistake have proved that a democracy such as ours can correct its mistakes, if there is a will to do so.” He went on to say: The “Yellow Peril” propaganda of more than forty years appears to be dead. Through the cooperation of American people of good will with the Japanese American population, the United States was able to prove to the world through loyalty, courage, sacrifice, and positive action that we

56 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” can rise above the sordid hate and bitterness of racial antipathy and the discriminatory practices stemming there from.

Myer’s rose-tinted history of the WRA conveniently left out much of the suffering Japanese Americans experienced during and after the war as a direct result of his administration. Nevertheless, there is evidence Myer wanted to be viewed as the true friend and advocate of Japanese Americans. Richard Nishimoto, an internee at Poston, Arizona, who worked for researchers studying Japanese Americans within the camps, recalled during a visit in 1945 that Myer asked him “how he was received by the evacuees here”: I said, “You’re old enough to take a compliment without getting conceited. So I’ll tell you.” I said the reactions could be summarized in one sentence. I placed the fingernails of my right hand to my teeth and made a lovelorn look. I said in an adoring tone, “Gee, what a man!” He smiled genuinely. He liked it . . . He said he enjoy[ed] playing politics with members of the Congress. He spends every Saturday afternoon on “the Hill.” 

Nishimoto’s reassurance might have helped Myer forget a history of demonstrations and riots within the camps. Perhaps it bolstered him to continue his “public relations” campaign with an often-hostile Congress. One month later Myer had drinks with Nishimoto’s boss, Dorothy Thomas, the director of the research study on the camps. Thomas recalled Myer giving a lengthy account of “what a great man and what a martyr” he considered himself.  Apparently confident that Thomas and other scholars in her study also would see him in this light, Myer gave them access to a wealth of documents on WRA policies after receiving assurance no publications would be issued during the war. For an administrator who was very careful about the way he presented WRA history in wartime, Myer displayed remarkably little concern about the historical records he made available to the public. After the war, the WRA deposited at the Bancroft Library, at the University of California, Berkeley, a complete set of its files that revealed how the reality of camp life differed from the images projected by Myer and the WRA. Myer probably assumed his accounts of a benevolent administration would never be challenged. Unlike his predecessor, Milton S. Eisenhower, Myer never expressed any misgivings about his role as the director of the WRA. In contrast to Myer, Eisenhower depicted the camps in his memoirs as “illustrative of how an entire society can somehow plunge off course.” 

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 57

Summoned to the White House in March 1942, Eisenhower was told by Roosevelt “to set up a War Relocation Authority to move the JapaneseAmericans off the Pacific Coast.”  At first Eisenhower confessed he spent “little time pondering the moral implications of the President’s decision.”  A few weeks later, however, he wrote Agriculture Secretary Claude Wickard that after the war “we as Americans are going to regret the avoidable injustices that may have been done.” Two months later Interior Secretary Harold Ickes informed Roosevelt, “I have it from several sources that Eisenhower is sick of the job.”  Just three months after receiving his appointment, Eisenhower left the WRA and accepted an offer to become a deputy in the Office of War Information. Before assuming his new position, Eisenhower asked Myer whether he was interested in the director’s post. This was not the first time Eisenhower had advanced Myer’s career as a government bureaucrat. Earlier he helped Myer become assistant chief of the Soil Conservation Service and acting administrator of the Agricultural Conservation and Adjustment Administration. Myer remembered being approached by his old friend: I asked Milton if he really thought I should take the job. He replied, “Yes, if you can do the job and sleep at night.” He said that he had been unable to do so. I was sure that I could sleep, and so agreed to accept the position if he felt that I was the one to do it, although it was not something that I would have chosen for myself.

After being recommended by Eisenhower, Myer was appointed by Roosevelt on June 17, 1942. Myer would later recall that throughout his four years at the WRA, “with very few exceptions I went to bed at night and slept soundly.”  Even before the process of removing Japanese Americans from the West Coast had been completed, Myer tried to drum up support for the WRA with a public relations campaign. He wrote an article entitled “Democracy in Relocation” for Common Ground, a magazine to promote diversity that was founded by the Common Council for American Unity. In its Democracy Begins at Home issue, the magazine presented the Langston Hughes essay “What Shall We Do about the South?” Hughes wrote about the discrimination African Americans endured. Myer’s article presented the WRA as an agency devoted to improving the status of Japanese Americans. Acknowledging Japanese Americans had experienced an “involuntary mi-

58 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation”

gration,” he nevertheless defined the mass removal and incarceration as an “evacuation.” He employed other euphemisms to describe the compounds that confined Japanese Americans. After “temporary residence in assembly centers” located near their homes, Myer explained, Japanese Americans “now are living in ten relocation centers between the Mississippi River and the high Sierras.”  Since Common Ground readers tended to share Langston Hughes’s critical views of racism, Myer took great pains to defend the mass removal and incarceration. “Evacuation,” according to Myer, “seemed necessary to help insure the safety of our western shore against an enemy who looked like these people and who had taken advantage of the situation to infiltrate the Japanese population of our West Coast with his agents.” At first, Myer noted, Japanese Americans were simply ordered to leave the western regions of Washington, Oregon, southern Arizona, and California. Yet, he insisted, this “voluntary evacuation” was “doomed to failure, not only because of [the] reluctance to go but because the movement of more than 100,000 people into new communities was bound to cause trouble.” Officials in other western states “refused to be responsible for law and order if the evacuees came into their states as unrestricted residents.” “This combination of situations pointed to two things,” Myer explained, “first, evacuation must be placed on an orderly basis; and second, the evacuated persons must be provided with homes which would offer security and opportunities for work until orderly processes of relocation could be made effective.”  Consequently, at the end of March, “voluntary evacuation” was replaced with a “planned and systematic evacuation” to an “assembly center” run by the military and then to a WRA “relocation center” in eastern California, Arizona, Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, or Arkansas. Describing these sites as “publicly owned land which has possibilities of development for agriculture and other enterprises,” Myer vowed to help Japanese Americans “live in a manner as nearly normal as possible, with responsibility for the management of the communities in which they live, with educational opportunities, with a chance to develop initiative, and with reason to look forward to a better day.”  Myer was pleased to report to Common Ground readers concerned about the violation of Japanese American rights that democracy was alive and well in the camps. The WRA had put families’ household goods “in storage at government expense at the time of evacuation” and was sending these goods

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 59

“as rapidly as possible.” The WRA provided all evacuees with food, lodging, and medical care. And they could earn money by performing tasks for the community as a whole. Community stores, newspapers, churches, and schools further testified to the WRA’s concern about the evacuees’ welfare. The community government, however, “represented best,” in Myer’s eyes, “the extent to which democracy is practiced in the relocation centers.” After touting the success of a temporary leave program that supplied evacuee workers to sugar beet growers suffering from the wartime labor shortage, Myer anticipated the “great majority” of evacuees “will be available for employment if needed and desired” outside the West Coast. Few if any Japanese Americans could have endorsed such a sanguine appraisal of the process of internment. Myer omitted any reference to the role racism had played in motivating mass exclusion and mass incarceration. He made no mention of DeWitt’s calls to remove treacherous “Japs” from the Western Defense Command, or statements by public officials in the mountain states condemning the prospect of their states becoming a “dumping ground” for California “Japs.” Idaho governor Chase Clark gave a speech suggesting that a good solution to the Jap problem in Idaho and the Nation would be to send them all back to Japan, then sink the island. They live like rats, breed like rats and act like rats. We don’t want them buying or leasing land and becoming permanently located in our state.

With the exception of Colorado governor Ralph Carr, governors of these western states unanimously opposed voluntary migration and urged that the “enemy aliens” be placed in “concentration camps.”  Congressman John Rankin, from Mississippi, and Senator Tom Stewart, from Tennessee, also championed imprisoning the “Japs” in concentration camps for the duration of the war. Far from being concerned about Japanese American constitutional rights, both proposed stripping the Nisei of their citizenship. Rankin even entered into the congressional record an article that called for separating the sexes during the detention to prevent an “incubating period” that would allow each family to “emerge with five more children” and “in two generations 25 times as many Japanese.”  Also, Myer gave no indication of the hardship exacted by the evacuation. Most Japanese Americans had less than a week’s notice before being uprooted from their homes and community. Internment disrupted and altered

60 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation”

educational and career plans. But the loss of liberty and the stigma of suspected disloyalty inflicted the deepest wounds. One internee recalled: “On May 16, 1942, my mother, two sisters, niece, nephew, and I left . . . by train. Father joined us later. Brother left earlier by bus. We took whatever we could carry. So much we left behind, but the most valuable thing I lost was my freedom.”  Instead of providing a custodial service for Japanese Americans’ belongings, the government directed the Federal Reserve Board to help “evacuees” dispose of their property. Shortly after Japanese Americans were removed from Bainbridge Island, Washington, Tom G. Rathbone, a field supervisor for the U.S. Employment Service, filed a report exemplifying the way the government handled property concerns: We received tentative information late Friday afternoon to the effect that it was presumed that the Government would pay the transportation costs of such personal belongings and equipment to the point of relocation upon proper notice. When this word was given to the evacuees, many complained bitterly because they had not been given such information prior to that time and had, therefore, sold, at considerable loss, many such properties which they would have retained had they known that it would be shipped to them upon relocation. Saturday morning we received additional word through the Federal Reserve Bank that the question had not been answered and that probably no such transportation costs would be paid. Between the time on Friday afternoon and Saturday morning some Japanese had arranged to repossess belongings which they had already sold and were in a greater turmoil than ever upon getting the latter information.

Ultimately, most of the interned were permitted to bring only what they could carry. They were forced to sell a lifetime of property for a fraction of its true value. Homes, businesses, and prized possessions were lost. Studies estimate total property and income losses, adjusted for inflation and lost interest, at between $1.2 billion and $3.1 billion in 1983 dollars. Few of those evacuated had any idea of their destination when they appeared at the designated departure point in March 1942. Most of the assembly centers were located at nearby racetracks and fairgrounds. Many families were forced to live in hastily converted horse stalls that still reeked of manure. Then at the end of May, Japanese Americans were labeled, like

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 61

luggage, with numbered identification tags and sent to WRA camps across the country. Barbed wire, watchtowers, and military police provided stark reminders that they were prisoners who could not leave without WRA approval. Beginning in the summer of 1942, some Japanese Americans received permission to leave camp to join the Military Intelligence Service. Other Japanese Americans who received permission to leave the camps could not return to the West until exclusion was lifted in December 1944. Myer implied camps were on land ripe for agricultural production, when in fact most were located on desert or swamplike terrain. In some camps, winter temperatures dropped to minus 35 degrees and summer temperatures soared as high as 115 degrees. Japanese Americans confined in the Arkansas camps had to contend with swarms of chiggers and mosquitoes during the hot and humid summers. Minidoka’s assistant project director described the camp’s location in Idaho as “flat land, nothing growing but sagebrush, not a tree in sight.” Frequent dust storms made life difficult in almost all the camps. A young Nisei described the dust storms at the Poston, Arizona, camp: Our mouths are always gritty, and the rooms including the mess halls cannot be kept clean even by closing all the doors and windows because there are so many cracks in the walls and floors. From about 1:30 p.m. daily, the wind rises, and often we can’t see half mile ahead due to the dust cloud. Each step we take we stir up dust. Dust settles on the typewriter and is noticeable even while writing a letter.

The primitive conditions also belied Myer’s image of normal communities. Internees lived in a block that consisted of fourteen barracks subdivided into four or six rooms. Most families shared a single barren room, typically measuring twenty by twenty-five feet. There was little privacy within many barracks because room partitions fell short of the roof. Dust constantly seeped through cracks in the buildings’ planks. The WRA supplied only canvas cots, a pot-bellied stove, and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling, but resourceful internees later constructed makeshift furniture from scrap lumber. Also, many internees cultivated their own gardens to supplement the starchy, unappetizing food served in the mess halls, each of which provided for an entire block of approximately 250 people. The adequacy of the facilities that greeted arriving internees differed from camp to camp. Internees were moved into the Gila River camp, in Arizona,

RELOCATION PROJECT SITES CENTRAL UTAH: CAPACITY: 10,000 ABRAHAM. MILLARD COUNTY. UTAH 140 MILE:S SOUTHWEST or SALT LAKE: CITY 4 MILE:S NORTHWE:ST or DELTA

JEROME: CAPACITY: 10,000 JEROME, CHICOT AND DREW COS. ARKANSAS 30 MILES SOUTHWEST OF ARKANSAS CITY 8 MILES SOUTH OF DERMOIT

COLORADO RIVER: CAPACITY: 20,000 POSTON. YUMA COUNTY, ARIZONA 12 MILES SOUTH or PARKER HALfWAY BE:TWEE:N NE:EDLES AND YUMA

MANZANAR: CAPACITY : 1o,ooo MANZANAR, INYO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA 225 MILES NORTH OF LOS ANGE:LES 5 MILES SOUTH OF INDEPENDENCE

GILA RIVER: CAPACITY IS,OOO SACATON. PINAL COUNTY, ARIZONA SO MILES SOUTH or PHOENIX 3 MILES WEST or SACATON

MINIDOKA: CAPACITY: 10,000 GOODING, JEROME COUNTY, IDAHO 25 MILES NORTHEAST Of TWIN fALLS 6 Ml LES NORTH OF EDEN

GRANADA: CAPACITY : 8,000 GRANADA, PROWERS COUNTY, COLORADO 140 MILE:S EAST or PUEBLO It MILES SOUTHWEST or GRANADA

ROHWER: CAPACITY : 10,000 ROHWER,DESHA COUNTY,ARKANSAS 25 MILES NORTHWEST OF ARKANSAS CITY 6 MILES SOUTH Of WATSON

HEART MOUNT A IN: CAPACITY : 11,000 VOCATION. PARK COUNTY, WYOMING 13 MILES NORTHEAST or CODY 8 MILES SOUTH OF RALSTON

TULE LAKE: CAPACITY : 16,000 NEWELL, MODOC COUNTY, CALIFORNIA 35 MILES SOUTHEAST OF KLAMATH fALLS 2 MILES SOUTH Of STRONGHOLD

f i g u r e 4 . War Relocation Authority sites. Public domain. U.S. War Department, Final Report: Japanese Evacuation from the West Coast, 1942 (Washington, DC: GPO, 1943), 256–57.

~~-$:

WAR

RELOCATION

PRO..J ! CT

SITES

FROM

THE EVACUATED PEOPLE

9 0,491

I

WCCA ASSEMBLY CENTERS -.

~

TO 54,127

120,313

RELOCATED TO WEST COAST EVACUATED AREA

W RA CUSTODY tl nc:ludos 757 institutiona lized cose!l a.nd 753 worker• relecued by WCCA who wen · never auiqned to nor inducted into a WRA center.)

17, 915

.!IIIOiona.l

ECT EV ACUATION

8 ,981 BIRTHS

52,798 RELOCATED TO OTHER SECTIONS OF UNITED STATES AND HAWAll

v 4 ,724

~

TO JAPAN

1,7 3 5

EPT. OF JUST ICE TERNMENT AND TEN'l'ION CAMPS

1,579

3 ,121 DEPT. OF JUSTICE INTERNMENT INCLUDING FAMILY MEMBERS

SEASONAL WO RKERS (Rolea.11ed by WCCA)

2,355 U. S . ARMED FORCES

1, 2 75 INSTITUTIONS

1, 8 62 DECEASED (Exclu des 4 unauthorized

l,U8

departures-refer to pa9e

5, Section I)

HAWAllAN ISLANDS

1,322 219

INSTITUTIONS

VOL UNT ARY RESIDEN T S

f i g u r e 5 . War Relocation Authority Custody statistics. Public domain. U.S. War Relocation Authority, The Evacuated People: A Quantitative Description (Washington, DC: GPO, 1946), 8–9.

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 65 TYPICAL HOUSING BLOCK WAR RELOCAT ION CENTER

1

1

1

Q

1

1

1

1

1

~

1

1

1

l

7

l, 2. 3. 4,

Barr acka 20xl.20 lleoa Hall 40xl.20 Women's Latrine l!en 1 s Latrine

5. 6, 7,

Laundry Room Heater Room Recreation Hall

f i g u r e 6 . Typical layout of WRA housing block. U.S. War Department, Final Report: Japanese Evacuation from the West Coast, 1942 (Washington, DC: GPO, 1943), 267.

in groups of 500 per day, even though gas connections were incomplete, hospital facilities were nonexistent, and few staff were in place. By August 20 heat in the desert reached above 100 degrees, and 7,700 people were packed into a space designed for 5,000. Many internees were housed in recreation buildings, mess halls, and even latrines. Only 200 feet from the barracks, open pits filled with seepage from a broken sewage system, leaving a pervasive stench and bringing flies to the unscreened mess halls. Internees found maggots in the food and experienced an epidemic of dysentery, on

66

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation”

top of the heat rash and sunstroke they already suffered from. Conditions at the Manzanar camp in California were better but still inadequate. Three months after Manzanar opened, 16 of 36 mess halls still lacked equipment, causing massive overcrowding and long lines. The WRA’s assistant regional director once reported counting 300 people standing outside a mess hall. Ruth E. McKee’s “History of WRA” provided a frank acknowledgment of camp problems during the “first chaotic weeks of occupation when construction was incomplete” and “utilities were in most cases not yet installed.”  McKee described the conditions that greeted Japanese Americans at Poston: For a period of 10 weeks the daytime temperature ranged from 120 to 140 degrees, and almost daily dust storms choked and blinded every living thing . . . As barracks were completed, they were jammed with evacuees; 2 or even 3 families in many instances were obliged to share a single apartment . . . One train arriving in that first May, with the temperature at 130 degrees, unloaded three dead bodies and seven persons who were saved only by emergency surgery. There was one doctor, an evacuee, in this center; there were no nurses. Using a barrack office room, an ordinary mess hall table, inexperienced attendants, and with no running water in the building, the evacuee doctor performed the 7 major emergency operations that night, continuing by flashlight after the electric power went off. All the patients survived without a single case of infection.

The Red Cross flew in four nurses the next day, but it would be three months before basic hospital supplies were delivered. Water coolers didn’t arrive until the end of the summer, and when “infant mortality increased, . . . the evacuees believed that the deaths were from dehydration caused by the absence of a cooling system in the children’s ward of the makeshift hospital.” McKee noted how “alarming rumors flourished in the great physical discomfort and mental strain of those days.” One of the most disturbing, according to McKee, was the “general credence” given to “the completely unfounded report that the administration was trying to conceal the number of deaths by secretly removing bodies from the hospital under cover of darkness and burying them out on the desert—where starving coyotes dug them up again.”  McKee’s candid depiction of WRA problems, internee suffering, and an atmosphere of rumor and fear in camp was never published. Undoubtedly, this history provided too stark a contrast to the image of camp life Myer

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 67 and the WRA tried to present. McKee declared “it was unfortunate that in early speech and writing, WRA used the term ‘self-government,’ ” since “actual autonomy could not exist in a relocation center, and the term was misleading.”  The official history published by the WRA a year after the war ended chose to offer an excuse for the failure to establish meaningful “community government.” The WRA publication insisted it was “inevitable that the concept of evacuee administered communities should give way to the fact of communities administered by civil service personnel.” The WRA admitted that early on “the importance of maintaining satisfactory relations with Congress” was a factor dictating the framework for community government: Those concerned with the problem of public relations and possible criticism of the program maintained that it would be unwise to establish communities in which there was a likelihood that the governing council would be controlled by aliens. They pointed out that control might pass to those who were not in sympathy with the objectives of the Authority or with the war effort.

Consequently, whereas all residents eighteen years and older could vote for community council representatives from each block, only the Nisei could hold office. These councils were supposed to serve as a “two-way channel of communication” between internees and administrators. They were also empowered to adopt and enforce regulations to protect the community’s welfare. Yet each project director had the authority to veto any ordinances of the council. WRA officials and internees recognized that the concept of “selfgovernment” was little more than a sham. The project director at Minidoka wrote the WRA, “The pseudo-government existing, subject to the pressure and cooperation of administration, has such limitations that we believe it will be difficult to secure a real participation or genuine authority in the face of the realization by the colonists of its lack of complete transmission of responsibility.”  Another staff member said the “democratic edifice . . . resembles that of a high school—i.e. it is pseudo-democratic and all the important decisions are pushed through by administration people.”  The WRA acknowledged that internees perceived these restrictions as “a further piece of evidence that they were not trusted by the Federal Government, and an example of bad faith on the part of the War Relocation

68 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation”

Authority.” A group of internees at the Heart Mountain camp in Wyoming pointedly asked, “Is this real self-government, or is it only so-called government?” The WRA acknowledged “the questions which they had voiced lingered on in the minds of many residents at the centers long after the community councils were elected and had become a recognized part of relocation center life.” In fact, many internees viewed the block managers, who were elected at Manzanar and appointed by the project director in other camps, as the real leaders of the community. Since most block managers were respected Issei who had been community leaders before the war, they usually commanded much more authority than the Nisei elected to the community councils. The community council, noted one Issei leader, was like “a white man driving the wagon which [sic] the Japanese in the wagon fight.”  The views of WRA staff toward internees varied within and between camps and reflected the diverse backgrounds of these agency employees. Alexander Leighton, a social scientist at Poston, noted that the higher-ranking and better educated personnel tended to be “people minded” and related well to the internees, whereas staff members in charge of the more mundane operations of the camp often included “stereotype minded” individuals who “gave little attention to the incentives of human behavior other than those concerned with fear or punishment.”  There were some idealistic staff members who clearly sympathized with the internees and tried to help them adjust to life behind barbed wire. A member of the Poston administration circulated a memo to his co-workers that subscribed to Myer’s hopes for a “democratic relocation”: There is an opportunity to share in the accomplishment of a modern miracle . . . the eventual return of every member of the relocated group to their normal place as members of the American Community not only as loyal citizens or resident aliens, but as better citizens, more realistically democratic in principle, in thought, and in effect: tempered, perhaps even more keenly than the rest of us, to carry forward the living principles of democracy which all of us, in our fashion, are fighting for now, and for whose future all of us must share the responsibility.

The first project director at Tule Lake, near the northern California town of Newell, tried to promote good relations between the staff and internees by outlawing the use of the epithet “Jap” at staff meetings. Therefore, attempts

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 69 were made to establish labels for internees, as well as the staff, that would not offend Japanese Americans. Initially, staff members called themselves “Whites” or “Caucasians” in contrast to the “Japanese.” In August 1942, however, the main office in Washington banned this designation because it emphasized racial differences. Thereafter, center staff members were supposed to refer to themselves as “appointed personnel,” even though many continued to use the term “Caucasians.” The Issei had no trouble acknowledging the obvious racial differences and used the terms hakujin and nihonjin, the respective Japanese equivalents of “whites” and “Japanese.”  The WRA ordered all personnel to use euphemisms to describe life in camp. Japanese Americans were “evacuees,” never “internees” or “prisoners.” The camps were called “relocation centers” or “relocation projects.” Employees were forbidden to call them “internment centers” or “concentration camps.” The WRA even advised avoiding the use of the word “camp,” since “it carries some implications of internment and close military surveillance.”  Most staff and Nisei complied with this policy and called Japanese Americans “evacuees,” however, some administrators, concerned about reminding people of the painful evacuation, devised alternative names. “Residents” became the official term at Poston and “colonists” at Tule Lake. Yet as one WRA employee recalled, “At the same time staff members were attempting to find words which would minimize the existing differences, they were led by the nature of the situation into practices which emphasized them.” Internees were prisoners and armed guards patrolled the perimeter. At first, no evacuee could leave the center, except in an emergency, and then only if chaperoned by someone not of Japanese ancestry. Regardless of education or training, evacuee workers were subordinate to WRA personnel and received vastly lower wages. Moreover, wages and clothing allowances were often delayed, and the WRA failed to fulfill its promise to ship household goods to arriving internees. After pledging that one of its first jobs would be to build schools and provide school equipment, the WRA often gave priority to improving the housing for WRA staff. Some personnel exhibited the paternalistic attitude embraced by Myer when he happily posed for a photograph next to a banner welcoming the “Great White Father” to the Topaz camp in Utah in 1943. In interview notes entitled “The Caucasians Make the Rules,” WRA staff member Solon T. Kimball recounted how Manzanar project director Ralph P. Merritt had told him:

70 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation”

f i g u r e 7 . WRA director Dillon S. Myer and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt visit the Gila Relocation Center. Photographer: Francis Stewart. Gila, Arizona. 4/23/43. Series 2, Group B, Volume 4, Section A, WRA no. B-469, War Relocation Authority Photographs of Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement Collection, BANC PIC 1967.014—PIC, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

The only relationship that Japanese understand is that of father and child. He has become the father of Manzanar. The people are his children . . . He talks to them about the need for speaking only English, learning American ways, having their children speak English, having no Japanese entertainment, yet they still persist and it is a worry to him . . . Merritt [told one of his former servants who quit] if you will continue to work, then I will be willing to help you out when the time comes, but if you do not, then you can expect no assistance from me . . . At [a] block meeting he was intro-

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 71 duced as the father of Manzanar . . . Merritt made reference to it and to his children, and how he was trying to help his children to see the right way.

Other staff members exhibited a much less benign form of racism. Francis S. Frederick, a WRA employee at Gila River, wrote that police chief Fred J. Graves had been in the “Indian service for ten years and like all of those guys feels that there are only two kinds of Indians—gooduns and baduns—and feels that Japs are Indians.” According to this view, Frederick continued, “You tell one to jump off a bridge and if he does it without question, he is a goodun—but if he as much as questions the order he is a badun.”  “Resentment is particularly keen,” wrote one embittered Nisei at Manzanar, “against ‘obvious preferred treatment’ of ‘whites.’” After hearing a “typical comment” like “You can’t eat in the Caucasian mess hall,” this Nisei was outraged by the idea that “they call this democracy where everyone is supposed to be equal; look at our housing . . . and the Project Director ordered his quarters completely re-made.” The “color line” thus became a “perennial discussion topic among virtually all groups of Manzanar residents.”  In September 1942 John F. Embree, of the Office of Reports, informed the WRA’s national office of the growing alienation of Poston internees because of blatantly discriminatory policies: There is a sharp contrast between evacuee food and evacuee accommodations on the one hand and administration food and accommodations on the other. The administration live in cheery white frame houses, the walls are lined and sealed in contrast to the bare tar-papered barracks of the evacuees. The staff has maid service and towels are changed daily. The food is better and more plentiful. It is served in an administrative dining hall by young Japanese American girls.

Furthermore, Embree observed, the race issue “has been accentuated by the dining room refusing to serve evacuee guests brought in once or twice by individuals of the staff.” Located on an Indian reservation, Poston was administered by the Office of Indian Affairs until the WRA took over at the end of 1943. According to Embree, an example of “how unconsciously this Indian Reservation attitude comes over people is a suggestion made one day in the staff dining hall that a curio store should be set up to sell trinkets made by evacuees . . .” Quite conscious of this association, Embree

72 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation”

noted, the Japanese Americans resented “being treated like Indians on a reservation.”  The next month Embree, an anthropologist who had studied people of Japanese ancestry in Japan and Hawaii, prepared the report “Dealing with Japanese-Americans” for WRA employees, most of whom had no familiarity with the Issei or Nisei. Embree urged the staff not to assume “things to be racial which are in actual fact not racial but cultural.” Describing older Issei as “Japanese in culture and outlook” and younger Nisei as “American in culture and outlook,” he nevertheless warned that generalizations concerning these groups are subject to many individual exceptions. Embree further advised, “In all dealings with evacuees, it is well to be aware of the anxieties and attitudes which are prevalent in the center among all groups; and the need to become personally acquainted with these in order to lessen tensions that might lead to serious consequences.” A Nisei who was “bitter and antiadministration in attitude,” according to Embree, simply gave “evidence that he is American and strongly resents his loss of liberty without trial.” Also, the Issei, Embree observed, had good reason to distrust the WRA after being uprooted several times and experiencing numerous WRA policy changes: Small wonder, then that an evacuee wonders “What next?” He is worried and insecure in regard to what will happen after the war, what will become of his children’s manners and morals as a result of life in center barracks, with the common mess halls and lavatories; he is worried about tomorrow’s food, tomorrow’s health, tomorrow’s children. It is this basic insecurity and multitude of anxieties that cause so many alarmist rumors to fly through the centers.

Declaring “sitdowns, strikes, and riots are not the result of cussedness, but are the result of misunderstandings and dissatisfactions,” Embree anticipated the eruptions that took place at Poston and Manzanar during the next two months. Prewar tensions between Issei and Nisei struggling for leadership over the ethnic community were exacerbated by camp conditions. Nisei, who received privileged jobs and government positions from a WRA that had violated numerous promises, were resented by the disempowered Issei. As hostility toward the WRA grew, Japanese Americans who cooperated with the authorities, especially members of the superpatriotic Japanese American Citizens League, were suspected of being informers and given the derogatory name inu, or “dog.”

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 73

On November 14, 1942, a Poston internee suspected of being an inu was beaten by a group of unidentified men. Fifty suspects were arrested and released, but two popular residents were held for further questioning by the FBI. Two days later a delegation of Issei asked the project director to release the two suspects. He refused. After a second meeting also proved unsuccessful, internees staged a general strike. A crowd of about one thousand gathered around the jail, and the community council, which consisted of young Nisei members often derided as “administration stooges,” resigned to support the strike. Because the project director left camp to attend a meeting, an assistant had to handle the general strike. Although some administrators advised him to call in the army and declare martial law, he decided to negotiate with the protesters. During the next few days, all services except for the hospital, fire department, and police were shut down. On November 23 the administration conceded to some of the strikers’ demands, agreeing to release one suspect and to try the other within the camp rather than in an Arizona court. Issei strike leaders, now recognized by the WRA, also agreed to try to stop the beatings of suspected inu and to promote harmony with the administration. Yet when, in the middle of the strike, Dillon Myer met with the community council and block managers of Poston, he gave little recognition of the tension and hostility the demonstrations exhibited toward the WRA. He never even mentioned the beating or the strike. Although admitting “none of us are gods” and we “have had to learn by making mistakes,” he declared the WRA’s solution was to “simplify” and to “immediately move into permanent relocation as fast as we can.” Instead of addressing problems within the camp, he described the WRA’s focus on gaining “community acceptance” so Japanese Americans could “relocate” to the Midwest and East. Hoping to spur relocation, Myer gave Poston internees a remarkably insensitive account of the history of the evacuation and life in camp. The evacuation took place, according to Myer, not because of racism or even hysteria, but “because too many of you lived around Los Angeles, San Francisco, and other seaport towns on the Pacific Coast.” And he went so far as to appeal to the internees, saying, Let me repeat, our basic policy now is to help you people go out. I hope you will disperse yourselves in not too large groups. I hope there will be

74 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” no more “Little Tokyos.” You should go to the same churches as the other people in the community. It will not be easy, but neither are a lot of other things easy. If you are looking for easy things to do, sit here until the war is over, and then we will push you out.

After blaming Japanese Americans for the internment and ignoring hardships in camp, Myer announced internee wages would not be changed, even though they were much lower than wages outside camp: “We will not try to make you rich within the centers. After the present W.R.A. basic commitments have been kept, no further improvements will be made. There will be no such thing as a prevailing wage scale. People will be paid according to the W.R.A. wage scale.”  Demonstrating how little he understood internees’ anger about WRA discrimination, Myer made it clear he would help people with WRA approval to leave camp but would not improve conditions within camp. Within two weeks Myer would have to turn his attention to protests at Manzanar that resulted in bloodshed. As at Poston, the arrest of an internee accused of assaulting a suspected informer spawned demonstrations against the administration. A mass meeting was held to protest the imprisonment of the suspect in the county jail, and a committee of five was appointed to confer with the project director. He refused to negotiate at first. But then he agreed to return the suspect to camp, for trial, in exchange for cooperation on future matters. Later that day, however, the crowd reassembled and demanded the suspect’s outright release. Then members of the crowd announced plans to “finish off ” the suspected inu, who had been beaten and who had escaped another assault by hiding under his hospital bed. In addition, the crowd made it clear that it intended to attack ten or eleven other alleged informers. The project director called in the military police. When the crowd refused to disperse, the MPs sprayed tear gas, but it proved ineffective in the wind. A member of the crowd started an empty car and aimed it at the police. Although some witnesses said the MPs began firing before the car was started and others sometime after, all agreed that the military police opened fire directly on the crowd, killing two people and wounding at least nine others. Later the WRA spirited away to an abandoned Civilian Conservation Corps camp suspected inus who had cooperated with the authority. Suspected immigrant protest leaders were removed to Department of Justice camps and suspected citizen leaders to a WRA isolation camp at Moab, Utah.

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f i g u r e 8 . Barrack homes at the Manzanar Relocation Center, 1942. Photographer: Dorothea Lange. Manzanar, California. 7/3/42. Series 8, Group 45, Volume 78, Section C, WRA no. 838, War Relocation Authority Photographs of Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement Collection, BANC PIC 1967.014— PIC, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

Defending the WRA, and a History of Japanese American “Loyalty” The incidents at Poston and Manzanar presented a public relations nightmare for the WRA, and there would be “many sleepless nights” at the end of 1942 and the start of 1943 for Dillon Myer. Rumors circulated about planned demonstrations at the other centers. Even more worrisome was a bill introduced by Senator Monrad C. Wallgren, a Democrat from Washington, and Senator Rufus C. Holman, a Republican from Oregon. The bill sought to transfer camp administrative functions from the WRA to the War Department. Senator Albert B. Chandler, from Kentucky, chaired the resulting subcommittee, which was part of the Senate Committee on Military Affairs. The Chandler hearings got under way in January. When

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Myer tried to defend his agency and the internees by testifying “very few of them are dangerous people,” Wallgren reacted in this way: You know, a Jap would be an awfully good dog right up to the point that he can pull something . . . They will use every trick in the world in order to throw you off your guard, and then they will stab you in the back, and we had an experience at Pearl Harbor that ought to really be a lesson to anyone, and yet we are going to still continue to grant them leaves of absence, where they might be able to go out someplace and blow up Coulee Dam or Bonneville, or maybe some large munitions plant.

Disturbed when Myer said Japanese Americans should be moved out of the camps and “absorbed as best we can” to avoid creating “something akin to Indian reservations” and a “racial issue,” Senator Edwin C. Johnson, from Colorado, asked, “Is it your underlying idea, that the Jap, no matter how long he is here, will finally merge with our citizenship the same as any white man? . . . They are always going to be brown men. Do you think they will finally merge and just be accepted in every way like a white man?”  Subcommittee chair Chandler toured four camps in March and made headlines by denouncing the WRA’s “social experiment at the expense of the people of the United States.” He proclaimed 60 percent of the residents at one center were disloyal and “thousands of these fellows were armed and prepared to help Japanese troops invade the West Coast right after Pearl Harbor.”  But the subcommittee’s report, released in May, recommended only the segregation of disloyal internees, the reinstitution of the draft, and the private employment of loyal Japanese Americans. Still, the publicity surrounding the demonstrations at Poston and Manzanar, as well as that connected to the Chandler hearings, unleashed a flurry of anti-Japanese activism throughout the first half of 1943. In January the California American Legion passed resolutions urging the deportation of all Japanese Americans. In April General DeWitt appeared before the House Naval Affairs Committee and blasted the idea of releasing Japanese Americans and allowing them to return to the West Coast: “They are a dangerous element. There is no way to determine their loyalty . . . There is a feeling developing, I think, in certain sections of the country, that the Japanese should be allowed to return. I am opposing it with every proper means at my disposal.”  Concluding “DeWitt is Right,” the San Francisco Chronicle dismissed “the ethical factors, the constitutional factors, the question of the Bill of Rights” and

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77

declared riots would greet Japanese Americans who returned to California. The Los Angeles Times characterized proposals to end exclusion as “Stupid and Dangerous,” asserting that “as a race, the Japanese have made for themselves a record for conscienceless treachery unsurpassed in history.” California was not the only state to express fear of free-roaming Japanese Americans. Arizona passed a bill restricting the rights of released internees, and Arkansas made it illegal for Japanese Americans to own land. Throughout the first months of 1943 Myer hoped to counter the press’ coverage of Wallgren, Chandler, and DeWitt attacking Japanese Americans and the WRA with publicity that highlighted Japanese Americans volunteering for the military and certifying their loyalty before leaving camp. Registration, the procedure devised to facilitate induction and resettlement, however, demonstrated that WRA policy makers still didn’t understand the depth of internee fear and anger. The WRA had worked hard to convince the War Department to allow Nisei to serve in the armed forces. When on January 28, 1943, Secretary of War Henry Stimson announced Nisei could volunteer for a separate combat unit, Myer told the press this date was “the most significant date of the last ten months for persons of Japanese ancestry.” Anticipating that large numbers of eager recruits and resettlers would be grateful for an expedited “leave clearance” procedure, the WRA hastily prepared, with the army, two registration forms for all internees seventeen years of age or older. Distributed in February, the first form, given to male citizens, was stamped with the seal of the Selective Service System; the second form, given to immigrants and female citizens, was labeled “War Relocation Authority Application for Leave Clearance.”  Both of these lengthy forms revealed the kinds of criteria the army and WRA thought could be used to judge a person’s “loyalty.” Internees were asked not only to describe their sociodemographic history and status but also to name close relatives in Japan, their organizational memberships, and even the newspapers and magazines they read, as well as give details of their foreign travel. However, two poorly worded questions, which had been derived from army forms for alien draftees and enlistees, destroyed any hope of a WRA public relations victory and generated a crisis within camp that proved painful for decades. Question 27 required internees to answer whether they were “willing to serve in the armed forces of the United States on combat duty, wherever ordered.” Question 28 asked, “Will you swear

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unqualified allegiance to the United States of America and faithfully defend the United States from any or all attack by foreign or domestic forces, and forswear any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor, or any other foreign government, power or organization?”  Taking for granted that both questions would be answered positively, the WRA didn’t bother to revise the questions or consider how foolish it was to ask elderly Issei, who were not even eligible for military service, to serve in combat. Myer and the staff expected Japanese Americans to be grateful for the chance to serve in the armed forces and to leave camp to resettle in a predominantly white community in the Midwest or East. The WRA had no idea of the depth of internee anger, alienation, and fear. Japanese Americans had lost their businesses and property, had heard of the continuing racist attacks against them, and were skeptical they could start over in the Midwest and East. The WRA never anticipated that many internees would refuse to complete the “leave clearance” forms to avoid being forced to resettle. The injustice of asking immigrants ineligible for American citizenship to become stateless by forswearing “any form of allegiance or obedience to the Japanese emperor” was recognized belatedly, and question 28 was replaced a few days after registration began with the question, “Will you swear to abide by the laws of the United States and to take no action which would in any way interfere with the war effort of the United States?”  But the damage had already been done. After thrusting the loyalty review program onto internees with little or no notice, and without clear guidelines as to how the information would be used, the WRA had to cope with clear evidence of anxiety and bitterness. Myer was stunned by the results. At a project directors’ meeting one week before registration began, he had predicted no more than 2,000 internees would answer negatively and at least 6,000 would volunteer for the military. Whereas 68,000 answered the two loyalty questions with an unqualified yes, approximately 5,300 answered no, and about 4,600 either refused to answer or qualified their responses. Myer was disappointed but he shouldn’t have been surprised that only 1,200 internees embraced the “opportunity” to bear arms for a country that had incarcerated them behind barbed wire. Although staff members in the camps had a better sense of internee frustration and resentment, they certainly didn’t expect so many Japanese Americans would refuse to pledge unqualified loyalty. One described how his views of the internees changed after he learned more about the reasons for their responses:

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 79 All of us I think have been startled by the sweeping repudiation of loyalty to this country, or of hope of any future here . . . to find, by the hundreds, products of our high schools and colleges who’ve never been in Japan answering No to the loyalty questions they gave, was shocking. Our first reaction, mine anyway, was anger, I wanted to wash my hands of the whole traitorous bunch and consign them to any concentration camp the public wanted to set up. Now that I’ve had time to reflect a little, and have talked with well over a hundred about their attitude toward this country, and seen the real anguish that accompanied many of the decisions, and the fears that prompted others—well, . . . I want to see if anything can be salvaged from the wreck.

During these interviews, staff members struggled to distinguish between “the No of protest against discrimination, the No of protest against a father interned apart from his family, the No of bitter antagonism to subordinations in the relocation center, the No of a gang sticking together, the No of thoughtless defiance, the No of family duty, the No of hopeless confusion, the No of fear of military service, and the No of felt loyalty to Japan.”  The staff realized registration did not measure loyalty to the United States or Japan. Instead, as one WRA employee recalled, it “sorted people chiefly into the disillusioned and the defiant as against the compliant and the hopeful.”  The national director also recognized the multitude of reasons for a negative response. In March 1943, in a letter to Attorney General Francis Biddle, Myer listed several reasons, in an attempt to minimize the significance of the large number of no answers to questions 27 and 28. The director noted that many asked “that registration be accompanied by a restoration of full citizenship and civil rights.” Others were “fearful, worried, and deeply disturbed” by the hatred expressed by state legislators, newspaper editorial writers, and the American public in general. Large numbers of Issei were convinced they would be deported after the war and were afraid a positive answer by them or their children would be used against them in Japan. Myer was frustrated that he could not reassure the internees about their futures, “since that will depend to so large an extent on the decisions to be made by future Congresses and Presidents.” He urged Biddle to realize that a negative answer “by a person who is suffering this complex of emotions, may have quite a different significance than such an answer would have if given by the average citizen under average circumstances.” 

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Myer also provided a list of reasons against segregating the so-called “disloyals.” Segregation raised “obvious problems of legality and constitutionality,” would “break up families,” and “compel a very large mass movement . . . precisely what many of the evacuees fear most.” Myer also indicated, however, a willingness to agree to segregation if the lack of an authorized plan would “impede the effectiveness of the leave program by causing general distrust of the loyalty of the evacuees.” In other words, he was willing to sacrifice the “No-No’s” he had just finished defending to preserve public support of the WRA’s resettlement program. This attitude was apparent during a press conference Myer held two months later, on May 14, 1943. Off the record Myer defended to the press the “No-No’s” as well as WRA’s policies by describing reasons for the negative responses. He called registration “a complex sort of thing” that “provided the opportunity for the boiling out of all the emotions and frustrations that are developed during the evacuation period, of being moved out of homes into assembly centers and on into relocation centers.” Question 28 had been unfair because it asked the Issei to become “a man without a country.” One camp, he recalled, “didn’t want to volunteer from behind barbed wire.” The WRA understood that many Nisei eligible for military service experienced “family pressure resulting from the fact that many of the older people had come to the conclusion . . . they weren’t going to be allowed to live in this country after the war was over.” Given these conditions, he argued, getting 6 percent of the eligible Nisei to volunteer was “not a bad figure.”  On the record, however, Myer presented a very different picture of the “No-No’s” and WRA policies. After repeating that some of the qualifications given by the “No-No’s” were “just the kind of thing that some of the most rabid loyal citizens” might say, he emphasized that registration had “smoked out” people who were “agitators.” Reassuring the press that a vigilant WRA was removing these “agitators” to isolation camps and camps run by the Department of Justice, Myer claimed that the “troublemakers” were Kibei, American-born citizens educated in Japan, who came back “to avoid service in the Japanese army”: Now there isn’t any question in my mind that most of them are weaklings in the sense of going out and getting into trouble. They are trying to save their own skins. Some of them are probably dangerous, and most of them, as far as I am concerned, I wouldn’t trust them going outside without supervision; but I would hate to see them sitting around getting fat for the

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duration without have the opportunity of doing something some place, just because I think they are slackers.

Myer even qualified his praise of the “loyal” resettlers he usually celebrated in his speeches. Confronted with concern about “turning loose” internees, Myer defended the WRA by emphasizing the restrictions placed on released Japanese Americans: We came to the conclusion that it would probably forestall the whole program of relocation if we just said, “You may go wherever you wish outside of the evacuated area without any preparation of this community acceptance,” and without provision to take care of themselves, wandering around in groups looking for jobs and probably getting into trouble with the police.

“If they go bunching up,” Myer exclaimed, “the first thing you know you would have them at the police station.” The WRA, Myer promised, would allow only a “few of them to go out” to communities that were sure to accept them. Twice he declared to the press that the country need not fear a “promiscuous” resettlement of Japanese Americans. Perhaps Myer used the term “promiscuous” because he consciously or unconsciously recognized the influence of decades of “yellow peril” propaganda that portrayed Japanese as crazed rapists. Or maybe Myer made the reference to emphasize the WRA could restrain large numbers of Japanese Americans from “penetrating” innocent communities or exhibiting uncontrolled “desires.” In any case, it was clear the WRA would take a tough stance toward internees when the public demanded it. Consequently, when asked his views on segregation at the May 14 press conference, Myer said, “I do favor segregation, but I think it has to be done on a practical basis.” After calling for more time to develop a plan to avoid inflicting “damage to the morale of the evacuees,” he acknowledged “it may be possible that we’ll have to move faster than that because there is a general public sentiment, I think, growing up that we haven’t done this job in the proper manner.”  When asked to clarify what he meant by “segregation,” Myer, knowing full well the problems with WRA’s loyalty criteria, declared, “We are talking about the separation, generally speaking, from those people who are Japanese and those who are Americans; and we are for that.”  Myer would claim in his memoirs that he “capitulated, although reluc-

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tantly,” to segregate the “No-No’s” because of a unanimous vote by the ten project directors, on May 31, 1943. The influence of public pressure, however, was evident not only in the press conference two weeks prior to the vote, but in the timing of the announcement. The WRA described plans for a segregation program on July 15, 1943, just nine days after the Senate passed a resolution requesting segregation. Eleven days later, in his “Introductory Remarks” on the segregation program at another project directors’ conference, Myer acknowledged he was influenced by demands for segregation coming from both the public and the Dies Committee on Un-American Activities. The Dies Committee had held nine days of hearings on WRA policies, at the beginning of June. Even before the hearings began, a member of the House Committee on Un-American Activities, Congressman J. Parnell Thomas, from New Jersey, held a press conference in Los Angeles to demand the WRA stop releasing “disloyal Japs” and to announce that, before Pearl Harbor, Japanese Americans had been part of an organized division of the Japanese army on the West Coast. Although Thomas never visited any camps, he claimed wine was served with meals and “fat waisted Japs are being released while our American boys on Guadalcanal are barely receiving enough food to keep alive.”  The highlight of the Dies Committee hearings was the testimony of H. H. Townshend, a former employee at Poston. In charge of the motor pool, Townshend had become hysterical when the army was not called in to put down the Poston strike. Without permission, he left the center in a government car for a week, and was fired. In a lengthy attack on the WRA, Townshend testified that there were “over 1,000 Japanese soldiers and officers” at Poston, provocateurs had stockpiled food in the desert, and the “poor simpleton cowering Caucasian employees” were “standing around like whipped children.”  Outraged when committee members repeated and validated Townshend’s charges to the press, the WRA fought back. Myer insisted on appearing before the subcommittee in an open hearing. Then he waged a twopronged counterattack when the Washington hearings began in July. First he submitted, and made available to the press, a mound of mimeographed records documenting WRA policies and refuting Townshend’s allegations. The stack included a list of forty-two lies made by Townshend. To combat claims of “pampered” Japanese Americans, the WRA invited journalists to tour the camps. Later, WRA pamphlets and speeches would recount the

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harsh conditions described in these reports. The model communities Myer had hailed to his Common Ground audience were now portrayed as bleak and austere environments. For example, the WRA reprinted excerpts from “The Truth about Jap Camps,” an article Maxine Davis wrote for Liberty Magazine, an ultimately unsuccessful rival to the Saturday Evening Post. Davis described how Japanese Americans had come from “the moderate West Coast climate to this desert, when the temperature was 120 degrees.” Their “barracks,” Davis noted, “were built hastily of green lumber which split apart . . . so when the dust storms come, the dust seeps through the crevices.” Davis reported that “the government offered them their rooms, cots, straw with which to make mattresses, and Army blankets,” but no furniture. Davis thus concluded, “Most of the comfort you see has been created by the Japanese themselves.”  To quash rumors that internees were overfed, the WRA showed it spent only thirty-four to forty-two cents per day on food for each internee, far less than the fifty-five to fifty-seven cents per day spent by the army. In fact, later WRA accounts of the camps invariably mentioned that the “beef served at the center is third grade” and there were “2 meatless days each week.”  However, Myer did more than just defend the WRA from its critics during the second round of hearings. He launched an assault on the conduct of the committee: The program of the War Relocation Authority has been under investigation for the past eight weeks in such a manner as to achieve maximum publicity of sensational statements based on half-truths, exaggerations, and falsehoods; statements of witnesses have been released to the public without verification of their accuracy, thus giving nationwide currency to many distortions and downright untruths.

This practice, he asserted, “has fostered a public feeling of mistrust, suspicion, and hatred” that could provide “the enemy with material which can be used to convince the peoples of the Orient that the United States is undemocratic and is fighting a racial war.” Myer had earlier emphasized the need to protect America’s democratic reputation in the Chandler hearings, yet he was much more aggressive before the Dies Committee in denouncing WRA opponents. They were not only guilty of “undermining the unity of the American people,” Myer charged, but were “betraying the democratic objectives which this nation and its allies are fighting to preserve.” The

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success of the WRA’s program, Myer insisted, was important to the entire war effort. “Undoubtedly,” Myer declared, “the WRA program is being watched in Japan, where thousands of American soldiers and civilians are held as prisoners or internees; in China, India, Thailand, Burma, and many other countries whose collaboration we need if we are to defeat our enemies with a minimum loss of life.”  WRA’s strategy proved successful. After reviewing piles of WRA documents, committee chair Congressman John Costello publicly admitted H. H. Townshend’s testimony included thirty-nine lies or half-truths. The national press denounced the committee’s procedures and racist statements. At the end of September 1943, the Dies Committee, once Myer’s most vocal critic, issued a tepid report recommending the WRA expedite its segregation program, establish a new board to investigate individuals who had applied for release, and strengthen its Americanization program.

The WRA’s History of “Reintegration” Sensing the tide had turned and public opinion was favoring the WRA, Myer stepped up his public relations program. A week after appearing before the Dies Committee, Myer gave an address on NBC radio reflecting this self-assurance. The same man who had a few months ago privately confided to the attorney general the difficulty of interpreting “no” responses, now publicly proclaimed, “We believe it is possible to distinguish between the loyal and the disloyal people of Japanese ancestry.” Those who “prefer to be Japanese rather than American” would be segregated “for the duration of the war or until repatriated to Japan.”  Taking all “proper precautions for the national security,” the WRA was simultaneously “providing the means for loyal American citizens and law-abiding aliens” to “take their place in the national life and enjoy the freedoms which are assured by the Constitution.” Minorities throughout America, and certainly Japanese Americans behind barbed wire, had no trouble hearing the loud ring of falsity as Myer portrayed prejudice as a fundamental violation of the American creed. He declared that the WRA had “faith in the American democratic way of life, with equal rights, privileges, and responsibilities for all, regardless of race, creed, or national origin.” In the course of his address, Myer made this appeal: “So it is important that

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we all approach this problem sanely and calmly, without racial emotion or hysteria. As I have said before, let’s not handle this problem as Hitler would handle it in Nazi Germany, or as Tojo would approach it in Japan. Let’s do it the American way.”  This contrast between American “equality” and fascist discrimination appeared frequently in WRA speeches, pamphlets, films, and press releases. In one speech, the national director declared that if people misled by the “exclusionists and race baiters” could be informed of their motives, they would see that they are being led down a treacherous road of racial antagonism and disunity. They would see that after being conditioned to hate one minority, they can be more readily taught to hate other and larger minorities, both racial and religious, then to hate different economic classes of people, and finally, in anger and confusion, to follow demagogues blindly wherever they choose to lead. The tragic experience of Hitler of Europe has not taught them that it takes hate to make a Hitler.

“We cannot allow,” Myer told a Pasadena, California, audience, “one minority to be sacrificed on the altar of wartime emotionalism without jeopardizing the rights of other minorities.” Refusing to recognize the Japanese Americans who had already been “sacrificed” when they were uprooted from their homes, Myer portrayed the public response to WRA release plans as the true test of American democracy. Further he declared, “The danger lies in setting a precedent that might later be extended to the denial of rights for other racial groups, religious minorities, and even political minorities.” In this statement, Myer ignored the precedent established when Japanese Americans were first put behind barbed wire. In other words, Japanese Americans deserved public support not because they had been the victims of racist government policies in 1942, but because they were threatened in 1944 by a small group of “un-American” racists who called for their continued confinement. Absolving the federal government of any responsibility for the incarceration, Myer portrayed the government, personified by the WRA, as the defender of Japanese American and all minority rights. The Hearst press, the Grower-Shipper Association, the Native Sons of the Golden West, and a few politicians who attacked the WRA and Japanese Americans might be guilty of racism, but the nation as a whole still had a clean conscience. Myer certainly was not the only public official promoting historical amnesia. On February 1, 1943, Franklin Delano Roosevelt sent a letter, drafted

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by the WRA, to Secretary of War Henry Stimson, approving the formation of a voluntary combat team. “No loyal citizen of the United States,” FDR declared, “should be denied the democratic right to exercise the responsibilities of his citizenship, regardless of his ancestry.” Less than a year after he had signed Executive Order 9066, Roosevelt now gave a proclamation, penned by Elmer Davis of the Office of War Information, declaring, “The principle on which this country was founded and by which it has always been governed is that Americanism is a matter of the mind and heart; Americanism is not, and never was, a matter of race or ancestry.”  Myer and the WRA repeatedly cited this statement while urging the public to accept Japanese American “resettlers” from the camps. Ironically, the man who oversaw the mass incarceration would, in the effort to return Japanese Americans to their homes, later quote the very president who had ordered the incarceration. Portraying racism as fundamentally “un-American” undoubtedly helped win more support for Japanese Americans leaving the camps. Yet Myer and the rest of the WRA were quite aware that denying a history of racism would not eliminate the racist assumptions many in the public still had about Japanese Americans. Consequently, WRA officials designed an information campaign to defend Japanese Americans against what was always depicted as a small but vocal group of un-American racists. To the WRA’s credit, it spent a lot of effort debunking misconceptions promoted by the most virulent anti-Japanese forces. One pamphlet, “Myths and Facts about the Japanese Americans: Answering Common Misconceptions Regarding Americans of Japanese Ancestry,” presented forty-four pages of evidence to show Japanese Americans were not treacherous spies or saboteurs. Although the pamphlet never indicated California attorney general Earl Warren by name, it did criticize the “myth” Warren had spread at the Tolan hearings, that Japanese Americans “deliberately concentrated in strategic areas to be near important military installations.” The WRA noted, “The vast majority of Japanese who lived near important military installations when the war began had been settled in the same localities long before they became major military sites.” The WRA also quoted Justice Frank Murphy’s criticism of this charge in his Korematsu opinion, without mentioning that this had been a dissenting opinion: The main geographic pattern of Japanese population fi xed many years ago with reference to economic, social, and soil conditions. Limited occupa-

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 87 tional outlets and social pressures encouraged their concentration near the initial points of entry on the Pacific Coast. That these points may now be near certain strategic military and industrial areas is no proof of a diabolical purpose on the part of Japanese Americans.

The pamphlet also documented the innocence of Japanese Hawaiians at Pearl Harbor. The WRA must have relished quoting Congressman John Costello, one of the WRA’s harshest critics and Dies Committee chair, when he acknowledged, “All the indications are that there was no sabotage at Pearl Harbor, according to all the evidence.”  The rumor that “Japanese airmen, forced down in Hawaii during the attack on Pearl Harbor, were found wearing Hawaiian high school rings and carrying Honolulu street tokens” was “checked by Robert J. Casey of the Chicago Daily News.” Casey reported that the Navy surgeon who examined eight corpses taken from the plane wreckage never saw any rings or street tokens. The pamphlet reproduced statements to the Tolan Committee made by the Honolulu chief of police, assistant attorney general, and secretary of war, verifying “no acts of sabotage or deliberate blocking of traffic” were committed by Hawaiian residents of Japanese ancestry. The WRA affirmed, on the contrary, that hundreds of ethnic Japanese “were actively helping defend the territory as members of the Oahu Citizens Defense Committee.” The WRA explained, “Volunteer truck drivers rushed to their assembly points, stripped their delivery trucks of their contents, inserted frames prepared to hold 4 stretchers, and went tearing out to Pearl Harbor to take the wounded to hospitals . . . Some were hit by flying shrapnel or machine gun bullets from the road-strafing Jap planes.”  After noting those convicted of betraying America during the war included a former lieutenant commander of the U.S. Navy, a former American consular official, and a “scion of an old Puritan family of Plymouth, Massachusetts,” the WRA underscored, “None of these names has a Japanese origin.”  Japanese Americans, in these accounts, were nothing like the enemy that bombed Pearl Harbor. In fact, they weren’t really “Japanese” at all. Hoping to erase what it deemed a stigmatized heritage, the WRA portrayed a history of Nikkei assimilating before, during, and after internment. The introduction of the WRA filmstrip “Wrong Ancestors” exemplified this crusade to help Japanese Americans “overcome” their ethnic heritage. “This is the story,” the WRA explained, “of a group of people with the wrong ancestors—the

88 Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation”

story of people with Japanese names and faces and a desire to follow the American way of life.”  Before Pearl Harbor, they were “occupied with the usual activities of home and family—business—school.” They were “not much different from the rest of America” culturally and economically. It was a “myth,” the WRA maintained, to say that “Japanese cannot be Americanized or assimilated into American life,” or that “they congregate in ‘Little Tokyos’ to preserve their Japanese culture.” Laying the foundation for what would later be called the “model minority” image, the WRA quoted numerous public officials and scholars to demonstrate Japanese American progress toward assimilation. The 1907 Immigration Commission recognized Japanese immigrants’ success in learning English: During their first five years of residence a greater proportion have learned to speak English than most of the South and Eastern European races . . . The progress of the Japanese is due to their great eagerness to learn, which has overcome more obstacles than have been encountered by most of the other races, obstacles of race prejudice, of segregation, and of wide differences in language.

In 1924 Dr. David Starr Jordan declared during hearings before the U.S. Immigration Committee that “young Japanese are more readily assimilated than people of European races.” Furthermore, the WRA noted that Professor E. K. Strong, of Stanford, praised Japanese Americans for having the “lowest juvenile delinquency rate of any racial or nationality group on the West Coast before the war.”  The Nisei, in particular, Myer declared in one speech, “should not be penalized for accidents of ancestry.”  Denying the “potency of American institutions,” hate mongers assumed “that merely because an individual is of Japanese extraction, he is somehow immune to the effect of our public school system and of all the other Americanizing influences that operate in a normal American community.”  As evidence that the Nisei had “shown a decided preference for the American culture,” Myer noted, “seventy-two percent had never even been to Japan for a summer visit.” The WRA director concluded, “In all really important respects, they were as American as apple pie and a living proof of the strength and vitality of American educational institutions.”  Although even with the WRA’s sudden, albeit disingenuous, defense against the arguments for internment, the organization still wouldn’t go so

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far as to admit internment was a mistake or that someone might be responsible for this mistake. Internment was portrayed as something that simply happened to Japanese Americans. The prevailing attitude was that no one, certainly no one in the government or military, could be blamed because Japanese Americans had the same faces as the enemy.  The WRA even tried to use the repeal of the exclusion orders to deny the government had ever suspected Japanese American loyalty. It was a “myth,” one pamphlet insisted, that “the Army evacuated all persons of Japanese ancestry from the West coast because they were considered as a group to be disloyal and dangerous to the National security.” How could the WRA proclaim government confidence in Japanese American loyalty when it had placed them behind barbed wire? The agency rather lamely argued that the government’s decision to allow Japanese Americans to return to the West Coast after three years provided a kind of retroactive vindication: This charge is most effectively answered by the action of the War Department in lifting the West Coast exclusion orders, on January 2, 1945 and clearing the great majority of the evacuees to return to their homes without further investigation or hindrance of any kind. Regardless of the reasons which made mass evacuation appear to be a military necessity in early 1942, the rescinding of the exclusion orders is indisputable evidence that the War Department, after careful study, arrived at the conclusion that only a small number of the evacuees were questionable from the standpoint of the national security.

In WRA public relations campaigns, internment was repeatedly presented as an “opportunity” given to Japanese Americans to demonstrate their patriotism. In camp they proved how truly “American” they were by cooperating with authorities and enthusiastically participating in Americanization programs. “Two of the most popular [classes]” in camp, the WRA emphasized, were “American history, and among the older people, the English language.” There were active chapters of the Boy Scouts, Girl Reserves, as well as YMCA and YWCA, and many youths could be seen playing football, basketball, and baseball. Young men who volunteered for the army demonstrated their “conviction that America was worth fighting for,” whereas others left camp to help solve the manpower shortage. Thousands of these boys and their parents “proved their loyalty by buying War Bonds, giving blood to the Red Cross, salvaging scrap iron and paper,

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helping to save vital wartime crops.”  Such true-blue Americans, the WRA maintained, deserved to find places in “normal communities as self respecting, self supporting people—contributing their share to our fight.”  The WRA’s inspiring accounts of Japanese Americans who never lost faith in America relied heavily on the record of heroism demonstrated by Japanese American soldiers during 1944 and 1945. Typically, white officers impressed by Nisei bravery were quoted, as when one assigned to the 100th Infantry Battalion declared, “I never in my life saw any more of a true American than they are . . .”  Less frequently, Nisei soldiers spoke on their own behalf. The one notable exception was Ben Kuroki, who, for his exploits against the Nazis and the Japanese, was awarded the Air Medal with five oak-leaf clusters and was twice decorated with the Distinguished Flying Cross. The WRA often cited speeches made by the Nebraska farm boy whose impassioned pleas convinced the air force to make an exception and allow him to become an aerial gunner. Although he had little in common with internees, Kuroki was irresistible to the WRA as a symbol of the loyalty of all Japanese Americans. While giving a speech, Myer recounted some of what Kuroki told the San Francisco Commonwealth Club in 1944: “In my own case, I have almost won the battle against intolerance. I have many close friends, in the Army now—my best friends, as I am theirs—where two years ago I had none. But I have by no means completely won that battle.”  Proclaiming his battle “against the Axis and against intolerance” were “really the same battle for we will have lost the war if our military victory is not followed by a better understanding among peoples,” Kuroki epitomized the image of Japanese Americans the WRA wanted to project. Myer affirmed the patriotism of the immigrant generation in another speech. He read a letter from an Issei man to his son in the military: Think not too cheaply of your life; live it as you can in the service of your country—for what good [is] life [to] a lifeless soldier? Be ever careful, cautious, but never begrudge your life for your country—be ever willing to die for her if need be. Then, and then only [when] you have given your all, done your best, can I say that my son lived well.

Occasionally, the WRA even paid tribute to Issei women who became “gold star” mothers when they sacrificed their sons on the battlefield. In one speech, Myer noted each camp had its share of gold star mothers, since “more than 100 Japanese Americans” had been killed in action, and 320

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were wounded. War Department telegrams, Myer explained, were “bringing the same sudden tragedy and anxiety to Issei fathers and mothers, to Nisei wives, sisters and brothers, that come to many other parents and kinsmen throughout the land.”  Turmoil in the camps, however, threatened to smear this carefully painted picture of loyal and patriotic Japanese Americans. The WRA found it particularly difficult to counter reports about demonstrations at the Tule Lake camp, near Newell, California. In July 1943 Tule Lake became a segregation center for those deemed “disloyal” because they were “No-No’s,” they refused to answer the loyalty questionnaire altogether, they were judged antiadministration “troublemakers,” or they were family members who wanted to accompany the segregants. Whereas protests broke out in all the camps, Tule Lake had a particularly turbulent history long before it became a segregation center. Throughout 1942 there were strikes by farm laborers and packing shed and mess hall workers. Tensions between internees and WRA administrators culminated in a collective resistance movement during “registration,” when 42 percent of the total population seventeen years of age and older either refused to answer question 28 or answered in the negative. Approximately one-third of the eighteen thousand Tule Lake residents were people the WRA decided should be segregants; another third were the segregants’ family members; and the final third were “Old Tuleans” who simply did not want to move again. The combination of this diverse internee population and a repressive administration created an explosive atmosphere at Tule Lake. In October 1943 smoldering resentment after a series of labor disputes was inflamed by two accidents. On October 13 a speeding fire truck overturned and three segregants were seriously injured. Two days later a truck carrying a farm crew also overturned, killing one worker and injuring several others. Segregants then began a “work stoppage” in an effort to spur action toward camp safety improvements and other concerns. Blockwide elections were swiftly organized, and a group of sixty-four representatives, one from each block, was named. From this group, called the Daihyo Sha Kai, or “representative body,” a seven-member Negotiating Committee was selected. It was the committee’s task to present the community’s grievances to Tule Lake project director Raymond Best. The group requested a settlement of the farm workers’ safety concerns, improvement of living conditions, installation of a representative community government, and a “resegrega-

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tion,” separating those who wanted to leave the United States for Japan from those who were at Tule Lake for other reasons. The administration’s response was to fire the farm workers, replace them with “loyal” internees from other camps, and feed those workers with food from Tule Lake. Interpreting this as evidence of the administration’s “bad faith,” several thousand residents engaged in a peaceful demonstration near the administration building and forced Best, as well as Myer, who was making an inspection of the camp at the time, to meet with the Negotiating Committee. During this meeting, a group of demonstrators beat up the chief medical officer. He had been accused of malpractice and discriminating against the Japanese American hospital staff. Frightened WRA personnel who quit or were fired after the mass demonstration and the attack on the doctor gave newspapers lurid accounts of this “Jap riot.” The San Francisco Examiner interviewed one “newly resigned official,” who explained, “I quit because I like my sleep and you can’t sleep when you don’t know when you’re going to have your throat cut.” The official went on to say: One group of about a thousand, led by the Judo boys—the strong arm boys who rule the camp by intimidation—stopped at the hospital to have it out with Doctor Pedicord . . . one nurse had her hair pulled and her face slapped . . . I saw Japs walk up to the building with sacks full of straw, and poke the sacks under the building. Later, we learned that the straw was soaked in oil. And I saw the Judo boys ostentatiously take up positions guarding every door of the building . . . most of the Japs outside carried knives—long, curved bladed beet knives or butcher knives.

The press had even more of a field day when shortly thereafter, on November 4, a group of residents tried to prevent the removal of food for replacement workers and fought with some staff members. The army was called in, took over the camp, and declared martial law. Martial law remained in effect until the WRA reassumed control over the administration on January 15, 1944. The well-seasoned WRA handled this “public relations disaster” with relative calm. Four days after the army rolled in, WRA assistant director Robert Cozzens informed the press the so-called riot was simply the endresult of a “series of labor disturbances” orchestrated by a “gang of 200 or 300 who were creating discord” at the behest of only eighteen “trouble-

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 93

makers.” Cozzens hoped this “strong-arm squad” wouldn’t besmirch the image of Japanese Americans because the “majority of the Japanese residents would not question the authority of the WRA or the Army” and 234 “loyal” internees had actually volunteered to harvest these food crops for the war effort. During the next few months, Dillon Myer continued this strategy of acknowledging but also minimizing the problems at Tule Lake. Ignoring the widespread hostility against the WRA manifested during the broad-based demonstrations, Myer recounted a story of a small band of “agitators” forcing the residents to comply with its “gangster tactics.” In January 1944 he told a Los Angeles audience it was a “mistake to think of the population at Tule Lake as composed exclusively of agitators and potential saboteurs.” The protests, Myer insisted, were caused by a small “minority of actively disloyal evacuees,” who used “threats of violence” and “terrorism” against the rest of the residents. Myer assured his listeners the WRA and the army would not allow this tiny but “tight, well-knit organization” of Kibei, “indoctrinated with Japanese militaristic ideas,” and Nisei, “embittered by the experiences of the past two years,” to intimidate the majority of residents who wanted a peaceful and orderly camp. By May, Myer no longer devoted much attention to the riot in his speeches and confidently informed a national conference of social workers in Cleveland that Tule Lake held every “promise of remaining an orderly community.”  Soon after Myer finished dismissing the demonstrations at Tule Lake as the work of a few troublemakers, a new problem within the camps threatened the WRA image of Japanese Americans happily assimilating. The WRA announced on December 18, one day after the War Department revoked the West Coast exclusion orders, that all relocation centers would be closed before the end of 1945. Instead of celebrating the end of the camps, many of the remaining internees demanded the government provide for them until the war ended or at least increase the amount of assistance given to those leaving camp. Seven camps sent thirty representatives to Salt Lake City for a weeklong All-Center Conference on the planned closure. After the WRA ignored numerous petitions and statements recommending a delayed closure and the provision of financial redress, the conference headquarters sent the WRA a protest letter. Calling for “better understanding and cooperation from the WRA and the U.S. Government” to help internees go back to a “normal livelihood,” the confer-

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ence challenged the WRA’s history of a benevolent evacuation and helpful relocation: Thus far, we see no special attempt made to make things easier for those relocated. [Numerous] incidences have been occurring in which relocation has been discouraged even by the use of gunplay and fire. No special policies or provisions have been advocated to right the wrong committed three years ago. To those of us still in these centers, such incidences and poor legal justice meted out do not enhance in any way our attempts to relocate.

Refusing to change WRA policies, Myer defended his agency by stating, “Contrary to the belief expressed in the letter, WRA was doing a great deal and was pledged to continue doing so in the future.”  But even internees at Minidoka, Idaho, long viewed by the WRA as the most “loyal” camp because it had the highest percentage of army volunteers and yes respondents, demanded the WRA keep open Minidoka’s doors. Each block elected special delegates to study reaction to the closure. A FactFinding Committee, consisting of seven of these delegates and the seven members of the community council, presented Myer with the results of their inquiry during his visit to the camp on February 19, 1945, exactly three years after Executive Order 9066 had been signed. The report proclaimed the “vast majority of the residents are not ready to relocate and do not have plans for relocation.” Some, the report explained, wanted to “remain in Government custody for the duration.” Others were willing “to relocate if the proper aid and opportunities” were provided, and still others “had not made up their minds.”  “Relocation proceeded rather slowly in the past,” the committee noted, and “affected Nisei mostly between the ages of 18 and 35.” Although young and energetic Nisei could leave camp to go to college or search for new jobs, those who remained didn’t relish the prospect of starting over. The average age of the male Issei was about sixty-one years. The “economic foundation” they had “built during thirty or forty years” was “largely destroyed in the process of forced evacuation.” Many had to sell their homes and businesses for a fraction of their value, whereas others leased them out for the duration. Many believed “they are entitled to receive compensation from the Government for the losses which they experienced at the time of evacuation.” The WRA offered resettlers $25 when they left camp; however, Minidoka internees believed the government owed them “more substantial financial

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 95

aid” in the form of grants, loans, and compensation for property damage due to the forced removal. Minidokans requested more time and support to prepare for an uncertain future outside camp. They indicated that the camp was “lacking in comforts”; nevertheless, it remained “the only source of social and economic security left to them,” and to “allow them this source of subsistence and protection after what they have suffered through evacuation is in conformity with a humane policy.” Criticizing the administration’s “subtle coercion” in eliminating schools, mess halls, and jobs, they warned “consistent use of this negative approach may result in a crisis situation.” Cooperation and communication channels would break down and “more and more the relocation center would take on the aspects of a concentration camp.” The report ended by stating, “Paramount to the successful selling of the relocation program to the residents is the harmonious relationship between the administration and the residents,” and the report asked that “the administration show sincerity in the future welfare of the evacuees, and convince them of the wisdom of relocation, rather than force them to leave against their wish.”  These complaints could be heard at all the camps, but the Fact-Finding Committee tried to use Minidoka’s history of demonstrated patriotism as leverage with the national director. The committee declared it unfair to force families to leave because their sons and husbands, who were serving in the military, had no way to help them. “With many of the Nisei sons in the Army,” the report noted, “the old folks and families with small children find relocation a very grave risk.”  Moreover, the committee reminded Myer of a promise the WRA made when it recruited military volunteers. It presented Myer with a copy of the March 13, 1943, Minidoka Irrigator, the camp newspaper, which contained the WRA’s pledge that “no one will be forced to leave this center . . . Army volunteers and others who leave dependents in the center may rest assured that they will be cared for as long as they wish to remain in this center.”  But this strategy had little effect on the national director, who had often praised the parents of Nisei soldiers for their forbearance and loyalty. On this day in mid-February Myer made it clear in a speech to the committee that he was visiting Minidoka to “have you folks understand why we have announced certain policies,” rather than consider any policy changes. He might try to fix some “squeaks in the machinery,” but the machine was already in gear. For a civil servant who had given many speeches before different audiences, Myer

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seemed remarkably out of touch with the needs and concerns of the Japanese Americans who turned to him for help. Most of his speech endeavored to impress internees with the WRA’s battles against internees’ racist enemies. It took him a while, Myer said, to learn “the history” of the “folks who have been fighting you for the last 40 years.” He explained that some of them began to oppose the relocation program. They wanted us to maintain everybody in the Relocation Centers. They hoped that they could get them out of this country. There were legislative bills to remove all of you people and your children from this country. Various bills of this kind have been proposed and introduced. Some of them still have the thought in the back of their heads. The situation is very favorable now. Relocation is best at the present time in working with those favorable people who have been pretty well financed. I don’t think it is our interest to give those who have been fighting you for the last 40 or 50 years a target to shoot at.

Repeatedly citing attacks against internees by the Dies Committee, the American Legion, and many other groups, Myer indicated that the WRA needed the internees’ help to defeat racism, going so far as to depict the authority as their true friend. Yet this message contradicted Myer’s statements about the opportunities and public acceptance available outside of camp. Acknowledging it would be “tough for some of the older folks who have been through that [anti-Japanese sentiment] before,” he maintained, “if you are going to help your kids who are fighting over there [in the military] to have an opportunity to continue to live in this country, you’ve got to do it [resettle] now.”  Yet Myer’s advice to “put stars in the windows and on your lapels” to show people you have “boys in the Army” was hardly the kind of counsel fearful and anxious internees wanted to hear. Constrained by congressional appropriations, Myer couldn’t promise them monetary redress or even substantial help finding jobs or getting loans. Instead he stated his belief “that remaining in the center will interfere with any possibility of any claims of folks which they may have later on.” The residents, according to Myer, needed to “prove to the United States and to your boys in the Army that you can do a job in an early and orderly basis,” before they could have any hope of redress. Jobs and loans might be difficult to obtain, but the situation would only get worse when the soldiers returned. He urged Issei to take a “small occupation” or “garden” or “consider jobs as housemen.”  Still Myer “reassured” his listeners, “I don’t think very many people in this

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country can go hungry, as much as some of the other countries because we have the resources.”  Myer may have tactlessly thought he could boost internee morale by telling them to drop the words “can’t” and “unable” from their vocabulary. But he displayed even less sensitivity when he said internees who wanted to remain in “Government custody” suffered from a “disease”: It [government custody] breeds a sort of a disease with some of you folks who are affected more and more to become harmless when you have a disease. It gets worse as long as you stay in bed. The only way to get well is to take a few steps at a time and it won’t be long before you can get this job done. It is the same kind of stage of disease called institutionalism. People in prison get it.

Myer never acknowledged, however, that these “relocation centers” had in fact been prisons to most Japanese Americans. He had been the helpful warden who tried to restore public confidence in his prisoners with a work furlough and then parole program. He never openly denounced their imprisonment, but he did publicize evidence showing they had committed no crime and did not deserve to remain behind barbed wire. Now he could offer them freedom, which tragically many refused to accept, because after losing everything—homes, businesses, community, and most important, hope—they preferred the prison to the world outside. During the war the national director never conceded that he, the WRA, or the government bore any responsibility for the suffering that had indeed traumatized many internees. The closest he ever came was an acknowledgment in a speech at Poston, on March 6, 1945. He admitted to having learned during the registration crisis “what an abnormal life in relocation centers could do to people.”  Nevertheless, he downplayed the problems Japanese Americans would face rebuilding their lives after leaving camp. “It was just,” he insisted, “like learning to walk after being ill for some time.”  He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he claimed to know just how they felt since, as he explained, “I never moved in my life that I didn’t hate to move.”  Throughout his Poston speech, Myer repeatedly told Japanese Americans “your job and my job are the same.”  He apparently thought a review of the WRA’s history might help them appreciate how hard his administration had worked for them. Early on, he declared, the WRA realized that “our problem was of public relations, to get the rest of the country to understand

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who you people were, to become acquainted with you, and to lay the groundwork for the relocation program which followed.” Previously unaware of the history of the anti-Japanese activists, he too began to bear the brunt of their assaults when they attacked the WRA and the relocation program. The WRA learned more about the Japanese Americans under its “care.” Myer thought his listeners might “remember something about the chaos and confusion that existed back in 1942 as you moved from your homes.” The year 1942, as Myer remembered it, was “devoted pretty largely to movement from here to there, getting acquainted with the new staff . . . the formation of different policies which some of you didn’t like”: You had a little celebration down here in November of 1942. I didn’t quite understand it. I am sure you didn’t understand it, and they had a little celebration in Manzanar which got into the headlines and got nation-wide publicity. I know some of you folks are feeling pretty insecure now. I know how you feel because I felt insecure in December of 1942 . . . I was worrying because there was some misunderstanding and bitterness, but it was understandable. I am surprised as I look back, we got through together as easily as we did. Well, so much for 1942.

The next year, in Myer’s history, was a “peculiar mixture of good and bad.” Although in January he took pride in having encouraged the formation of the 442nd, he admitted the “famous Registration” during February and March was an “emotional period, and something which wasn’t too well understood.” As he saw it, the “famous Tule Lake incident” in November and December was “blown up in the newspapers,” and he reminded internees that WRA’s “stock went down” as a result. Furthermore, he recalled how the internees and the WRA were attacked during hearings held by the Chandler and Dies committees. In fact, in a telling sentence, Myer recognized no differences between administrators and internees when he proclaimed, “We were also the most investigated agency in the country in that year, you and me.”  Consequently, according to Myer, everyone could cheer WRA’s victory over these “smear campaigns.” Exposing the lies and misinformation spread by the racists, the WRA discovered “thousands of people who wanted to know the facts” and were willing to give “us” a “fair break.” Myer celebrated 1944 as a year that began auspiciously with the reinstatement of the draft. “That was the announcement I had been fighting for a long time,” he explained,

Myer and the WRA’s History of “Relocation” 99 because I believe that all citizens should have equal rights; that it had to be, in order that we could start from there and step by step wipe out other restrictions and other discriminations which had been in effect for some time. I think we have already proven that this is happening. 1944 generally was marked by two major things; the news kept rolling in month after month, week after week, from the 100th Infantry Battalion first, later, after June of that year, from your boys in the 442nd, and the boys from other centers, the mainland, and Hawaii, who were building a record that will go down in history.

Myer said that there might still be a small group of hate mongers “talking about boycotts” and “passing resolutions” against internees’ return to the West Coast. But thanks to the heroism of Japanese American soldiers, Myer maintained, “there has never been a time in history, in my judgment, when the people of Japanese ancestry, living in this country are as well accepted today, throughout the United States, including the people of California, Oregon, and Washington, as well as the rest of the country as they have been before.” The national director, convinced his “allies” during the war would be his friends afterward, concluded his speech by declaring, I’ll see you in Los Angeles, or Brawley. Yes, I said Brawley; it isn’t very far from here or Fresno, Parlier, or Cleveland, Washington, Oregon, Kansas City, Des Moines, or New Orleans, or some other place and if you happen to see me first and if I don’t see you, I want you to come to me and say hello, and say the last time I saw you was in Poston.

Myer’s History of “Rehabilitated” Japanese Americans Myer basically used the history detailed in his Poston speech to fill his 1971 memoir, Uprooted Americans. Touted as the “inside story” of Japanese Americans and the WRA, the book simply expanded on the same themes Myer promoted to the internees in 1945. Bristling at the way some writers and commentators charged the WRA with running concentration camps, Myer wanted to set the facts straight, insisting that these were “way stations” to provide people with the “basic necessities temporarily until they could be resettled in normal communities.”  He provided a bit more detail on WRA mistakes and Japanese American frustration, but Myer’s history largely emphasized WRA’s courage in battling the anti-Japanese forces to

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gain support for resettlement as well as for Nisei military service, which vindicated the honor of all Japanese Americans. “The most important result of the WRA program,” Myer proclaimed, “was the relocation of more than 50,000 Japanese Americans all across the United States and into the armed forces during the war period.” According to Myer: This dispersion of the population led to an understanding and an acceptance on the part of the great American public that would never have been possible otherwise. It also had a tremendous effect upon the understanding, outlook, and perspective of the Nisei in particular, which provided new opportunities and support for them and developed confidence in themselves which would not have happened otherwise. The record of both the civilian relocatees as well as those in uniform was a proud one. As a result, the term Nisei began to connote loyalty and to become generally accepted as a term of respect.

The WRA thus helped these “relocatees” and Nisei soldiers execute what Myer called “the most massive and effective public relations job of the century, Madison Avenue notwithstanding.”  Ignoring the financial and emotional problems many internees experienced after the war, Myer ended his memoir by celebrating the “recovery” of the community and providing a three-page registry of politicians, wealthy businessmen, and successful professionals. To demonstrate Japanese American gratitude for his efforts, he included in an appendix to his book the testimonial scroll presented to him, on May 22, 1946, by the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL): To Dillon S. Myer American and champion of human rights and common decency Whose courageous and inspired leadership as National Director of the War Relocation Authority Against war hysteria, race prejudice, and misguided hate, as well as economic greed draped in patriotic colors, Contributed mightily in convincing the American Government and public at large That Americans of Japanese ancestry and their resident alien parents Were, and are, loyal and sincere Americans worthy of every right and privilege of the American heritage

Of course Myer didn’t mention that some JACL leaders, suspected of being inu, or “informers,” because they had cooperated with the WRA, were

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beaten up by their fellow internees. Myer, contrary to the view of many internees, recognized JACL leaders as the spokespeople of all Japanese Americans. Together they took pride in a history of loyalty, military service, and assimilation that they felt heralded a better day for Japanese America. In his book’s acknowledgments, Myer credited JACL leader Mike Masaoka with providing the “effective argument” and “usual enthusiasm” that first stimulated Myer to write Uprooted Americans. In the foreword, Masaoka described how the JACL, “representing not only its members but also the vast majority of all persons of Japanese ancestry in the United States,” had presented Myer with the testimonial scroll to demonstrate their “affection and esteem.” The JACL leader maintained, “More than two decades later that testimonial has continued to represent the sentiments of those evacuees.”  The JACL’s Pacific Citizen praised the book for helping to “dispel” the “fear of the Japanese in America that culminated in the Evacuation.” Most scholarly journals also recommended the book as a valuable source on the history of internment. A Foreign Aff airs review called Uprooted Americans a “compassionate and often quite moving account of what America did to 110,000 of her citizens.” Robert K. Murray, in the Journal of American History, admired the book’s “unique contribution”: “Rather than describing again the many injustices suffered by the evacuees or debating again the validity of the entire relocation program, Myer takes the reader inside the agency and shows him its various attempts to deal humanely with the relocation problem.”  Myer’s account of the “WRA’s struggle to set fair wages, establish community self-government, create schools and hospitals, and supervise business enterprises” underscored for Murray “how far removed from a ‘concentration camp’ philosophy were these WRA relocation centers.” Murray concluded his review by pronouncing Uprooted Americans a “valuable supplement to those already on the shelf dealing with this sordid, and perhaps unnecessary, aspect of World War II.”  John Modell’s review, in the Western Historical Quarterly, was the only one highly critical of Myer’s memoir. Labeling Myer as a “career bureaucrat,” Modell described the book as a “superficial rewrite of contemporary materials,” which included large sections “taken almost verbatim from a WRA Report published in 1946.” Modell saw only one major addition to the 1946 report in Myer’s account of race in America: “The man is even more convinced of the universal applicability of the Japanese American formula of forbearance and sacrifice.” Modell didn’t share Myer’s faith that

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“the necessary ingredients for the solutions of racial problems are time and good public relations, since Americans act with goodwill and in accord with the principles of the Bill of Rights when they have the opportunity to understand the problems of the underdog.” Instead Modell bemoaned the fact that Myer said nothing about the “nature of the understanding between WRA and its allies” or “about the existence of any evacuee opposition.”  Although most other reviewers failed to challenge Myer’s history of internees grateful to the WRA for helping them prove their loyalty and faith in democracy, a few critics wondered about the history of camp protesters missing from Myer’s book. In Americas, Hilary Conroy declared Masaoka’s foreword “attested” that Myer “was a humane and understanding director who did his best for his charges, the evacuees.” Yet Conroy noted the book had not sufficiently stressed the problem of the “renunciants,” those who refused to cooperate with WRA or to swear loyalty under stress and were sent off to Tule Lake as recalcitrant “extremists.” So further study is needed: how does American democracy treat those who refuse to be “good citizens” and accept the “temporary” violation, not only of their constitutional rights, but of their inalienable rights as human beings?

When Myer published his memoir in 1971, he never suspected that within a few short years the history he and the JACL had carefully constructed and promoted would come under heavy fire from scholars and activists with different views of racism, Japanese American culture, and protest. Instead of being honored for his battle against “the racists” in the Dies Committee and the American Legion, he would be indicted for his paternalistic views of Japanese Americans. In addition, his attempts to help internees assimilate, escape a stigmatized heritage, and gain public acceptance would be branded as cultural genocide. Finally, his history of loyal patriots who cooperated with a compassionate WRA would be overshadowed by histories of Japanese American victims of concentration camps and resisters against WRA repression.

three

“We Pledge Our Fullest Cooperation” A History of Loyalty and Patriotism in the Japanese American Citizens League

When Dillon S. Myer was preparing to publish Uprooted Americans, his memoir depicting a humane and ultimately beneficial internment, the former WRA director asked Mike Masaoka to write the book’s foreword. Masaoka, Washington, D.C., lobbyist of the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL), was only too happy to comply with the request of his old ally and friend. “The unprecedented acceptance of Japanese Americans everywhere in the land in the 1960s,” Masaoka declared, “is a living tribute to the correctness and vision of WRA policies and practices.” He further asserted: Alien Japanese may now be admitted to the United States on the same basis as immigrants from other Old World countries, and persons of Japanese ancestry may now become naturalized American citizens. The more than 500 national, state, and local laws and ordinances that circumscribed and restricted the lives and opportunities of those of Japanese ancestry directly or indirectly in the pre–World War II era have all been nullified, voided, or rendered inoperative.

These “remarkable achievements, among others,” Masaoka “attributed at least in part to the WRA’s humane and understanding administration of a difficult problem in a most troublesome time.” For the JACL leader, the greatest “testament to Dillon Myer,” however, was “the dignity and decency accorded to Americans who were suspect by their own government and who emerged to face, without bitterness or despair, a promising future of limitless opportunities.”  103

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f i g u r e 9 . Mike Masaoka (seated at left), national secretary and field executive of the Japanese American Citizens League. Photographer: Dorothea Lange. San Francisco, California. 4/25/42. Series 14, Group 14, Volume 57, Section G, WRA no. A-563, War Relocation Authority Photographs of Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement Collection, BANC PIC 1967.014—PIC, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

But in paying homage to Myer, Masaoka was also testifying to the soundness of the JACL’s decision to cooperate with the War Relocation Authority during the war, and to promote a history of internee loyalty and patriotism after the war. Recognized by the government as spokespeople for the ethnic community during the war, JACL leaders like Mike Masaoka felt they had no choice but to urge complete deference to government officials. Obeying government orders was the first step in the league’s drive to establish a new image of Japanese Americans as loyal citizens who enthusiastically complied with internment policies and proved their patriotism by volunteering for military service. Whereas this campaign augmented the JACL’s influence with government officials, it also alienated many Japanese American internees. The JACL representatives praised by the government

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for their inspired leadership were denounced and even beaten within the camps. Thus, although many internees never endorsed the league’s claims to speak on behalf of the community, the organization assumed control over the dominant public images of Japanese Americans during and after the war. Masaoka, like Dillon Myer, tried to conceal a history of internee resistance against the government, and the WRA in particular, as well as against the JACL. For decades after the camps closed, he trumpeted before the public an impressive record of dedication among the Nisei soldiers. By constantly citing these depictions of wartime sacrifice and heroism, Masaoka and the league successfully lobbied the government to remove antiJapanese laws. The JACL’s selective history of internment helped Japanese Americans secure the 1948 Evacuation Claims Act, which provided token compensation for internment, the invalidation of Alien Land Laws, and the passing of the 1952 McCarran-Walter Act, also known as the Immigration and Nationality Act. This latter piece of legislation enabled the first generation, the Issei, to become naturalized. The JACL accounts of Nisei soldiers dominated public perceptions of the Japanese American experience until the 1970s when scholars, a new generation of Japanese Americans, and former internees began to challenge and revise the league’s history of the war.

The History of JACL Leadership and Wartime Cooperation The JACL was propelled into a leadership position by the war and the government’s arrest of the community’s traditional Issei leaders. Before Pearl Harbor, the league had a small but growing following among middle-class Nisei. The roots of the organization can be traced to the summer of 1918 when six college-educated Nisei established the American Loyalty League in San Francisco. Similar groups were subsequently organized in Fresno, California, and Seattle, with the formation of the JACL in Seattle in 1930 at a national convention. The group’s founders, men like Saburo Kido, Clarence Arai, and Thomas Yatabe, held professional degrees. They attracted support from Nikkei like themselves—older Nisei doctors, lawyers, and dentists who believed that the best way to combat racism and gain acceptance in mainstream America was to stress assimilation and patriotism. Mike Masaoka, who became the JACL’s most prominent leader during and after the

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war, was unlike many of the other members. He was younger, had grown up in Utah—far away from the Japanese American community—and had become a Mormon. A champion debater in high school, Masaoka joined the fledgling organization after he graduated from college. He quickly rose through the ranks and was hired as the JACL’s first executive secretary in August 1941. Even before the outbreak of war, Masaoka epitomized the JACL’s commitment to fulfilling the duties and obligations of citizenship. These responsibilities were outlined in the composition “Japanese American Creed.” Later adopted as JACL official doctrine in 1946, the creed thanked the nation for providing “liberties and opportunities such as no individual enjoys in this world today.” This paean to American democracy exhorted Nisei to “earn” the rights and privileges of citizenship by striving to become “better Americans in a greater America.” Acknowledging the existence of racism, Masaoka nevertheless declared he would “never become bitter or lose faith” and promised he would discourage racism “by proving myself worthy of equal treatment and consideration.”  Such conciliatory statements by minority politicians were hardly unusual in the 1930s. Emphasizing self-help and cooperation with white authority figures, the JACL, like African American supporters of Booker T. Washington, preached a “gospel of accommodation.” Instead of denouncing racist subordination or demanding fundamental change, groups like the JACL and the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC) strived for inclusion and acceptance. Both the JACL and LULAC were founded by middle-class children of immigrants who experienced the tension between ethnic cultural ideals and the ethos of Americanization promoted by schools and mass culture. Socialized to believe in American democracy, they recognized the wide gulf between American ideals and practices. They hoped, however, to combat the racists who insisted they were incapable of assimilation by developing “good citizenship” programs that would increase their “ethnic respectability” and “effective political representation.”  The organization’s history of accommodation and assimilation helped JACL leaders persuade the government, once the war broke out, that the league represented all Japanese Americans. On December 7, 1941, JACL president Saburo Kido was attending a meeting in San Francisco when he heard the news about Pearl Harbor. At first he thought the report was “too fantastic to believe” and that it was “just another rumor.” Once he realized the reports were true, he rushed back to his office. The telephones were

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ringing. The New York Times and San Francisco papers wanted his reaction to the attack. Still in a state of shock, Kido nevertheless quickly composed himself and issued a statement denouncing the bombing and pledging the loyalty of Japanese American citizens. He then sent a telegram to President Roosevelt on behalf of the JACL: In this solemn hour we pledge our fullest cooperation to you, Mr. President, and to our country . . . Now that Japan has instituted this attack upon our land, we are ready and prepared to expend every effort to repel this invasion together with our fellow Americans.

Later in the day, Kido was pleased to hear newscasts mention both his statement and his message to the president along with the latest war bulletins. But in the days and weeks that followed, it became clear that even the super-patriotic leaders of the JACL were not trusted by their “fellow Americans.” Several faced grueling interrogations by the FBI. Mike Masaoka, for example, was recruiting new Nisei members for the JACL in a church basement in North Platte, Nebraska, when FBI agents stormed the building and demanded he accompany them outside. Once outdoors, they pinned his arms to his sides and hustled him off to the city jail. Only then did he learn about the bombing. Two days later Masaoka was allowed to telephone Kido in San Francisco but was warned not to reveal he was in jail. He told the JACL president, “I’m stuck here in North Platte, Nebraska. I’m at the, ah, the Palace Hotel.” A friend from the YWCA tried to call Masaoka back, however, and discovered that he was in jail. Kido then got on the phone to Senator Elbert D. Thomas. Masaoka had become acquainted with the senator when Thomas was a political science professor at the University of Utah and gave talks before Nisei groups. Later Masaoka served as a volunteer for Thomas’s successful Senate campaign, and they became friends. Thomas quickly obtained Masaoka’s release and had him placed on a train bound for San Francisco. But when the train stopped in Cheyenne, the local police came on board, took one look at Masaoka’s “Oriental” face, and carted him off to jail again. Once more Thomas intervened and arranged an FBI escort for Masaoka all the way back to San Francisco. Most Issei ethnic leaders rounded up by the FBI after Pearl Harbor were not so lucky. Eventually, almost three thousand community leaders— typically immigrant men who headed cultural or mutual assistance organizations, Japanese language teachers, and Buddhist clergy—were arrested

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and interned. This removal of first-generation leaders established the staunchly pro-American second-generation JACL as the only viable mediator between Japanese Americans and the government. Government officials who looked for ethnic leaders to facilitate the process of removal and internment were naturally drawn to people like Kido and Masaoka, upstanding Japanese Americans who had repeatedly proclaimed their loyalty and faith in the government after Pearl Harbor. Mike Masaoka publicly expressed the JACL’s willingness to defer to government policies during the Tolan Committee hearings, held on the West Coast in late February 1942 after Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. By soliciting public comment on the proposed evacuation, these hearings presented Nikkei with their first civic forum to respond to the politicians who clamored for their removal and incarceration. Only one Japanese American outside the JACL testified during the hearings. James Omura, a journalist, spoke out against any plan that forcibly removed Nikkei from the West Coast, and he attacked the notion that the league represented the ethnic community. But Omura’s protests were drowned out by a chorus of JACL speakers who insisted Japanese Americans would abide by whatever policies were decided by the government. “If, in the judgment of military and federal authorities,” Masaoka declared, “evacuation of Japanese residents from the West Coast is a primary step toward assuring the safety of this nation, we will have no hesitation in complying with the necessities implicit in that judgment.” Japanese Americans, according to Masaoka, only asked for “a chance to prove to the rest of the American people what we ourselves already know: That we are loyal to the country of our birth and that we will fight to the death to defend it against any and all aggressors.”  JACL leaders harbored some hope that such statements might convince the government to excuse citizens from the evacuation orders. But later in the month, even as the Tolan Committee continued its hearings, Masaoka and Kido were summoned to the Western Defense Command headquarters in San Francisco’s Presidio. Masaoka recalled listening in “utter disbelief” as an officer informed them that “all persons of Japanese ancestry” would be required to leave the western half of California, Oregon, and Washington, and the southern one-third of Arizona. Although Masaoka had “been prepared for drastic restrictions on the freedom of the Issei generation,” he was shocked that “the Nisei were being lumped together with enemy aliens.” 

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As he left the Presidio, Masaoka contemplated the “leadership obligations to the people that we had assumed involuntarily, and the new obligations the Army was asking us to accept.” He recalled: “What an anomalous position we were in. Our government was asking us to cooperate in the violation of what we considered to be our fundamental rights. The first impulse was to refuse, to stand up for what we knew to be right.” Yet ultimately, Masaoka and Kido reasoned that “to defy our government’s orders was to confirm its doubts about our loyalty.” Both decided that “if we cooperated with the Army in the projected mass movement, the government would make every effort to be as helpful and as humane as possible.” They reasoned: Cooperation as an indisputable demonstration of loyalty might help to speed our return to our homes. Moreover, we feared the consequences if Japanese Americans resisted evacuation orders and the Army moved in with bayonets to eject the people forcibly. JACL could not be party to any decision that might lead to violence and bloodshed.

Describing himself as an “involuntary trustee of the destiny of Japanese Americans,” Masaoka decided the “JACL must not give a doubting nation further cause to confuse the identity of Americans of Japanese origin with the Japanese enemy.”  In the late 1960s Sansei (third-generation) activists denounced the JACL for not resisting internment. Coming of age at a time when many Americans engaged in political protest and supported declarations of ethnic pride, the Sansei failed to appreciate the climate of opinion surrounding JACL leaders during the war. Leaders like Masaoka understandably felt they had few alternatives to cooperation given the widespread public support for internment. Groups now viewed as defenders of minority rights, such as the American Civil Liberties Union and the American Communist Party, urged compliance. Even though individual ACLU lawyers, such as Ernest Besig of the northern California affiliate, would help Japanese Americans who challenged internment in court, the national organization refused to condemn Executive Order 9066. National ACLU leaders either felt the need to defer to presidential authority in wartime or wanted to demonstrate their devotion to Franklin D. Roosevelt. Leftists within the ACLU and the Communist Party refused to criticize internment because they wanted to ensure American support for the Soviets’ war effort.

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Moreover, JACL leaders had cause to fear the backlash that would have greeted any attempt to organize mass resistance. Contemporary critics of the league often forget the intense hatred that Japanese Americans faced during the war. Two days after Pearl Harbor, Westbrook Pegler, influential columnist for the Scripps-Howard newspaper chain, suggested that the United States retaliate against Axis atrocities by killing “100 victims selected out of concentration camps” for every American murdered by the Axis. Throughout the first months of 1942, before Japanese Americans were confined in internment camps, the papers were filled with accounts of treacherous “Nips,” the “Jap menace,” and “yellow vermin.” Already convinced that Japanese Americans were spies and saboteurs, the public undoubtedly would have supported even harsher treatment if the JACL had tried to mount a campaign of defiance. But compliance did not require the enthusiastic collaboration endorsed by JACL leaders at the time. During and after the war, the league would be haunted by its decision to eagerly cooperate with government officials as part of a campaign to change the perception of Japanese Americans as disloyal and untrustworthy. The national board convened an emergency meeting in San Francisco in March 1942. It voted to move the headquarters to Salt Lake City and instructed Masaoka to go to Washington, where he “would have access to federal decision-makers and could lobby for justice as the evacuation program proceeded.” Although the army had prohibited voluntary movement out of the evacuation zones, Masaoka was granted permission to travel to Washington. The military also allowed him to stay in San Francisco after it was cleared of Japanese Americans so he could tie up loose ends at JACL headquarters. By staying out of camp, Masaoka could “keep in touch with federal authorities to ensure just and humane treatment for the evacuees” and “carry on a public relations program to demonstrate that Japanese Americans are good citizens.”  But as Masaoka himself acknowledged, this led to the criticism that as all those around him endured imprisonment, he easily avoided the camps. Perhaps in an effort to buoy the spirits of the assembled JACL delegates, Saburo Kido presented a special message at the national meeting in which he described internment as “a kind of ‘behind the lines’ service”: What greater love, what greater testimony of one’s loyalty could anyone ask than this: leave your homes, your business, and your friends in order that your country may better fight a war? When we leave let us leave with

“We Pledge Our Fullest Cooperation” 111 a smiling face and courageous mien. Let us look upon ourselves as pioneers in a new era looking forward to the greatest adventure of our times.

This speech undoubtedly bewildered at least a few Nisei pioneers who had no idea of where or even how long they would be held by the government. But this kind of sentiment was exactly what WRA officials wanted to hear. Masaoka was able to meet with Milton Eisenhower, Dillon Myer’s predecessor, just a few days after he was appointed director of the WRA. Eisenhower recalled his impressions of the “attractive twenty-one year old Japanese-American” in his memoirs: He was secretary of the Japanese-American Citizens League, a graduate of the University of Utah, a man of great perception and heart. He was deeply respected by Japanese-Americans of all ages . . . I did not make a single major decision without conferring with this young man.

Masaoka capitalized on his rapport with Eisenhower and launched the JACL’s campaign to transform the image of Japanese Americans. On April 6, 1942, he handed the director an eighteen-page memo of JACL recommendations in which he offered the WRA a mutually beneficial partnership with the league. “By having Japanese Americans laud the work of the War Relocation Authority,” the JACL, according to Masaoka, might help “create a favorable public sentiment which will permit your office to do that which you desire in the relocation of our group.” To promote the league’s influence over the camp residents, the memo advised that “only citizens who have attained their majority be permitted to vote and hold offices of any sort, elective or appointive.” Finally, Masaoka urged the WRA to develop Americanization programs the JACL saw as critical to the future assimilation and acceptance of the Nikkei: We do not relish the thought of “Little Tokyos” springing up in these resettlement projects, for by so doing we are only perpetuating the very things which we hope to eliminate: those mannerisms and thoughts which mark us apart, aside from our physical characteristics. We hope for a one hundred per cent American community.

Opposing the establishment of Japanese language schools, Masaoka suggested that English language classes be offered. “Special stress,” he emphasized, “should be laid on the enunciation and pronunciation of words so that awkward and ‘Oriental’ sounds will be eliminated.”  Many of Masaoka’s recommendations were consonant with government

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policy and implemented, either by Eisenhower or, later, by Dillon Myer. Masaoka admired Myer’s “soft-spoken, gentle manner” that “concealed an inner toughness and dedication to justice and humanitarian principles.” The JACL leader recalled, “Early in our association” we established a relationship of “mutual trust and respect . . . Despite the enormous demands on his time, Myer made himself available for meetings at which we discussed policy and strategy, and frequently he ran his own ideas past me for comment before implementing them.” 

Masaoka’s History of Loyalty and Patriotism Masaoka won Myer’s full support as he moved on to the next phase of the JACL’s public relations plan and “argued the case for service in uniform as a stepping-stone toward our postwar crusade for equality.” Myer made it possible for Masaoka to meet with military and government officials, such as Assistant Secretary of War John J. McCloy. Masaoka hoped these leaders might help Japanese Americans regain a place in the armed forces. During these discussions, he saw himself as “the spokesman as we Japanese Americans, determined to prove our right to unblemished citizenship, demanded that we be allowed to fight, and if necessary to die, for our country.”  Desperate to win over skeptical officials, Masaoka even went so far as to suggest the creation of a volunteer Nisei “suicide battalion.” To reassure anyone who might question the loyalty of this battalion, Masaoka recommended that “the families and friends of the volunteers would place themselves in the hands of the government as ‘hostages.’”  Rejecting this proposal, the army declared that “suicide units” were “alien to a democracy” and that the U.S. government was “not in the practice of holding parents hostage.”  But Masaoka’s persistent campaign to gain Nisei acceptance into the military was rewarded in January 1943 when the military informed him of plans to form an all-Nisei volunteer combat force. Among the factors contributing to the formation of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team were army recognition of manpower needs, a government desire to combat Japanese propaganda surrounding racism, and the contributions of Nisei servicemen from Hawaii in the 100th Infantry Battalion and the Varsity Victory Volunteers. After the 442nd was officially established, Masaoka became its first volunteer. Ironically, Secretary of War Henry Stimson, who

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had authorized the mass removal, issued the announcement that Japanese Americans were eligible for military service: It is the inherent right of every citizen, regardless of ancestry, to bear arms in the Nation’s battle. When obstacles to the free expression of that right are imposed by emergency considerations, those barriers should be removed as soon as humanly possible. Loyalty to country is a voice that must be heard, and I am now able to give active proof that this basic American belief is not a casualty of war.

However, internees responded to such calls with less patriotic fervor than Masaoka had expected. Army recruiters, sent to each camp, gave speeches informing internees that the military was on a “mission” to “return you to a normal way of life.”  Never admitting that internment had been a mistake, the recruiters instead emphasized the need to “put your situation on a plane which is consistent with the dignity of American citizenship.”  Military service was the solution, according to the army, so “that your strength shall be added to that of the rest of the nation.” Volunteering would “restore you as quickly as may be to your normal and rightful share in the present life and work of the people of the United States.”  Japanese Americans would not be integrated into existing military units, however. A segregated combat team, the military argued, would enable the Nisei to “become a symbol of something greater than [their] individual selves.” Military recruiters went on to insist that “all other Americans would long remember what [the Nisei] had done for the country,” and the volunteers would be a “living reproach to those who have been prejudiced against you.”  The recruiters further promised, “Such hardships as you are now experiencing will be gradually replaced by the same hardships which are now being experienced by other American families.”  But in question-and-answer sessions that followed these speeches, Japanese Americans often asked for more specific assurances of what they would gain by military service. At Topaz in Utah, one internee wanted to make sure a volunteer could retain his citizenship after the war. “I don’t think there is any doubt,” the official responded, “that he will continue to be an American citizen that anybody will be proud to shake hands with.”  Yet, when asked whether soldiers would receive compensation for losses suffered because of internment, the official had to admit this was unlikely. Furthermore, he could provide no guarantee that the parents of soldiers would

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not be deported after the war. The official also conceded that military service did not remove the exclusion order. One Nisei noted the unfairness of asking Japanese Americans to risk their lives for a country that would not allow them or their families to live in their own homes: This present proclamation states that we are being granted privileges of a citizen. Then why, if we are asked to make the ultimate sacrifice as a citizen, are we barred from California? If we are not to be trusted, how can we be expected to make such a sacrifice?

Other internees argued, however, that volunteering for military service would help the future of Japanese Americans. In February 1943, Kinya Okajima, an Issei at Minidoka, Idaho, gave a speech urging Nisei to serve the country of their birth and to help all Japanese Americans by regaining the trust of the “truth-loving and truth-seeking people” in America. “Morally speaking,” he told the Issei, our children “do not belong to us, but to their country.” Volunteering, Okajima proclaimed, would demonstrate the injustice of internment: “Americans are not exceptions to the adage that ‘it is human to err and divine to forgive.’ But when they find they are mistaken, they have the courage to correct it.”  During the next month, groups of Nisei volunteers at Minidoka honored Okajima at several banquets held before they departed for training camps. At one banquet, Jaxon Sonada gave a speech proclaiming that volunteers “want to show that we are capable of being loyal true American Citizens.” Military service, declared Sonada, was “but the first step toward the full recognition of Nisei as American citizens.”  Volunteers were willing to risk their lives, affirmed Chester Sakura, “to carry the torch” for “the 100,000 Japanese in this country” so that their “good Caucasian friends back home” would have a “weapon” to “wave at the enemies of the so-called minority group.”  “Since the government is changing its policies as to Japanese,” one Nisei volunteer wrote to his father, “don’t you think everyone should help, and forget the past if the future is to be assured?” He described the segregated combat unit as a “special battalion” that would help Nisei stand out for “propaganda purposes.” He was not joining the military, as he explained, to get his father, “exchanged for my services as a soldier.” Enlisting to get out of camp would be “too small” because “there is more at stake.” Moreover, he reassured his father he was not enrolling because his friends were: “I have

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a mind of my own.” His only motive for volunteering, he explained, was a faith “that the government is going to give us better treatment after this is over. That means equal rights and privileges for all of us instead of the dirty treatment we have been receiving the last year.”  At Minidoka, 298 of the 1,601 eligible Nisei volunteered for the armed forces. But Minidoka’s high volunteer rate was the exception. Whereas almost 20,000 men in the camps were eligible for military service, only 1,200 actually volunteered from behind barbed wire. Consequently, the Selective Service began drafting Japanese Americans at the beginning of 1944. Ultimately, approximately 25,000 Nisei, almost half from the mainland, served in the military during World War II. They served among these four units: the 100th Infantry Battalion, the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, the Military Intelligence Service (MIS), and the 1399th Engineer Construction Battalion. In May 1942 a battalion of Nisei volunteers from Hawaii formed the 100th Infantry and were sent to North Africa and Italy in 1943. In January 1943 the War Department formed the 442nd Combat Team from Nisei volunteers from both Hawaii and the mainland. In June 1944, the 442nd incorporated the 100th after the two combined forces in Europe. The MIS began training Nisei as linguists and translators before Pearl Harbor was attacked and expanded the program in 1942. The 1399th Battalion, established in April 1944, was stationed in Oahu and completed over fifty major construction projects, including a million-gallon water tank. The impressive record established by these soldiers and actively promoted by the WRA and Office of War Information gave Masaoka and the JACL a heroic image they could broadcast throughout the postwar period. Fighting in seven major campaigns in Italy and France, the 100th Infantry Battalion and 442nd Regimental Combat Team suffered almost 9,500 casualties (300 percent of their original complement). The combined battalion and combat team became the most decorated unit in American military history for its size and length of service. Japanese American servicemen acquired more than 18,000 individual decorations, 3,600 Purple Hearts, 350 Silver Stars, and 47 Distinguished Service Crosses. However, little publicity was given to the nearly six thousand Nisei in the Military Intelligence Service during and after World War II. These Nisei linguists translated captured documents and interrogated Japanese prisoners throughout the Pacific theater. After the war they were stationed with the occupation forces in Japan. Yet little was known about their contribution

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before the 1960s. During the war, their service was considered a military secret. After the war, their story was largely forgotten. But Masaoka could and did shine the spotlight on the glorious record of the 100th/442nd. Masaoka recounted with pride how he and his four brothers served with distinction. Further, he showed the ring his brother Ben carved out of a quarter and gave to him as a keepsake, right before he was killed in action. He and other JACL leaders described the heroism the Nisei displayed as they liberated from the Nazis the French towns of Bruyeres, Belmont, and Biffontaine. The story of the rescue of the Lost Battalion became a legendary example of the 442nd’s “Go for Broke” spirit. In October 1944, the 442nd was ordered to rescue the First Battalion of the Thirty-sixth Division’s 141st Infantry Regiment, which was caught behind enemy lines in the Vosges mountains. The 442nd endured three days of intense fighting among mines, artillery shells, grenades, and bayonets before it broke through and rescued the 211 men left in the battalion. Then the combat team pushed on to take the ridge that had been the Lost Battalion’s original objective. In twenty-five days of combat, the 442nd suffered 814 casualties, including 140 fatalities. This sacrifice did not go unnoticed, and the men of the Thirty-sixth Division, many of whom were from Texas, proclaimed all members of the 442nd “Honorary Texans.”  Among other numerous tales of courage under fire, the story of Frank Hachiya was a particular favorite of JACL leaders. Hachiya had volunteered for an intelligence mission that required him to go behind Japanese lines in the Philippines. At one point during his tour, invading American GIs mistook him for a Japanese soldier and mortally wounded him. But before he died, Hachiya delivered to an American officer vital maps of Japanese defenses. Hachiya’s service to his country was subsequently rewarded with a Distinguished Service Cross.

The Hidden History of Resistance Even as Masaoka began to publicize the numerous awards won by Nisei such as Hachiya and other Japanese American soldiers, by 1943 a history of resistance within the camps threatened the image of heroism he hoped to plant in the public’s memory. Even as the league represented itself as the voice of Japanese Americans outside the camps, JACL leaders such as

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Tokie Slocum and Fred Tayama were being attacked as inu, or “informers,” within the camps. Protesters condemned the JACL for “collaborating” with government authorities and betraying the ethnic community. Denouncing the image of Nisei patriots promoted by Masaoka, some internee dissidents went so far as to burn the JACL leader in effigy. Hoping to remove these “troublemakers” who were threatening JACL leaders and fomenting dissent within the camps, the league called on the WRA to segregate those who “failed” the loyalty test during registration. This was at a time when even Myer and the WRA staff recognized the variety of motives for a “no” response on the test. Nevertheless, the JACL chose not to push the WRA to address the fears, concerns, and anger that might produce a negative response. On the contrary, since some of these “NoNo’s” were anti-JACL militants, the organization urged the WRA to take prompt action to isolate the “disloyal” from the “loyal” internees. Instead of serving as an advocate for many traumatized and bitter internees or supporting those who protested discriminatory policies, some JACL leaders advocated further punishment of the approximately 6,700 internees deemed “disloyal” and the more than 300 who resisted the draft. The same public relations campaign that helped the JACL gain support from government officials and mainstream Americans outside the camps infuriated Japanese American resisters within the camps. Joseph Kurihara was a critic of the league and “the most eloquently persuasive fellow in Manzanar,” according to Togo Tanaka, the JACL’s own in-house historian. Tanaka further admitted, “We were no match for him, so we JACL people were run out of camp.”  Kurihara, a Kibei (a Nisei educated in Japan) from Hawaii and a veteran of World War I, had tried to volunteer for military service following Pearl Harbor. After being continually rejected for service and witnessing the forty-eight-hour evacuation of Terminal Island at San Pedro, California, Kurihara began to have doubts about “the Democracy America blatantly preaches to the world.” When he heard General DeWitt had declared, “Once a Jap, always a Jap,” Kurihara swore “to become a Jap 100 percent, and never to do another day’s work to help this country fight this war.”  In a 1943 letter to the Saturday Evening Post, Kurihara asked how America could blame Japanese Americans for “our change of mind” when Japanese Americans had been “orphanized, ostracized, and corralled like a bunch of prisoners in a god forsaken country.” He characterized internment as “one

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of the greatest errors since the founding of this great nation.” According to Kurihara, the majority of Japanese Americans had been “ready to bear arms and fight for the preservation of American Democracy,” because Japanese language schools had taught them to “be true to the country to which we are living.” Internment made a mockery of this faith by causing Japanese Americans to become victims of “slavery after thousands of us have gladly fought and died for this country.” The veteran identified with the “colored boys” who “fought gloriously on the altar of the battlefield” during World War I, only to return to be “lynched without a trial.” These lynch mobs, like the barbed wire, convinced Kurihara that the JACL position of “proving loyalty to enjoy the rights of an American citizen is nothing but a hocuspocus.” Instead of “grovelling” to the government or rejecting a stigmatized Japanese ancestry, Kurihara urged internees to proudly reclaim their heritage from the white racists: In the face of what has been done to us, must we continue to submit ourselves to further insult? No! Then let us proclaim ourselves Japs! . . . What is there for us to be ashamed of being a Jap? To be born a Jap is the greatest blessing God had bestowed upon us.

Undoubtedly interpreting such sentiments as evidence of “subversion,” the paper decided not to publish the letter and forwarded it to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Whereas Kurihara eventually renounced his citizenship in anger, Kiyoshi Okamoto demanded the government recognize and affirm the meaning of American citizenship. Okamoto was a Hawaiian-born Nisei who had worked as a construction engineer in Los Angeles before the war. After the draft was reinstated, Okamoto urged Heart Mountain internees to seek clarification of their citizenship status and rights before complying with their draft notices. According to Okamoto, President Roosevelt “terminated” a “covenant of faith between the Party of the People” and “the Party of the Government” when he interned “a small Minority of this Nation’s Citizenry” without “due process of law.” He accused FDR of violating the “securities, assurances and Rights envisioned by the framers of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.” Okamoto thus felt that it was incumbent upon the government to “prove or disprove our Citizenship status” through either “judicial procedure” or “congressional act” before expecting internees to serve in the military. Okamoto’s speeches and written statements in-

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spired the development of a Fair Play Committee and spurred on a group of sixty-three resisters who submitted to a court trial for their refusal to comply with Selective Service procedures. Okamoto believed that internment reduced Japanese Americans to “Citizens without a Country” and that the “fundamentals of democracy” were at stake. Okamoto asked internees to consider where America needed them most: “On the home front where justice, freedom and democracy are slapped on the face, or on foreign battlefields to uphold dubious freedoms and democratic practices that are still hidden from public knowledge?”  He argued that the “greatest debt to the Nation by any Citizen is the protection of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights before any other considerations.” He explained that the Fair Play Committee was concerned with more than just the wartime rights of Japanese Americans and hoped to prevent “future unconstitutional measures” against Japanese Americans or “any other Minority group to satisfy the lusts of unbridled ambition, bigotry, discrimination or race hatred.”  The Fair Play Committee and JACL-dominated editorial board of the Heart Mountain Sentinel waged a battle for community support within the pages of the Wyoming camp’s newspaper. These exchanges provide contrasting interpretations of democracy, citizenship, and history. The Sentinel editors celebrated the reinstatement of the draft as “the most significant development in returning Japanese Americans to full civic status.”  Acknowledging that some people might resent “being under conditions that do not vary greatly from those . . . [of] prisoners of war,” the Sentinel urged internees to blame “the Japanese government which is responsible for this long chain of events leading up to our own present situation and upon ourselves for being an aloof, self-sufficient people.”  Believing that a lack of assimilation helped cause internment, the Sentinel naturally worried about the impact draft resistance might have on the “postwar assimilation” of the Nisei. Editorials emphasized that those who had relocated outside camp were “once again experiencing democracy in action” and were thus “too busy” to “brood over the wounds of their evacuation.”  Declaring that the Bill of Rights was reserved for “loyal Americans,” editor Nobu Kawai contended that citizens who violated Selective Service laws could no longer claim these rights. Moreover, Kawai argued that it was “as important to win popular support as it is to fight for our rights.” The editor concluded that after the war was over, heroic veterans

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like Ben Kuroki, the well-decorated Nebraska farm boy, “fortified by their undeniable proof of loyalty through action,” would “plead our case for tolerance and justice before the bar of public opinion.”  Fair Play leader Frank Emi denounced these editorials as “un-American.” He criticized Kawai for defining “true democracy” as the “rule of the majority” without considering the rights of minorities. Emi explained that, far from being disloyal, Fair Play Committee members fought to uphold the Constitution for the “future security of this Nation, and for the sake of other minorities as well as for the future of nisei.”  Fellow resister George Ishikawa also submitted a letter. In it he wondered about the “moral reactions” of the “citizens of the liberated and vanquished countries when they hear of a United States that keeps its citizens in status comparable to war prisoners, behind barbed wires and military police.” Ishikawa worried that the United States might “win the war but lose to the militant propaganda of the Japanese Government, the philosophy of Asia for Asiatics,” if critics could point out that America was not a true democracy “which gives its blessings and its protection to all its citizens regardless of race, color, or creed.”  The judge who tried Ishikawa and the other draft resisters agreed with Kawai’s reasoning about citizens who violate Selective Service laws. According to Judge T. Blake Kennedy, if the Heart Mountain protesters had been truly loyal Americans, “they should, at least when they have become recognized as such embrace the opportunity to discharge the duties [of citizenship] by offering themselves in the cause of our National Defense.”  Finding all sixty-three defendants guilty of draft evasion, Kennedy sentenced them to three years in a federal penitentiary. And yet, though most of the draft resisters and “No-No’s” were either sent to jail or shipped to the segregation center at Tule Lake in Newell, California, their history of protest clearly challenged the JACL’s public claims to represent all Japanese Americans. Many Japanese Americans had never accepted the mantle of authority the league had wrapped itself in even before the camps opened. They, like journalist and JACL critic James Omura, were probably surprised when they learned that Mike Masaoka testified at the Tolan hearings that the organization included “20,000 American citizens” in 62 chapters “in some 300 communities throughout the United States.”  During the war, the JACL’s Togo Tanaka admitted that the organization “exaggerated” its membership to “impress the government” and that the

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actual figure was nearer to seventy-five hundred. An investigation of the JACL’s files in 1943, by the House Committee on Un-American Activities, noted that Masaoka acknowledged this deception and “stated that JACL misrepresented and exaggerated its membership because it is the only group in a position to represent Japanese Americans in the United States.”  By the time the war ended, the JACL no longer even tried to hide the organization’s loss in status within the ethnic community. In Denver in 1946, at the league’s first postwar convention, President Saburo Kido publicly conceded in his farewell address how thoroughly the organization had been discredited in the eyes of most Japanese Americans. “It is the irony of fate,” Kido declared, “that I was president when the organization . . . dwindled down to only ten active chapters and about 1,700 members”: I went through the years when it no longer was a matter of pride to belong to the JACL, but rather a thing to be shunned. Only those brave in heart and determined in purpose . . . remained with JACL . . . Despite all the criticism and hatred vented, one cannot overlook the contribution that JACL made by continuing its work for the general welfare.

Yet Kido neglected to acknowledge one of the major causes of “all the criticism and hatred vented” against JACL leaders. After the war, league leaders steadfastly denied they had betrayed the ethnic community by serving as informers for the FBI. They hoped no one would ever learn of documents like the JACL Emergency Defense Council statement. It was signed by James Sakamoto, JACL national president from 1936 to 1938, and forwarded to the secretary of state by Bill Hosokawa on January 23, 1942. The statement declared: We are actively cooperating now with the authorities to uncover all subversive activity in our midst, and if need be we are ready to stand as protective custodians over our parent generation to guard against danger to the United States arising from their midst.

In his memoirs published in the 1980s, Masaoka admitted that he and other JACL leaders were often questioned by the FBI. But Masaoka insisted, “We were never informers in the sense that we ran to the FBI with information in hopes of currying favor.” Masaoka declared they instead were able to “assure FBI agents of the reliability of individuals they asked about, to assure them that drastic measures were unnecessary to maintain

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peace and order in the community.” Masaoka concluded, “I am certain that our contacts with the FBI and other government officials did much to ease the plight of many members of the community.”  Yet the “Final Report” Masaoka wrote for the JACL in 1944 provided a rather different picture of league attitudes about informing on the community. In this report, Masaoka acknowledged the “JACL did cooperate with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Naval Intelligence, and other agencies by furnishing them with all the information which we might have had at our disposal regarding the suspects the agencies questioned us about.” Sharing this information, Masaoka proclaimed, was “the duty of every American.” Nevertheless, Masaoka declared that “since we of the JACL are not, and were not then, trained investigators in counter-espionage, we were not able to furnish them with more than what was general community knowledge, that is to say facts or rumors relating to their ostensible business and sympathies, family relationships, and organizational ties.”  An internal memo circulated within the JACL shortly after Pearl Harbor, however, indicates that the organization’s leaders wanted members to provide very detailed intelligence on their neighbors and friends. A letter issued by Mike Masaoka urged all Northern California District Council presidents and executive secretaries to “go through the Japanese directories name by name” and answer a list of twenty-five questions for Lieutenant D. M. Brown of Naval Intelligence in San Francisco. This questionnaire asked for information on individuals’ organizational affiliations, hobbies, travel, religion, education, and military service. Question 19 asked for an assessment as to whether the person was “living better than he should considering his occupation and other signs.” Question 23 asked about the individuals’ “attitudes of loyalty” and noted that “rumors, too, should be included.” The questionnaire ended with a request for an evaluation of the general public opinion of the person and a personal assessment. Apparently, the reports were not satisfactory, for a subsequent letter demanded greater compliance. The national secretary complained that his office had “received rather disgusting information from a number of chapters to the effect that they would not cooperate whole-heartedly with this project.” He warned that “unless we can furnish this information immediately, we may not be able to stem the tide of hysteria which demands that all of us, nationals and citizens alike, be moved out of this area for the duration.”  Citizens League leaders in southern California were more enthusiastic

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participants in surveillance work. Founding an Anti-Axis Committee, they informed on countless numbers of immigrant leaders. According to Togo Tanaka, their activities “had the effect of confirming in the minds of the Japanese—both Issei and Nisei—that the JACL was witch-hunting among its own people.”  Tokie Slocum even boasted in public that he was personally responsible for the arrest of members of the Japanese Association, the leading Issei economic and political organization. Such action, Tanaka felt discredited the JACL as a force for community leadership among both Issei and Nisei. By a twist of irony, many JACL leaders were Nisei whose parents had been rounded up in the FBI raids and the aggressive, vocal utterances of Slocum and others emphasizing the “vital importance of anti-espionage work” fell for the most part on deaf, if not resentful, ears even within JACL ranks.

Tanaka was thus not surprised that the Nikkei interned with Slocum at Manzanar, near Independence, California, felt the league was “persecuting the Japanese people, spying upon innocent Issei for the FBI . . . that the JACL was, to translate a frequently used Japanese expression, ‘putting the noose around our neck.’ ”  Tanaka noted that “intense anti-JACL sentiment” grew as internees learned about Masaoka’s public relations campaign, his recommendation to eliminate Issei leadership within the camps, and his proposal to offer internees as volunteer soldiers. Tanaka recalled that JACL delegates hid their identities in order to sneak out of camp. Their destination was a meeting in Salt Lake City to discuss a resolution “that pledged the Nisei as willing to volunteer for the armed forces if given the opportunity to do so from the relocation centers.” Tanaka explained: There was apprehension among the residents concerning what action the National body would take at this convention, especially since the JACL had been charged with speaking without authorization for all Japanese in America on other occasions of crisis. There were threats about what would be done to the “delegates” if they dared to claim that they represented the people of Manzanar or if they took any objectionable action which was in any way binding upon the residents of Manzanar.

Morris Opler, a WRA community analyst for Manzanar, also attributed the hostility that erupted into violence and the Manzanar Riot to the league’s ostensible stranglehold on community representation. “Many of the lead-

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ers never entered the centers,” Opler noted, and yet still “issued manifestos which were designed to assure the American people of the patriotism and pro-democratic views of those of Japanese ancestry in this country.” The “disillusionment and the cynicism” such slogans inspired allowed for the growth of a “marked disjunction between the public statements of the leaders of the JACL and the material published in their journal, and what the people in the Centers were thinking.” Consequently, “when the JACL advocated the formation of a Nisei Battalion, the smoldering rebellion broke out into violence and JACL representatives in Manzanar were intimidated or beaten up.” 

Promoting the History of Nisei Heroism Of course, Mike Masaoka and other JACL leaders probably never mentioned these attacks or the history of camp resistance during meetings with government officials or in congressional hearings. Returning to Washington after winning a Purple Heart in France, Masaoka preferred to broadcast accounts of Nisei battlefield heroism. Even as newspapers reported the outbursts of violence and expressions of “disloyalty” in the camps, Masaoka’s public relations campaign helped conceal from mainstream America the history of protest against the government and the JACL. The inclusion of Japanese Americans in the military that Masaoka had fought for, and that proved so controversial within the camps, gave the JACL the perfect image to project to the public—the courageous Nisei soldier. Masaoka thus made sure that the exploits of the 442nd were heavily publicized in newsreels and newspaper headlines. Papers that had called for internment now lauded the bravery of the 442nd. An editorial in Omaha’s World Herald on October 22, 1944, reflected this change in the portrayal of Japanese Americans: “It is always open season among certain of the populace on the west coast to bait Japanese Americans,” the editorial began. But the “best answer” to a proposal to cancel the citizenship of the Nisei came “from Cassino, where the 100th Infantry Battalion, composed of Japanese Americans, carved a permanent niche for itself in American military annals.” Declaring that neither “the west coast nor the Nation is big enough” to “hold both democracy and bigotry,” the paper recommended that we “give All loyal Americans a fair shake.”  The history of Nisei soldiers’ bravery helped Japanese Americans and the

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JACL win wide-ranging public support. During the war, newspapers not only recounted stories about internees serving in the 442nd but also published poignant pictures of their family members left behind in camp. Accounts of soldiers who defended democracy on the fields of France and Italy, and then visited their families in camps surrounded by armed guards, inspired public sympathy. Moreover, influential supporters cited Nisei heroism while denouncing continued discrimination against Japanese Americans. In October 1945 General Joseph Stillwell told the Washington Post that the 442nd “bought an awful hunk of America with their blood, you’re damn right those Nisei boys have a place in the American heart, now and forever . . . We cannot allow a single injustice to be done to the Nisei without defeating the purposes for which we fought.” The New York Times reported that Stillwell was outraged when he learned a cemetery in Santa Ana, California, refused to bury Staff Sergeant Kazuo Masuda, a Distinguished Service Cross honoree. The General traveled from Washington, D.C., to Santa Ana to present the award to Masuda’s family in a public ceremony. While there, Stillwell condemned the local group of “barfly commandos” who had threatened Masuda’s sister, Mary, with physical harm if she remained in the area. As he handed Mary her brother’s medal, Stillwell proclaimed that Kazuo Masuda had “won the respect and admiration of all real Americans.”  President Harry Truman also publicly praised the heroism of Nisei soldiers. On July 15, 1946, the 442nd marched down Constitution Avenue to receive the Presidential Distinguished Unit Citation before six thousand spectators. After reviewing the troops, Truman added the Presidential Unit banner to their regimental colors, and declared, “You fought not only the enemy, but you fought prejudice—and you have won. Keep up that fight, and we will continue to win—to make this great republic stand for just what the constitution says it stands for: the welfare of all people all the time.”  A day later, an editorial in the New York Herald Tribune also saluted the Purple Heart Regiment for a record that had “done much to iron out unnecessary feelings of difference.”  This favorable publicity even helped some veterans combat prejudice when they returned from the war. On August 14, 1946, the front-page headline of the Houston Press announced, “Meet Sergeant Otsuka—He Helped Rescue Texas’ Lost Battalion—Now Texans Snub Him.” After becoming an “ honorary Texan” for his role in the rescue and earning four Bronze Stars, former infantryman George Otsuka was warned by a group of Texans not to move into a farm in the Tomball-Cypress area. The paper

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f i g u r e 1 0 . Soldiers of the 442nd train at Camp Shelby. Photographer: Charles E. Mace. Camp Shelby, Mississippi. 7/?/43. Series 12, Group 80, Volume 42, Section E, WRA no. H-88, War Relocation Authority Photographs of JapaneseAmerican Evacuation and Resettlement Collection, BANC PIC 1967.014—PIC, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

published a letter from Otsuka to the hostile Texans in which he asked, “Is that your answer for the terrific casualty we suffered to rescue those men of the 36th?” Otsuka ended his letter by referencing an enclosed picture of a plaque presented to the 442nd by the Thirty-sixth. He declared, “I don’t want it. There isn’t enough room inside me for this and my recent experience.” Three days later, the paper carried a half-dozen letters of outrage in addition to the news that the community now welcomed Otsuka and his family to their new farm. The Pacific Citizen, the JACL’s newspaper, called Texans’ support for Otsuka a “tonic for the Nisei and all minorities” and “graphic proof that for every person that pulls a raw deal in the name of bigotry, there are at least a hundred who will squelch it in the name of justice and democracy.”  At the 1946 National Convention in Denver, JACL leaders discussed how they could use these accounts of heroic soldiers in their postwar public relations campaign. Although outgoing president Saburo Kido might bemoan

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f i g u r e 1 1 . Sgt. Tatsumi Iwate on furlough in Gill, Colorado, 1945, bears a piece of Nazi shrapnel in his brain after the rescue of the Lost Battalion in France. Photographer: Charles E. Mace. Gill, Colorado. 7/14/45. Series 12, Group 12, Volume 46, Section E, WRA no. H-793, War Relocation Authority Photographs of Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement Collection, BANC PIC 1967.014— PIC, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

the hostility he and other JACL leaders had endured in camp, he could exult in the new public images of patriotic Nisei that filled the mainstream media. Many members worried, however, that the history of protest within the camps might tarnish the image of military sacrifice the JACL had so carefully burnished. Some felt the league should distance itself publicly from these camp resisters. A few hard-liners even suggested the JACL go on record as urging the government to deport immediately “those who failed

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to express loyalty,” and require that segregants from Tule Lake carry special identification cards. The organization ultimately decided that the best approach was to remain silent about the resisters and to mount an intensive media campaign. This campaign would center on Nisei soldiers, swamping any “memories of disloyalty” the public might have had. In effect, the JACL hoped to erase the history of internee resistance from public memory by denying its existence. This tactic proved largely successful during the three decades that followed the end of the war. The “trouble” within the camps was quickly forgotten by the nation as a whole. The image of the Nisei soldier continued to reign in the public mind with the help of the JACL’s information and education program. A league pamphlet written by Bill Hosokawa and entitled “Better Americans in a Greater America” proudly recounted the organization’s role in keeping alive the contributions of Japanese American soldiers. Shortly after the war, with prominent government and military leaders in attendance, the JACL arranged reburial ceremonies for Nisei soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery. On the twentieth anniversary of the 442nd’s founding, the JACL sponsored commemorative services at Arlington that inspired a two-hour tribute to Nisei servicemen in the House of Representatives. Also, the league convinced the U.S. Army to name a troop transport in honor of fallen private Sadao S. Munemori, who was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor. Munemori saved two comrades by using his own body as a shield against a grenade blast. To make sure the public never forgot the record of the 442nd, the JACL cooperated with the production of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer’s 1951 film Go for Broke! The original story was about a Nisei college student living in Los Angeles. He volunteers for the army one day after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, but is rejected. After suffering the indignity of life in an internment camp, he is finally given the chance to prove himself in combat. MGM dropped the scenes in the internment camp as well as the focus on a Japanese American. The final product was the story of a white soldier, played by Van Johnson, who learns to conquer racism. Raised in the South, Johnson’s character takes over a Nisei platoon in the 442nd and declares, “It’s a funny thing. You join up to fight the Japs and end up fighting with them.” Setting Johnson straight, a fellow white officer offers up a lecture against prejudice, explaining, “Lots of Americans are descendants of enemy nations.” When Johnson insists, “That’s different,” the officer responds by

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asking, “What’s different about it . . . Is it the slant of their eyes? Or is it the color of their skin?” He then goes on to inform Johnson, “They’re not Japs. They’re Japanese Americans.” Though heavy-handed in its message, the film ultimately has Johnson witnessing the gallantry of his Nisei soldiers and learning to respect and admire them. As a special consultant on the film’s script and production, Mike Masaoka made sure the heroic struggles of Nisei soldiers both on and off the battlefield were movingly portrayed.

The History of Patriots Fighting Racism Go for Broke! helped the JACL fulfill its 1946 resolution to “keep Japanese Americans in the public eye.” In the decades that followed the end of the war, the organization also used the history of Nisei heroism on the battlefield to mount campaigns to repeal anti-Japanese legislation. The ambitious agenda defined by the JACL in 1946 included testing the constitutionality of Alien Land Laws; maintaining and strengthening “useful contacts developed during the war”; “asking Congress to create a claims commission that would compensate deserving internees; obtaining naturalization and citizenship rights for “all persons of demonstrated loyalty to the United States”; and developing a “long-range Americanization” program to help Japanese Americans “individually and as a group” become “better Americans in a greater America.”  Continual references to Japanese American loyalty and heroism helped the JACL achieve these goals from the late 1940s through the 1950s. Immediately after the war ended, the organization launched a campaign to invalidate California’s 1913 and 1920 Alien Land Laws, which denied Japanese immigrants the right to own property. Between 1944 and 1948, California filed approximately eighty escheat actions (motions to revert property to the state) for alleged evasions and violations of these laws. The JACL encouraged Kajiro Oyama, who bought six acres of land in the name of his sixyear-old son, Fred, to contest the state’s seizure of his property in court. In 1948 the U.S. Supreme Court ruled the escheat action an unconstitutional denial of Kajiro and Fred Oyama’s rights to equal protection under the Fourteenth Amendment. Akira Ike Masaoka, a brother of Mike Masaoka, launched another suit against the laws, explicitly referring to the heroism of the 442nd. Four of the Masaoka brothers were combat veterans and a fifth

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was killed during the rescue of the Lost Battalion. The brothers asked the court how, after making this ultimate sacrifice, the state could deny them the right to buy property to build a home for their elderly mother. In 1952 the California Supreme Court enforced the Oyama decision and ordered the state to return the Masaoka property. The JACL effectively cited the history of the 442nd in another campaign against the Alien Land Laws. In 1946 the JACL and the American Civil Liberties Union defeated a proposition on the California ballot to incorporate the Alien Land Laws into the state’s constitution. Historian Kevin Leonard persuasively argues this campaign demonstrated how World War II transformed the nature of racism in California. He describes how horrific accounts of Nazi extermination camps “made many people more sensitive to atrocities committed in the name of racial purity or racial supremacy.” Mike Masaoka compared the ballot measure to “Hitlerism and the kind of fascism so many of us fought to destroy.” Condemning the measure for giving “legal license to discriminate against one people solely on the basis of race” and emphasizing the distinguished military record of the 442nd, the proposition’s opponents mobilized support from newspapers, religious organizations, veterans groups, and labor unions. On November 5, 1946, Californians rejected an anti-Asian measure for the first time. Throughout the state, 797,067 people endorsed the proposition, whereas 1,143,780 people voted against this display of overt racial discrimination against Japanese Americans. Yet Leonard perceptively warns against interpreting the campaign as a complete triumph against racism. He points out that Californians rejected a fair employment practices initiative on the same ballot and maintained restrictive housing covenants. Thus, even though the record of the 442nd might have helped convince voters to reject blatantly racist state measures, it did not dismantle the economic and social barriers Japanese Americans and other minorities faced. Still, the JACL’s history of loyalty and patriotism played a huge role in several remarkable legislative victories. Architects and administrators of internment rewarded JACL wartime cooperation by soliciting remedial legislation from Congress, most notably through the 1948 Evacuation Claims Act. This legislation provided token compensation for economic losses caused by the incarceration. In her University of Southern California dissertation, Nancy Nanami Nakasone-Huey notes that this act failed to question the legal basis of internment or provide “full and proper redress.” The

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act never challenged the rationalization for internment. The Report of the Senate Committee declared the question of whether “the evacuation”. . . “was justified is now moot.” Nevertheless the committee felt that “the principles of justice and responsible government require that there should be compensation for such losses” incurred during the war. Yet the government made sure compensation was limited to well-documented claims of “damage to or loss of real or personal property,” and excluded lost opportunities, earnings, or interest. Gaining passage of an act that acknowledged the government’s moral responsibility for internees’ property losses just six years after Executive Order 9066 was a major symbolic feat. The JACL now reaped the benefits of a history of cooperation that had caused their leaders so much grief within the camps. Wartime officials and JACL leaders like Mike Masaoka who had worked together during the war now collaborated on a history of internment that would appeal to the politicians in Washington. The legal division of the WRA drafted a bill based on input from the JACL and former WRA director Dillon S. Myer. Secretary of the Interior Julius A. Krug officially proposed the bill and circulated drafts around Washington. Needless to say, the JACL, Myer, and Krug never mentioned any of the protests that took place within the camps. Instead they portrayed all internees in the JACL mold of patriots eager to obey the government during the war. Thus, in a letter to Sam Rayburn, Speaker of the House of Representatives, Krug urged support for the bill “as a matter of fairness and good conscience” and “because these particular American citizens and law-abiding aliens have borne with patience and undefeated loyalty the unique burdens which this Government has thrown upon them.”  The former warden of the camps, Dillon Myer, also testified for his friends in the JACL on behalf of the bill. He assured a cost-conscious Congress that the measure excluded “intangible claims,” such as compensation for false eviction or imprisonment, loss of income, personal injury, and psychological damage. The “great majority” of claims, Myer asserted, would be for small amounts. The total cost would “not exceed 10 million dollars.”  Former assistant secretary of war John J. McCloy also urged Congress to pass the bill. McCloy, one of the first advocates of the 442nd, praised Nisei soldiers for writing “one of the brightest pages in the annals of our military history as well as our national history.” Ironically, McCloy, who had endorsed and defended internment during the war, stated in 1948 that the

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program was “foreign” to America’s traditions. After declaring his personal support of the bill, McCloy added that Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson also felt compensation was a “just obligation” of the government. The bill’s proponents mobilized additional support from officials impressed by the Nisei war record. President Harry Truman, who supported Japanese American rights as part of a larger civil rights agenda, referred to the Nisei military heroism when he lobbied for the legislation. Truman wrote to Senator Pat McCarran that it would be a “tragic anomaly if the United States were, on the one hand, to acclaim and decorate with honors the brave Nisei troops who fought so valiantly and at such sacrifice overseas, while, on the other hand, it ignored and left unredressed the very real and grievous losses which some of them, together with their immediate families, have suffered.”  The JACL knew, however, that battlefield references alone might not persuade conservative legislators like Senator McCarran to vote for the bill. Consequently, Mike Masaoka promoted another history of internment designed to appeal to anti-Communist politicians. This account reiterated the story of Nisei patriotism but added a moral about the danger internment posed to American capitalism. While testifying on behalf of the bill, Masaoka called internment a “great blow to the cause of civil liberties in the United States” and an “equally potent challenge” to the “concept of private property and free enterprise.” According to Masaoka, these “twin foundations” of the American economic system were threatened when the “fruits of the labor of a generation of hard-working immigrants were destroyed overnight.” He emphasized that the proposed compensation would “aid in the rehabilitation and readjustment of a once thrifty and ‘too-proud-to-askfor-charity’ people.” Passage of the bill would simply “re-assert our doctrine of private property and private enterprise at a time when foreign dogmas threaten our existence as a free people.”  When recommending passage of the bill, the House Committee of the Judiciary endorsed Masaoka’s depiction of the legislation as an affirmation of Nisei patriotism that would help America resist its Cold War enemies. After citing the Nisei military record, the Committee’s report praised Japanese Americans for being “loyal to the traditions of this country” and exhibiting “a commendable discipline throughout the period of their exile.” The report also declared that failing to “redress these loyal Americans . . . would

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provide ample material for attacks by the followers of foreign ideologies on the American way of life.”  On July 2, 1948, President Truman signed the Evacuation Claims Act. Japanese Americans had until January 3, 1950, to file their claims. According to WRA statistics, as of January 1, 1943, there were 76,843 individuals over the age of eighteen within the camps who were eligible to file claims. By the deadline, 23,689 claimants applied for a total of $131,949,176 in damages. However, 60 percent of these claims were for less than $2,500. And Congress appropriated only $38 million for all claims as the Department of Justice dragged its feet in processing the applications. Throughout 1950, just 210 claims were approved and only 73 people actually reimbursed. According to Bill Hosokawa, the government spent about $1,400 to process each claim before issuing payments that averaged only $450. Investigators required applicants to submit written receipts, inventories, or photographs, even though many had lost these documents during the chaos surrounding removal, internment, and resettlement. Given the bureaucratic quagmire, many applicants, especially older Issei, accepted a “compromise” proposed by Masaoka and approved by Congress. The attorney general agreed to shortened government investigations if applicants accepted three-fourths of their claim or $2,500, whichever was less. A ninety-two-year-old accepted $2,500 for a $75,000 claim because he didn’t think he would live long enough to see his claim through the courts. Others pursued litigation, but the last claim was not settled until 1965. Despite the act’s shortcomings, the JACL understandably celebrated its passage as the fulfillment of a major goal. The next legislative triumph, the McCarran-Walter Act, which won naturalization rights for the Issei, owed less to wartime patrons than to an opportune political climate and Masaoka’s cultivation of influential allies. Interned during World War II because of assumed affinities with Japan, Japanese Americans ironically found that they now benefited from these same perceived ties. Japan was no longer a hated enemy but a vital friend as America fought a “cold war” against Communism in the 1950s. Strategic bases in Japan helped “contain” Communism in Asia and provided a bulwark against “Red China.” Concerned about Communist rhetoric portraying the United States as racially discriminatory and hoping to bolster the image of America as a leader of equal opportunity, government officials began to call for the repeal of racial barriers to immigration

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and naturalization. Also, President Truman firmly supported abolishing the national quota system and removing naturalization barriers. In this receptive climate, Masaoka crafted a successful campaign with the support of political allies, many of whom were veterans he was able to befriend because of the Nisei war record. When he first began to roam the halls of Congress, Masaoka found few politicians who would even listen to him describe Japanese American concerns. Yet Masaoka’s persistence and eloquent tales of his military service, and the history of the 442nd, eventually helped to unlock some closed doors. Congressman John Robison, from Kentucky, a ranking member of the House Judiciary Committee, could testify to the lobbyist’s personal determination. For weeks Masaoka had tried unsuccessfully to get an appointment with Robison. By chance, the JACL lobbyist happened to spy the congressman entering a restroom, followed him, and introduced himself while Robison was indisposed. The tactic worked and Robison invited Masaoka back to his office. Congressman Ed Gossett, from Texas, consented to meet with Masaoka because he knew of the 442nd’s rescue of the Lost Battalion. Walter H. Judd, from Minnesota, a former missionary in Asia and a navy veteran who admired the Nisei war record, also became an important ally for Masaoka. By touting his own war record and the history of other Nisei soldiers, Masaoka had gone from “Jap” to influential lobbyist in less than ten years. His memories of how he had been treated by Washington politicians during the Tolan hearings in 1942 were still vivid, however. As the first Japanese American to testify before the committee, he immediately realized that he was the first Nisei many of the congressmen had ever met. Several expressed surprise that he spoke English so well and were amazed when he said he could not read, write, or speak Japanese. It became obvious from their questioning that he could never convince these politicians he was as “American” as he claimed. But by 1948 Masaoka was a veteran of the war as well as a veteran lobbyist. He could count on his friends Robison, Gossett, and Judd to become key backers of the JACL’s pursuit of naturalization rights. And he could rely on his own powers of persuasion to help promote the bill throughout the legislative process. At first it appeared that the JACL’s history of cooperation, loyalty, and patriotism might be sufficient to win naturalization rights. Congressman Judd, a fellow veteran, introduced the bill to eliminate “all racial barriers in existing naturalization laws and to make it possible for

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Asian and Pacific peoples to enter the United States as quota immigrants.” During extensive committee hearings, the Nisei war record was cited repeatedly as a justification for Issei citizenship rights. Masaoka testified that his mother told him and his brothers, “Boys, your job is to go out and fight for these United States, because it is my country.” McCloy recommended passage as an “appropriate form of recognition for the loyalty which Japanese Americans as a whole evidenced to this country during the war.” A letter written by General Mark Clark and presented at the hearings declared, “The parents of these heroic Nisei should have the privileges of the democracy their sons helped to preserve.”  Despite these positive testimonials, the unanimous support of the California delegation, and editorial endorsements, the Senate failed to vote on the legislation. Masaoka later learned that Senator Richard Russell, from Georgia, led a Southern contingent that demanded the “racially tinged reform” bill be “put on the shelf.” To get the bill out of committee, proponents had to garner the support of congressional conservatives. In 1950 the JACL learned that Senator Pat McCarran, from Nevada, chair of the Senate conference, and Congressman Francis Walter, from Pennsylvania, were willing to attach a naturalization rights clause to an “internal security” bill. While this bill eliminated racial, ethnic, and religious bars to either immigration or naturalization, it expanded the ideological basis for rejecting, detaining, and deporting immigrants. By continuing the 1924 National Origins Quota Act, the bill would only have allowed a yearly immigration of 185 individuals from Japan. Moreover, the legislation provided funding to establish detention camps for subversives. Whereas the camps were designed to hold suspected Communists, Nisei progressives argued it was as unjust for the government to intern people on the basis of ideology as race. After meeting with other JACL leaders, Masaoka decided to push for the bill despite its flaws and repressive aspects. In his memoirs, Masaoka explained why he supported legislation attacked by the JACL’s liberal allies and denounced by Nisei progressives: “In the final analysis, the rationale was simple: The Title II concentrationcamp law was already in the statute books, and the amendments would not make them significantly more harsh; we had to win naturalization rights while the time was ripe.”  Once he resolved to lobby for the bill, Masaoka did not hesitate to appeal to anti-Communist sentiment in the campaign. In a letter to Congressman

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Chet Hollifield, from California, Masaoka wrote, “It is ironic that while we invest our very lifeblood in Korea to thwart Communist advances there, and labor to win the allegiance of Japan and Southeast Asia to our cause, we render suspect the sincerity of our enterprise abroad by our discriminatory policy at home.”  Echoing these concerns, Congressman Walter warned Congress that if it sustained Truman’s veto, “Communist propaganda in the Far East will be given a new shot in the arm by being permitted to spread the word that we intend to keep the Orientals out and that the words of friendship we address to them remain just empty slogans.” In 1952 Congress overrode the veto and the McCarran-Walter Act became law. Masaoka considered this attack on racial discrimination in immigration and naturalization laws his most important achievement. Although Masaoka and the JACL did not spearhead any other major campaigns in the 1950s and early 1960s, the organization actively participated in a growing civil rights coalition. As a member of the National Leadership Conference on Civil Rights, the JACL supported antilynching, anti–poll tax, and fair housing bills. Also, the league filed amicus curiae—friend of the court—briefs in a series of desegregation cases culminating with Brown v. Board of Education. During this period, the organization’s promotion of an image of “loyalty tested by fire” won support from many government officials. Speaking from the House of Representatives, Congressman Walter Judd paid tribute to the JACL on its twenty-fifth anniversary by presenting the organization with a flag that had flown over the Capitol. Judd praised Japanese Americans in 1955 as “accepted and assimilated fellow Americans who are known and welcomed throughout the entire land.” He went on to say that their accomplishments “in such a short time, and against such odds of prejudice and discrimination” were not only a “tribute to the leadership and membership of JACL but also to the system of government and the democratic processes which gave opportunity and incentive for such progress in human relations.” Judd credited the league’s history of cooperation during the war with turning the tide against prejudice and forcing a “reappraisal of the socalled Japanese problem.” It “was inconceivable,” Judd declared, “that disloyal or dangerous persons would not have at least attempted to embarrass the Army and provoked bloodshed, thereby providing the enemy with valuable propaganda in its efforts to gain the support of fellow Asians.” Instead, he pointed out, Japanese Americans volunteered “from behind the barbed wire fences of these desert camps where our own Government had incar-

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cerated them.” Judd further proclaimed, “Seldom, if ever, has there been a greater demonstration of faith in country than this.”  Publicizing this “wartime record of devotion and sacrifice of all persons of Japanese ancestry,” Judd explained, the JACL launched successful campaigns to repeal anti-Japanese laws. The league had thus “utilized the tools of a representative government in such an effective manner that they are today a model that can well be emulated by others seeking justice and equality of treatment.” Judd concluded that the “JACL story for their first 25 years is an inspiring document of democracy in action at the best, an epic which could have been written only in America and which completely refutes the hate and race mongers of only a few years ago.” Judd noted the strategic significance of this history during the Cold War as the United States tried to counter Communist charges of racial intolerance in America. He declared, “What the JACL has accomplished here in the United States is living proof to all the free peoples of the world, and especially to those in the Far East who are so important to us as a nation today, that the democratic way is best, for it makes possible the correction of abuses and wrongs and the achievement of justice and redress on the basis of the complete record and of individual merit, not race, color, creed, or national origin.”  By emphasizing how Nisei veterans had defeated racism during the war and affirmed American ideals of freedom and equality, the league won praise from both political parties. In 1950 Harry Truman praised “JACL’s work” as a “tribute to the democracy within whose framework you plead your case and achieve your goals.” Dwight D. Eisenhower sent a message in 1956 congratulating the organization on “its support of good citizenship, liberty, and patriotism.” In 1962 John F. Kennedy celebrated JACL’s “high standards of citizenship” and its contributions “to your community and to our national life.”  The appeal of the JACL’s accounts of wartime valor and postwar recovery was epitomized by a 1963 tribute to the Nisei soldier by Congressman Barratt O’Hara: I do not know of any group in the history of our country who has suffered so much without justification and has come out of it to make such a great contribution with never a scar of resentment or faltering of their love of and loyalty to country. God bless the Japanese Americans.

By the 1970s, however, the history of cooperation, loyalty, and patriotism that JACL leaders had cultivated to positive effect in the public mind was increasingly criticized by scholars, Sansei activists born after the war, and

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former internees. A new era of civil rights activism and antiwar protest led JACL critics to question the organization’s history of accommodation. Scholars denounced the rationale behind internment, praised internee resisters, and exposed the league’s role in informing on immigrant leaders and stifling protest within the camps. Sansei activists attacked JACL leaders for encouraging Japanese Americans to “be herded like sheep” into “concentration camps.” Moreover, former internees began to recount and publish histories of suffering and protest within the camps that contradicted league accounts of forbearance within the camps and valor on the battlefield. Mike Masaoka, the man largely responsible for defining and promoting the JACL’s history of internment, again found himself amid tremendous controversy. On the one hand, his references to wartime sacrifices and bravery had helped him compile an enviable record of legislative achievements. Reader’s Digest called him the most effective lobbyist around Washington. According to Bill Hosokawa, even lawmakers “who never had occasion to talk to him knew him by name.”  Proud of his accomplishments, Masaoka entitled his memoir They Call Me Moses Masaoka: An American Saga. In the book’s first chapter Masaoka explains his choice of title: They say that like the Biblical prophet, I have led my people on a long journey through the wilderness of discrimination and travail. They say that I have led them within sight of the promised land of justice for all and social and economic equality in our native America, but that we will not reach it within my lifetime.

Yet Masaoka knew that many of his critics had started calling him “Moses Masaoka” during the war for another, far less admirable, reason. In 1943 FBI inspector Myron E. Gurnea reported, “It is the consensus of opinion among the Japanese that the Japanese-American Citizens League, in collaboration with the United States Government, ‘sold them out’ and did not put up a fight to block relocation.” According to Gurnea, internees called the JACL executive secretary “Moses Masaoka” because he “led them out of California” and into the camps while he remained outside. Masaoka himself later acknowledged “complaints from some quarters that while I, the Nisei Moses, led my people into concentration camps, I had guilefully managed to escape imprisonment myself.”  Debates over whether the JACL leader deserved the name Moses Masaoka reflected conflict within the Japanese American community concern-

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ing how the league responded to internment and how it portrayed Japanese Americans to the government and to the public during the 1940s and 1950s. Masaoka did “lead” people into the camps by urging them to comply with internment orders. Remaining outside camp, he cooperated with government officials to promote Americanization within the camps and to obtain the right for Japanese Americans to serve in the military. Yet Masaoka clearly believed cooperation and patriotism were the only viable responses to the injustice of internment. While lobbying officials in Washington, D.C., he saw himself as an advocate for Japanese Americans, someone who could help them overcome the “treacherous Jap” image that fueled demands for internment. Although he may have misrepresented internee acceptance of JACL leadership, his efforts did help produce a remarkable change in the public image of Japanese Americans. Within three years, members of the press and the government went from emphasizing the threat of Japanese American sabotage and espionage to praising Nisei heroism in Italy and France. The hated “Jap” became the admired “patriot” during the war and the “model minority” after the war. Promoting this new image, JACL leaders like Masaoka made it possible for immigrants to own land, to receive token compensation for the internment, and to win naturalization rights. Yet even as the JACL’s version of history helped repeal decades of anti-Japanese legislation, it concealed a history of internee suffering, protest, and bitterness. It would take a quarter of a century after the war ended for scholars and community activists to restore these stories to the history of internment.

four

The History of “Helpful” Administrative Advisers and “Objective” Researchers Within the Camps

“But if I acted like a decent human being and left them alone, how was I to earn my salary as a researcher?” Rosalie Hankey asked herself this question after spending a month with Japanese American internees at the Gila River camp in Arizona. Hankey, a white anthropology graduate student, was employed by the Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study, a project of the University of California, Berkeley. She had arrived at Gila “ill prepared, technically and intellectually.” As she would later recount in her book Doing Fieldwork, like most of the other white field-workers in camp, she knew very little about the Japanese—American or otherwise—and had not, in college or university, learned a blessed thing about how to study a living, breathing, and thinking people: I had never read or been told anything about participant observation or interviewing, had never heard of symbolic interaction, social structure, value systems or ambivalence, and did not know even the rudiments of statistical method. What I did know something about was diff usion, invention, kinship systems, and “primitive” societies . . . But these experiences were not of much value in understanding life in the detention centers, and besides, whenever I tried to put them in use, the director of the study, Dorothy Swaine Thomas, made discouraging and sometimes even caustic comments.

Her director wanted detailed—if possible, verbatim—accounts of what detained Japanese Americans were saying and doing. Yet nothing in her academic training helped her approach Japanese Americans in camp. Assuming the “status of student carried considerable prestige with the Japa140

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nese,” she introduced herself as “a student of anthropology, working for a group of professors who had no connection with the administration.” She explained her project wanted to obtain and publish a true picture of the evacuation, and life within camp. Convinced of “the fact [that the study’s having] no connection with the WRA administration would facilitate gaining rapport,” she emphasized the confidential nature of her data. Finally, she described “some phase of the study which was likely to meet with the approval of my listeners, for example, that a study of Japanese financial losses due to evacuation was under consideration.” She thought Japanese Americans would be “pleased with a correction of the inaccuracies previously published by ill-informed and prejudiced persons.”  Most Japanese Americans, however, “listened politely but did not say anything.” When asked a specific question about camp attitudes, “they professed ignorance or made bland and innocuous comments.” In fact, the only person who talked openly with Hankey was another anthropologist, Gordon Brown, who had recently arrived to do similar research for the WRA. Since Brown had done fieldwork in Africa and Samoa, Hankey asked his advice on how to obtain data from the internees. Brown, she recalled, “laughed at my conscientiousness, pointing out that he was obtaining even less ‘data’ than I.” Discouraged, she became “even more depressed” after receiving a letter from Berkeley “instructing her to avoid too close an association with Dr. Brown or his wife,” to prevent them from learning her results and passing them on to the administration. Hankey spent another month failing to conduct interviews and being “unable to talk in any meaningful fashion—except with Dr. Brown to whom I was not supposed to talk.” In the following few months, however, Hankey would befriend several Japanese Americans and experience what she termed a “secondary socialization,” which gave her an “insider’s view” of Japanese American culture, relationships, and interactions. More than two decades after leaving camp, the now married Rosalie Hankey Wax recounted her experiences at Gila River and Tule Lake in Doing Fieldwork: Warnings and Advice. This guidebook for budding anthropologists cautioned students against believing that victims of oppression should be thankful to “good researchers.” Declaring that if the people she studied sold her a “gilded brick, a gilded brick was what I deserved,” Wax explained: One reason why anthropologists are so gullible is that we assume or convince ourselves that we professional scholars are different from the other

142 “Helpful” Advisers and “Objective” Researchers people who have abused, exploited, or tried to change or “develop” tribal peoples. We, in contrast, are people of good intent, and besides, our work, being “science” or “a contribution to knowledge,” is a good in itself. We further assume that a host people will immediately perceive that we are people of good intent and that our work has great value. Or we may assume (in this case correctly) that the host people has been mistreated or abused, and (less correctly) that our work will assist them and (still less correctly) that they will perceive this and be grateful, helpful, and accommodating.

The time spent in camp made Wax realize “this chain of assumptions represented a fantasy by which I concealed from myself the fact that I expected something for nothing.” Whereas she might have meant well and hoped her research would help internees and make “some contribution to knowledge,” she later admitted her real motives. These were “the status opportunities” and “the salary that accompanied the job,” and above all the need to prove herself a good anthropologist. “I deceived myself,” she later reflected, “insofar as I pretended to myself that I was motivated solely by good will, by love of science, or by the desire to help the Japanese Americans.”  Yet this confession by Rosalie Hankey Wax is one of the few frank indictments of research assumptions and objectives published by a former camp field-worker. Although other researchers recounted difficulties in camp, they rarely acknowledged the inherent problems in the conception and methodology of the three studies that analyzed Japanese American internees. None of these research groups could escape the ethical dilemmas involved in conducting “research” on an imprisoned population, especially after agreeing not to criticize the mass incarceration during the war. The twenty-seven white social scientists in the Bureau of Sociological Research (BSR) and the WRA’s Community Analysis Section (CAS) were employed by the government to interpret and help manage the internee population. Refusing to recognize that the wardens had one set of interests and the prisoners another, the scientists felt peace and order had to be maintained above all other considerations. Like the academics who worked for the Committee for National Morale and the Indian New Deal, they expressed few reservations about the “anthropological engineering” of human relations for the government. Whereas the BSR and CAS researchers turned a blind eye to the repressive implications of helping enforce a mass incarceration, the staff of the University of California’s Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study (JERS) deluded themselves into believ-

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ing they could remain objective observers of events in camp. No doubt, this self-deception was even more difficult for the Japanese American researchers who were themselves internees. The agendas and interpretations of the twelve official field-workers, and at least twelve others who conducted research for JERS within the camps, could not help but be influenced by their own internment experiences. Yet white JERS field-workers, such as Rosalie Hankey, also could not remain unbiased and got caught up in the emotional turmoil within the camps. The JERS research conducted in camp, thus, provides a glaring example of how ethnography, as James Clifford notes, “is always caught up in the invention, not the representation, of cultures.” 

The BSR and CAS: Maintaining “Harmony” in Camp Despite these problems, many of the social scientists within the camps refused to recognize any flaws in their goals, procedures, and results long after the war ended. In 1981 Edward H. Spicer, former head of the CAS, submitted a passionate defense of BSR and CAS researchers to the Commission on the Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians. Both groups were established, Spicer maintained, “to assist the problems of administering the relocation centers, in the interests of both administrators and evacuees.” Refusing to acknowledge that these interests might differ, Spicer defended using “anthropological and sociological techniques and concepts . . . for bringing about mutual understanding between administrators and administered people and thus promote mutually satisfactory working relations.” By observing and interviewing both “administrators and evacuees in their day to day interactions” and describing social relations, the analysts could make “recommendations designed to bring about and maintain good administration.”  In other words, according to Spicer, research designed to help promote peace and order in the camps benefited Japanese Americans as well as the WRA. Yet even as he defended his own wartime record, Spicer inadvertently revealed how BSR and CAS social scientists had to choose between helping the government and helping the people the government interned. Spicer admitted that as head of the CAS he recommended against circulating within the WRA a report by colleague Anne Freed. In the report on the assembly centers was “information demonstrating that living conditions were generally very bad in the converted racetracks and other hastily con-

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verted quarters.”  Spicer felt publicity about the poor conditions “might be noted in Japan and result in retaliatory treatment of prisoners of war and interned U.S. citizens.” Moreover, Spicer argued that circulating the report within the WRA could poison the authority’s relationship with the army: It was important that these relations not be impaired because the Army and the WRA were engaged in an effort on behalf of the Nisei. They were inaugurating a campaign to dispel the suspicion aroused by the action of evacuation by publicizing the abundant expressions of Nisei loyalty to the U.S.

But in choosing to maintain “good relations” with the army, Spicer prevented other WRA staff from learning of the harsh conditions in the assembly centers that made many Japanese Americans bitter and hostile to the government before they even arrived at the WRA camps. Such information might have made WRA staff members more sensitive to the suffering Japanese Americans had already endured and improved relations within camp. The unapologetic Spicer rationalized, however, that it was more important for the WRA to remain friendly with the army so that both could present a positive image of the camps. Even Spicer implicitly conceded the obvious potential for conflict between administrators and Japanese Americans. He emphasized that the CAS, from its inception, “insisted that reports not mention individual names and that specific individuals not be identifiable as a result of reading CAS reports.”  But why would the CAS have to guarantee confidentiality to Japanese Americans who had the same needs and concerns as the administration? Why would the CAS have to “protect” internees from government officials who were only trying to assist them? Spicer had served as an assistant to Alexander Leighton, project director of the Bureau of Sociological Research (BSR), who was more forthright in acknowledging internees’ mistrust of the social scientists in camp. In a study of Poston, Arizona, published in 1945, Leighton described the difficulties he and other researchers encountered while establishing the BSR. As Leighton acknowledged, even the group’s name “was not a good choice.” Researchers assumed “sociological” was preferable to “anthropological” because “it would not give offense to evacuees who might associate the latter with studies of ‘primitive’ people.” They thought they had selected a “neutral” name. Unfortunately, the term “bureau” turned out to have connotations of the

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FBI for some evacuees, and ‘sociological research’ was for the administrative staff associated either with social welfare or with remote and ‘useless’ activities of a ‘pure science’ nature.”  Operating as a “special advisory group” to the project director’s office, the BSR had to combat staff suspicion that fingered them as either “apple polishers” or “snoopers” for the top administration. If fellow staff members worried they were “informers,” how could they assuage the fears of internees? Leighton recalled, Social science was something new and strange in the experience of most residents and, because of their psychological state, was ipso facto open to suspicion and hostility. This initial reaction was enhanced by finding out that a large part of our work consisted in some sort of investigation, which was immediately associated with intelligence work and the fear that what we gathered would be used against individuals. [My] naval uniform gave impetus to this idea. Then there was the general fact that we were associated with the Administration and like them liable to identification as a symbol of all the frustrations suffered by the residents and in consequence a target for hostilities arising from many sources.

Leighton wore naval collar ornaments, according to Spicer, because he felt hiding his position as a lieutenant commander in the navy would have been “dishonest” and would have “roused far more suspicion.”  Recognizing how difficult it was for white researchers to gain the trust of Japanese Americans, the BSR and CAS often relied on internee research assistants. These assistants, Leighton felt, “could penetrate the community in a manner impossible for us because of physical appearance, cultural differences, and our relationship to the Administration.” At the BSR, eight Poston internees were employed as field-workers. Acknowledging that only two were women and most were Nisei college students, Leighton insisted a “consistent and partially successful effort was made to compensate for the college-student bias by making the staff aware of it.” In addition, Leighton and Spicer tried to cultivate contacts among the Issei and Kibei. Leighton, Spicer, and anthropologist Elizabeth Colson trained their student assistants with a program of regular lectures, individual consultations on fieldwork, and staff meetings twice a week for “discussion and exchange of ideas.” Recognizing that as internees they were “no more immune to [the incarceration’s] disturbing effects than were the other residents,” the BSR

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tried, as Leighton put it, to “do for this little group what the Administration was trying to accomplish for all 18,000 evacuees.” To improve assistants’ morale, BSR provided a salary of $16 per month. What’s more, the bureau arranged parties and picnics in camp, trips away from Poston, and college credit from the University of Chicago. Leighton claimed the college credit “not only gave the field workers something of value for them as individuals, but also increased the standing of the research project in the community and gave a sense that it had some recognition outside the Center.”  Yet Leighton also acknowledged these “special privileges” aroused resentment. Uncertain of how the research material would be used, Japanese American field-workers exhibited a tendency to “hold back” at first. They were encouraged to keep personal journals “and then months afterward, when the matter had cooled off, contributed these observations” to BSR files. To reassure all internees, the BSR publicized the project director’s statement, which said, “No one, including himself, had access to our files and . . . no material which we collected would ever be used against any individual.” Only the reports and general conclusions were “government property,” and the BSR could decide on the disposition of raw field notes. Furthermore, the BSR established policies on August 15, 1942, to prevent confidential material from “falling into the hands of persons who might misuse it for personal gain or to harm others.” No data on “subversive activities” would be kept and the bureau would “avoid getting involved in controversy, or taking sides.” Above all, the bureau would “refrain from any attempt to propagandize or maintain the correctness of its own stand.” Barred from other administrative jobs or participating as community leaders, researchers could not divulge any material they collected from other workers or even “express publicly individual opinion on any subject when such opinion is based on data in the Bureau.”  But ultimately, Leighton affirmed that researchers could gain internees’ confidence only through personal relationships: Most significant was getting to know the evacuee leaders who, our studies indicated, were influential persons in the community and making them acquainted with our aims and the nature of our work. Numbers of these became important contributors and as a consequence felt an interest in what we were doing as well as in our personal friendship and carried to their friends and followers the impression that we were at least harmless, and perhaps a source of help to the evacuees. In time both of us [Leighton

“Helpful” Advisers and “Objective” Researchers 147 and Spicer] developed a circle of evacuee friends who liked to come and talk about community affairs, feeling apparently that we had some influence with the Administration, but that at the same time we were safe confidants.

More internees, Leighton claimed, came to view the BSR as a “constructive” force after the general strike at Poston in the fall of 1942. The BSR director sat in on administrative discussions and recounted internee dissatisfaction that the Issei were excluded from community government positions. After the director agreed to recognize Issei community leaders, the BSR, according to Leighton, gained a “reputation, considerably exaggerated . . . for having brought about negotiation and for having kept the military out of camp.”  Ending his book’s narrative with the aftermath of the strike, Leighton presented the BSR basking in the glory of peaceful negotiations, which contributed to more self-government by Japanese Americans and more efficient operations at Poston. The contrast with California’s Manzanar, where MPs were brought in and fired shots at internee demonstrators, enhanced the BSR’s reputation with the Indian Service central offices and WRA officials in Washington, who developed at every camp a CAS research program modeled on the BSR’s approach. If Washington officials had taken a more careful look at the BSR’s history, however, they would have realized that the actual impact of BSR research on Poston administrative policies was ambiguous. “We early came to realize,” Leighton acknowledged, “that whether or not [BSR advice] was acted on depended not on whether it measured up to our standards of accuracy but rather on the circumstances under which it was presented to those in a position to act.” During the first month, BSR reported on internee anxieties caused by the forced removal, a destructive dust storm, and the poor quality of mess hall food. These events and internee reaction were described “as interesting but not really absorbed or acted on.” Trying another approach, Leighton prepared monthly reports summarizing in fewer than ten pages several trends, such as the development of block unity and the manifestation of community leadership during the strike. “Few of these,” Leighton admitted, “were acted upon by the local administration, or even read except by one or two of the top staff.” Forwarded to the Indian Service and the WRA, bureau reports were thus limited to “broadening and deepening the picture various officials had of what was happening in the Center, an intangible

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though useful contribution” and “did not serve as a specific and definite basis for action.” The only influence the BSR wielded at Poston was through “off-the-cuff statements” to the top staff and through Leighton’s participation in policy meetings. After the strike, Leighton claimed the BSR was “regularly called on and given a voice in policy-making” by Poston’s administration, but provided no concrete evidence of such influence in his book. By ending his history of Poston at the close of 1942, Leighton could avoid discussing the numerous problems researchers experienced in camp during the following three years. They would be confronted with the loyalty questionnaire, segregation, and WRA plans to close the camps. Whereas researchers at Poston and the other camps tried to communicate internees’ growing alienation and bitterness because of these policies, Washington officials and local administrators generally remained unresponsive.

CAS Research: A Matter of Trust Community analysts had to be more attentive to internee hostility than were Washington officials. This was because the analysts were ensnared by the web of anti-WRA sentiment rife in the camps. In Applied Anthropology, one of the only publications to acknowledge CAS problems, anthropologist Asael T. Hansen presented a highly critical assessment of CAS methods and results. Hansen wrote the account of his Heart Mountain research in November 1945, as the center was closing. He resisted making revisions so he could convey the experience to his fellow anthropologists while it “was still very fresh in his mind.”  From the moment he arrived in January 1944, Hansen encountered difficulties gaining the trust of the internees. He took a vacant internee apartment because the administration buildings were overcrowded, and “he had an idea that eventually he could partially dissociate himself from the administration in people’s thinking and that they would feel freer dropping into an apartment than in coming to an office in a regular office building.” Hansen came to the realization that he was mistaken: [Hansen] was wrong. Why he was wrong ties in with the whole question of his relations with evacuees . . . as he learned later on, the residents of block 15 were quite upset when he moved in. What was a peculiar location for an office added to people’s questions about what seemed to be a peculiar Section. Whenever anybody visited the Analyst, the fact was

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obvious to the neighbors. Offices in the administration area have a certain anonymity—at least, as an individual approaches the administration building, casual observers do not know at which office he intends to call.

Hansen could never distance himself from the administration, and while the “gap separating residents and administration . . . widened during crises and narrowed when things were calm, . . . it was always there.” Since some “evacuees had a firm conviction, others only a [vague] feeling, that the interests of WRA employees and the interests of residents were somehow inevitably opposed,” Hansen sensed a “permanent residue of antagonism.”  Rumors that Hansen was an “undercover agent” for the FBI, or army or navy intelligence, were “always cropping up.” Internees said “secretly he knew the Japanese language and that he was ‘planted’ out in the community to eavesdrop.” By his own admission, Hansen’s early experiences “made these sinister suspicions seem plausible.” His first major job was to document reactions to the draft. Many internees were unhappy, but “to make matters a little worse, most or all of the Analyst’s weekly reports during the period were retyped for transmittal to Washington by the sister of a leader of the Fair Play Committee.” This leader had opposed the draft and was subsequently tried for conspiracy in the fall of 1944. Two of Hansen’s reports on the draft crisis were “lent” to the FBI and returned in official FBI envelopes marked “confidential.” Said Hansen: The messenger who brought it from Office Services was a member of the Fair Play Committee, now in the penitentiary for draft evasion. About this time a new typist was hired in the Section. An evacuee timekeeper came around in the course of his duties and warned her at some length to be very cautious of what she told the Analyst.

The “dark suspicions continued to circulate,” and “many times evacuees appeared ill at ease” while talking to Hansen. In fact, they “seemed to be watching what they said.” Even individuals “with whom frank and friendly relations were established and who became interested in community analysis often found their reputations were suffering.” One elderly Issei man who helped Hansen ultimately asked the analyst to visit him less frequently. The man explained that the “neighbors were talking.” After he resettled, his wife continued to work for Hansen. Later, she sent her husband a Japanese poem that depicted how they were ostracized by the community. Hansen translated the piece:

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Man and wife For sixteen dollars Become inu

Granted four paid assistant positions, Hansen could never find enough “suitable” help among the internee population. Throughout his period at Heart Mountain, he worked with six Nisei and six Issei. The only one who had his complete confidence, a Nisei man who was a Stanford graduate, left for the army after two months. Another Issei man was diligent about writing his views, but Hansen, in a revealing statement, judged him “too deeply preoccupied with the injustice of evacuation to be objective or even much interested merely in describing and explaining things.”  Ultimately, Hansen had to rely on “anyone who was willing or semi-willing to work with him.” He was able to reach “a few well-assimilated and well-educated Nisei,” but “they too were outsiders” and most left by the spring of 1944. Recognizing “Issei were the core of the center,” Hansen tried to cultivate contacts among the immigrants but was frustrated. He attempted to “improve his relations with Issei” by collaborating with the community council and thought the “whole body might be his firm friends.” But once the WRA announced plans to close the camps, hostile internees criticized council members for “playing the Government’s game,” and they too became aloof. He tried to combine a “questionnaire and group interview” at a block manager’s meeting but found some “failed to understand what was expected of them” and “two or three probably misunderstood deliberately.” Realizing “a conference of social scientists” might disapprove of his “inefficient” informal interviews, Hansen maintained that “methods should be adjusted to the situation.” Internees were understandably “question shy” after the registration fiasco and “had acquired an inner compulsion to give ‘right’ answers rather than subjectively honest answers.” He could only hear about “touchy topics” if he “trusted to luck” they would come up in “the course of a casual conversation.” Ironically, Hansen thought his best sources of information were Issei women, even though they were not recognized as “leaders” or “spokespeople” by either the administration or other internees. Although CAS head John Embree repeatedly urged the WRA to listen to the views of the Issei, he explained, “That means attention to a relatively small number of older males since the women will follow their lead.”  Yet the three immigrant

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women who risked community censure by meeting with Hansen clearly felt they had something important to say. Perhaps they respected his status as a scholar and were flattered that a white “expert” wanted to document their views of camp. Maybe they were lonely or viewed Hansen as a friend. It is also possible, however, that they thought they could convince Hansen and his Washington employers to improve conditions in the camps. For whatever reason, they went to great lengths to help him in his research. Two women who had difficulty understanding spoken English had Hansen write out his questions a day or two before they would meet with him. Another “trusted” Issei woman gave “very informative answers each week” after Hansen asked, “Well, how are things in the laundry room?”  In a report on the draft, Hansen gave a lengthy account of this “trusted” Issei’s response to the question of draft policy. Hansen obviously selected her reply to support a particular analysis of camp. Also, the answer itself was probably affected by the informant’s relationship with Hansen and her sense of what he was interested in hearing. Nevertheless, by asking the question in an open-ended manner, Hansen provided the woman with an opportunity to present a view of Issei women’s reactions to camp policies. “Other weeks,” Hansen noted, “she had reported carping criticisms of the center and its management, uncomplimentary remarks about the Caucasian personnel and the way it lived on the fat of the land at the expense of evacuees, small gossip about this and that.” Now, she said, “All they are talking about are the casualties in Italy and the boys going to the Army.” She told Hansen “things are a lot different than they were a while ago.” She further stated: People really rebelled at the time of registration. They said awful things about the Government, and they spoke of the boys who volunteered almost as if they were traitors to the Japanese for serving a country that had treated the Japanese so badly. When selective service was reinstituted, all one heard was that the Government had no right to draft men out of a camp like this. At first when the boys left, their mothers wept with bitterness and resentment. They didn’t think their sons should go. This week five have gone from our block. I tell you I’m surprised at the difference. Wives and mothers are sorry and they weep a lot. But now they really feel it is a man’s duty to serve his country. They wouldn’t want him not to go when he is called. When they talk among themselves, they tell each other these things. They feel more as they did before evacuation.

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Hansen concluded that the “point of all this seems to be that the war, instead of being merely ‘the war’ is becoming ‘our war’ to an increasing number of Heart Mountaineers.” He claimed this indicated a “general trend” away from what he termed “agitation” against the draft. But although the Issei woman’s response might not have warranted such sweeping generalizations, it did poignantly convey the women’s emotional turmoil about their sons’ futures. However, the Heart Mountain community analyst was uncomfortable with the prospect of serving as a vehicle to communicate Japanese American needs and concerns to WRA officials. Hansen was “constantly vigilant” because the few internees who talked to him had a tendency to tell him what they wanted Washington to hear. Not infrequently, even in casual conversations, editing could be detected in order to create the desired picture of center conditions. This was especially apparent when the Analyst attempted to get an idea of probable future responses to the closing program. Consciously or unconsciously, evacuees sought to give the impression that the program was certain to fail.

Apparently disturbed that internees might “turn the tables” and try to use his reports to influence camp administration, Hansen struggled to find a “few who were willing to make objective statements” and would spend “an hour or two” talking with someone to find out “what he really thought rather than what he wanted WRA to think he thought.” Nevertheless, Hansen admitted he was unable to devise a “sure system” to “discount and correct this kind of ‘information.’”  Hansen expressed no such compunction at the way he was “used” by the administration, which tried to get information from him about the internees. In a sense, he used the administration in return. He did this by establishing contacts with the center staff so that he might avoid “‘going over’ to the evacuees.” In the end, Hansen conceded that a “large segment of the project administration probably never came to think that community Analysis was a necessary or useful job.” As a “professor on leave,” Hansen “probably evoked the familiar professorial stereotype in the minds of certain of his associates.” Many did not think that talking to internees and writing reports was practical work. But after six weeks, he established a rapport with the project director of Heart Mountain and would drop by his office once a week. They had “frank and full” conversations, and Hansen maintained the director “found his information and his judgments useful.”

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The director seemed especially pleased when the two agreed that Washington should be informed about an issue. Yet the community analyst’s evaluation of his “accomplishments” was ultimately ambiguous. He confessed he could not measure how much his research helped the administration. Although he often gave the project director new information during his weekly meetings, “more frequently, he already knew a good deal” of what Hansen reported, and the researcher only confirmed for the director “that his own information was correct.” As for his written reports, he knew the other staff members didn’t read them. He could only hope they “afforded some stimulus toward self-examination” by the project director and gave Washington officials “a better grasp of the unique characteristics of community government at Heart Mountain.”

JERS “Objectivity” director dorothy thomas trades silence for access

Dorothy Thomas, the director of the Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study, thought her researchers could avoid the problems that plagued CAS analysts like Hansen. By keeping JERS field-workers completely separate from the administration, Thomas presumed they could objectively document both the causes and consequences of internment. The University of California sociology professor initiated the study soon after Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. The JERS was supposed to be an “impartial” study of an “enforced mass migration,” as a “precursor of other enforced mass migrations,” anticipated in postwar Europe. Thomas sent a proposal to the Rockefeller Foundation in 1942 entitled “The Mechanism and Consequences of the Wartime Civilian Control Program for the Evacuation and Resettlement of Certain Classes of the Population.” She requested $14,000 for each of three years. Claiming that then WRA director Milton Eisenhower approved “in principle” of the project, Thomas argued that the study would “not only represent an extremely important social experiment, the progress of which will throw into clear perspective many of the sociological, economic, administrative, and political hypotheses on which social scientists have been working for decades, but also may have practical implications” for future mass evacuations. Thomas tried to reassure the foundation that her “objective”

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and “scientific” study was “in no way connected with the interests of the administration or of individual faculty members in the welfare of the Japanese group as a whole or of the students of Japanese ancestry.”  Thomas initially thought that by maintaining it as a “neutral” group, the JERS would prove to be a comprehensive and interdisciplinary study of the entire “evacuation, detention, and resettlement.” It would employ political scientists, economists, social demographers, social anthropologists, and social psychologists to fully examine all aspects of the evacuation and readjustment. “This ambitious conceptualization was never realized to the full,” Thomas admitted in the first JERS publication, because university personnel were diverted into other wartime activities and some of the data, particularly the economic data, was difficult to obtain. Moreover, Thomas acknowledged research questions had to be reconsidered and “ad hoc techniques had to be devised to meet the exigencies of data collection in an ever changing, emotionally charged situation.”  However, Thomas never publicly acknowledged any ethical problems raised by the “bargains” the JERS made to gain access to certain data. To understand the formation and application of policies, the JERS had to establish and maintain “multiple lines of contact” at “several levels—in Washington, in regional offices, at relocation projects.”  But to develop these sources JERS researchers agreed not to make any speeches or publish anything before the end of the war. Thomas undoubtedly assumed that taking a “vow of silence” for the duration was a small price to pay for more frank information from JERS confidants. Moreover, the JERS would remain a “disinterested” party and avoid the partisan politics surrounding evaluations of what happened. Consequently, Thomas hoped, the JERS could simply document policies, events, and attitudes without worrying, as the CAS had, about the impact of the research. morton grodzins fails to remain neutral

This stance of neutrality proved untenable from the very beginning of the study. Researchers found they could not get much information unless they persuaded potential informants they would be portrayed in a sympathetic light. Morton Grodzins, a political science graduate student from the University of California, Berkeley, quickly learned that collecting political information required knowing how “to win friends and influence people.” He

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befriended the WRA’s Dillon Myer as a way to gain access to government records. The national director made sure Grodzins had an office and a typewriter on WRA premises. “Myer was completely swell,” Grodzins exulted in a letter to Thomas, “and, as usual, said, ‘everything is yours.’”  In another letter, Grodzins explained to Thomas why he needed to expand his typing budget to take advantage of his “ideal situation”: Myer gave specific orders . . . to let me look at the super confidential file material, data, that no more than a dozen people in the whole agency have access to . . . and, so far as I know, there’s not a single scrap of paper in the whole joint that we don’t have access to. The only sensible thing to do seems to be to exploit the opportunity to its fullest, save money where we possibly can, but not to cut down our effectiveness in order to save a hundred dollars or so of secretarial aid.

Agreeing that Grodzins “must exploit the situation to the fullest,” the usually frugal Thomas not only increased Grodzins’s funds but urged him to “arrange things so that we get some sort of continuing cooperation with WRA and that they automatically send us records of changes that may occur in the future.” Using Myer as a reference, Grodzins was able to interview major officials ranging from Milton Eisenhower to John J. McCloy, the assistant Secretary of War. Grodzins maintained these connections by giving War Department officials an “incentive.” He repeatedly intimated the War Department needed to share information to defend its reputation. During a phone call with a lieutenant to arrange a meeting with McCloy, for example, Grodzins casually mentioned he was gaining a lot of information from members of the Department of Justice critical of the War Department. After he met with McCloy, Grodzins sent a follow-up letter asking for official records to check the “historical accuracy” of unofficial accounts of the Wartime Civilian Control Administration, which oversaw the assembly centers. This strategy worked and McCloy gave Grodzins access to a wealth of material he thought would justify War Department policies. But as he examined these records, Grodzins was unable to remain “neutral” or withhold judgment. As he analyzed the “Army’s adoption of the evacuation policy,” he wrote Thomas of his struggle to restrain himself: This stuff still gets me excited—though I don’t know whether the excitement is just a part of the manic phase of the writing effort, or anger at the total depravity of (some) mankind, or malicious glee at having a couple

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of handfuls of dirt to throw around. Whatever the cause, I continuously have to say half aloud to myself, “Grodzins—you’re a scientist, not a God-damned journalist,” or, if the mood is different, “Grodzins—you’re a God-damned scientist, not a journalist.” This has some inhibiting effect and my latest efforts, I think, have less me and more objectivity than any of my previous ones.

Yet throughout his correspondence with Thomas, Grodzins displayed obvious relish at accumulating “dirt” on the supporters of mass removal and incarceration. He proudly told Thomas of his long conversations with the “leading anti-Japs” who “talked freely.”  Poking fun at the “famous Bendetsen report,” which justified the removal, Grodzins informed Thomas, “You just ought to see how pleasant and utterly carefree assembly center life was as portrayed by Mr. Bendetsen’s photographers.”  He said of DeWitt, “Nice man!” after recounting the general’s recommendation to continue the incarceration “to fully exploit the opportunity to study means of psychological warfare against the race.” He then proceeded to revel in his ability to manipulate the WRA staff: There are still a couple of his [DeWitt’s] letters missing in my series. I hope to find them, and already have Myer hopping mad about the fact such important things can apparently get lost. Practically everybody in the building is searching for a couple of letters for me. Since I keep in the background, I remain friends with all.

As Grodzins himself confessed to Thomas, despite his “struggle for Science” and “objectivity,” he had a pronounced “tendency” to “caricaturize,” . . . “theorize,” . . . “dramatize,” and to “just be generally nasty.”  Relying on Grodzins’s flattery and subtle threats to expand the JERS collection, Thomas for the most part remained “above the fray” as the “detached” academic. But occasionally the JERS director had to use her own political skills on behalf of the study. Although Milton Eisenhower pledged full cooperation with the project, the chief of the community management division, John H. Provinse, tried to “shift the emphasis” of the research “to bring findings into some closer relationship to administrative need.”  Thomas later told a researcher how Provinse came to her office and “demanded I give him carbon copies of everything that our staff was sending in from the projects.” What’s more, Provinse “said I wouldn’t have to tell them that their reports were being submitted to WRA!” Thomas went on to say, “I controlled my temper with difficulty . . . Naturally, I sent in no documents.” 

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Eventually, however, Thomas compromised with the WRA. On February 10, 1943, she signed a formal agreement with John F. Embree, the WRA’s principal social analyst. Embree allowed JERS researchers in camp without requiring they provide individual reports to the WRA. In exchange, Thomas promised to submit a monthly letter on field-workers’ “significant findings,” . . . “periodically consult” with the WRA, and “cooperate informally with any social analysis that may be undertaken by WRA.”  In other words, Thomas would use JERS research to advise the WRA, but her fieldworkers’ reports would not fall into the hands of the administration. Thomas thus forfeited strict JERS impartiality in her role as an “informal consultant” to the WRA. Yet Thomas made this sacrifice to maintain access to the camps, or “social laboratories” as she called them, and to protect her field-workers from serving as government informers. The three white JERS researchers needed this assurance to preserve their contacts among internees and continue their investigation. The twelve Japanese American researchers, like the CAS internee informants, also had to fear community ostracism and even physical violence. “To their fellow evacuees,” Thomas publicly acknowledged, “ ‘research’ was synonymous with ‘inquisition’ and the distinction between ‘informant’ and ‘informer’ was not appreciated.” The JERS director admitted, “Every one of our evacuee staff members was stigmatized, or in danger of being stigmatized, as an inu by some of his fellow evacuees.” To avoid being labeled “stool pigeons” for the administration, the staff had to be careful about such acts as associating with the Caucasian personnel in the camps; taking notes in public meetings; using typewriters in their barracks; asking too-direct questions; receiving mail in envelopes marked “Evacuation and Resettlement Study”; and cashing university checks.

Although Thomas conceded how difficult it was to conduct research in camp, she minimized the impact of these problems on JERS findings. In JERS publications, Thomas praised the “ingenuity” of JERS staff members and collaborators in “establishing roles which would make it possible for them both to live as respected members of their own community and at the same time to carry on disinterested research for the study.” Noting some “were unable to resolve the conflict” and had to leave camp after the registration crisis,” she never disclosed the extent to which living behind barbed wire profoundly influenced the researchers and their interpretations. Thomas’s private correspondence indicates she was fully aware of her

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field-workers’ lack of “objectivity.” In a letter to Rosalie Hankey, Thomas criticized the “definite bias” against the Caucasian WRA staff and proAmerican Nisei in Hankey’s reports and urged her not to follow the bad example set by other JERS staff: “It is what I call the ‘dumb-bastard’ type of approach. You don’t use this particular type of phrase which some of my Nisei assistants do all too frequently. What I mean is there is a tendency to call people dumb, stupid, silly, and so on, which is all right in letters but just doesn’t work in reports.”  The director forgave Hankey for “moralizing” throughout her reports. Thomas realized, “You have read reports by other people on our staff which are full of just the same sort of thing . . . I don’t approve of it in their writing any more than I do in yours.” Thomas went on to say, “And since I’m getting you earlier in the game, maybe I will have more influence.” 

The Conflicted JERS Field-Worker s. frank miyamoto: the interested observer

When in the 1980s Japanese American JERS staff reminisced about their wartime experiences, however, they revealed that it was impossible to be a “disinterested” reporter of camp events. JERS “participant observers” not only had to deal with their own inner turmoil because of the incarceration but also risked incurring the wrath of their friends and neighbors. S. Frank Miyamoto, a Tule Lake researcher, described “the problem not only of participating in the conflict and feeling as keenly about the situation as the evacuees felt, but also of assuming the different perspectives held by opposing evacuee factions.” Even forty years later, he could still remember his “acute sense of embitterment, humiliation, resentment, anger, depression, concern, and other mixed feelings” as he “rode the 30 miles to the Puyallup Fairground.”  He found it difficult to “analyze his observations from the standpoint of an external observer” because the “evacuee role was so allencompassing.”  The registration crisis forced Miyamoto to recognize that he couldn’t separate these two roles. Disturbed by some “flaming expressions of pro-Japanese nationalism,” Miyamoto tried to thwart a campaign “urging everyone either to refuse to register or to answer negatively on the ‘loyalty’ questions.” After a Kibei councilman he respected was harassed for delaying a vote on a resolution that “pledged every signee to refuse to register,” Miya-

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moto “finally stood up and voiced my personal opposition to the resolution, arguing that registration was a matter of individual choice.” He recalled: As I sat down, I heard a Kibei say, “Kono yatsu wa fukuro tanaki shite mizo no naka ni horikonde yaro!” (Let’s bag this guy, beat him, and roll him in a ditch!) But I was pleased to note that my councilman friend used my remarks as cause for adjourning the meeting. That night my wife and I made sure the door was locked securely, and we even propped a barrier up against it. And when we went to bed, I placed a hammer near me. It was the only weapon I had. As we lay there wondering what might happen, we heard footsteps at our entry followed by a quiet knock on the door. We had the wildest thoughts of what was about to happen, but much to our relief we heard my mother’s voice calling my name. She had come through the dark of the night with a pan of hot water in one hand and a long knitting needle in the other to see if we were still safe. A month or so, later, my wife and I left Tule Lake for Chicago to do research on the resettlers. james sakoda: under cover and estranged

The “conflict between the fieldworker’s role as neutral observer and active participant” during registration was also noted by James Sakoda. Earlier, Sakoda had coped with the relentless pressure Japanese American researchers faced in their effort to hide his connection to the JERS from all but a few trusted associates. He shied away from whites and even fellow researchers like Miyamoto, fearing they might be known as JERS employees. Sakoda didn’t try to formally interview internees or circulate questionnaires. He instead relied on his own experiences and on friends and acquaintances as “unwitting informants.” Recording daily notes in a private journal, Sakoda later compiled the information in twenty-five formal reports totaling more than eighteen hundred pages. Yet even the diligent and prolific Sakoda could not continue his “undercover” research during the registration crisis. Sakoda and Miyamoto both worried their notes could be used as “incriminating evidence against those who opposed registration.” He began to employ initials for names and transposed letters to “make identification more difficult.” Miyamoto considered burning his field notes and even Thomas, fearing she might be called to testify before the government, contemplated “digging a hole to bury field notes.”  Sakoda narrowly avoided being beaten after he was seen taking notes at a meeting about the loyalty questionnaire. But when asked

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his opinion on the registration questions, Sakoda, like Miyamoto, could not contain his personal views and declared he thought the “Nisei were US citizens and should be loyal to the United States.”  Although subsequently ostracized by his block, Sakoda was never threatened as Miyamoto had been. Nevertheless, after his friends were forced to leave Tule Lake, the lonely Sakoda felt estranged from the study. When Thomas sent Grodzins to convince Sakoda to replace a researcher at Gila River, he wrote the JERS director a letter expressing his pain, confusion, and alienation. In it he conveys, “I just couldn’t think of leaving what few friends I had here to go to another project . . . Life is so uncertain that I just don’t count on anything continuing . . . While I realize that my staying here means so much to me if I want an academic career, at times even I get fed up with it all . . . I and a great many other young leaders . . . no longer feel that we belong to the people . . . From now on my position is less that of a participant, and more that of a ruthless observer.”  Refusing to go to Gila or to stay at Tule Lake, Sakoda joined at Minidoka other “loyal” internees and Hattie Kurose, whom he later married. richard s. nishimoto: the perfectly positioned insider

Ultimately, the one internee that Thomas relied on to understand the camp experience, and the only one she listed as a coauthor in a JERS publication, was the least “disinterested” researcher in the group. Thomas quickly recognized that Richard S. Nishimoto would make an ideal researcher at Poston. He was a well-educated, fully bilingual, and bicultural younger Issei. Born and raised in Japan, Nishimoto had immigrated to the San Francisco Bay Area, received an engineering degree from Stanford University, supervised agricultural workers in Vacaville, and worked as a translator for the Los Angeles County court system. By the time the war started, as scholar Lane Ryo Hirabayashi notes, Nishimoto not only had “close contact with many individuals and institutions” in the “heart of mainland Japanese America,” but also was “comfortable relating to dominant society institutions and bureaucracies.”  Nishimoto was thus perfectly positioned to interact with a wide range of internees. “My friends tell me,” the thirty-eight-year-old Nishimoto wrote in camp, “that I have the appearance of a Nisei, and act like one, yet my thoughts are typically those of intelligent Issei.”  Researcher Tamie Tsuchiyama praised Nishimoto as “one of the two

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most powerful figures in camp” who explained “all the political intrigues behind the scenes.”  Nishimoto was Tsuchiyama’s informant for two months before he was hired as a researcher and paid between $50 and $80 per month while doctors in camp received only $19 per month. Thomas realized that Nishimoto’s political power and extensive contacts with the Issei and Kibei gave him an “insider” view that eluded many of her college-age Nisei researchers. After receiving information from Nishimoto for only half a year, Thomas told him she thought he was “one of the most valuable observers on our study.”  It took only a few conversations with Nishimoto for the formally trained Hankey to concur. “He is invaluable,” she told Thomas, and “can dictate more information in an hour than I can gather in a month.”  After the war, Nishimoto wrote to Thomas and boasted of how his “expertise” far exceeded that of any formally trained social scientist. Yet although Thomas made Nishimoto her coauthor for The Spoilage: Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement during World War II, she never revealed that he concealed his JERS affiliation in order to maintain his status as a “respected member” of the Poston community. Concerned about being exposed as an “informer,” Nishimoto insisted JERS reports never mention his name, referring to him as “X.”  Moreover, Thomas neglected to mention that Nishimoto’s “research” usually reflected his own agenda as a leading figure in Poston politics. The JERS director knew Nishimoto was never an impartial observer. She hired him after receiving Tsuchiyama’s report on his prominent role in the Poston strike. Selected to lead a demonstration (which was subsequently canceled), Nishimoto then convinced a group of block managers to resign en masse. In her report to Thomas, Tsuchiyama noted Nishimoto’s powers of persuasion: Through clever intimidation he had no difficulty in securing the fullest cooperation of his block throughout the strike or in suppressing any overt action, e.g., the hoisting of a Japanese flag or the reciting of the loud banzais. Their standard was simply a large white banner with 45 (his block number) in red letters.

After the strike, Nishimoto became a block manager and didn’t hesitate to manipulate his fellow internees and the WRA when it suited his needs. When the WRA reduced the block staff at Poston, he urged his fellow block managers to strike but then served as a “personal advisor” to the administration to help quell the agitation he had incited. Nishimoto then became a

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supervisor of the block managers and a permanent “personal advisor” to the administration. Boasting of his power, Nishimoto proclaimed: Anything dealing with evacuees, the project director does not act on important matters without consulting (me). The assistant project directors come to (me). It creates pressures on the Caucasian hierarchy. When any emergency arises, Caucasians are placed under (me).

Nishimoto never hid his political activism from his JERS colleagues. On the contrary, he proudly explained at a staff conference how “knowing the preevacuation politics” enabled him to become a power broker among the informal, unobtrusive, but true leaders of the camp from Orange County, Salinas, the Imperial Valley, and Los Angeles. rosalie hankey: the renegade “white hope”

Nishimoto could enlighten the JERS about the camp politics he helped mold at Poston, but he couldn’t illuminate the situation at the Tule Lake segregation center. A political moderate who never supported the superpatriotic JACL or the anti-American dissidents, Nishimoto was not a prime candidate for segregation. To understand this aspect of the camp experience, Thomas turned to Rosalie Hankey, whom she dubbed the “white hope” of the study. Through Hankey’s letters and reports, Thomas had noted her transformation from an anxious, insecure, and unproductive researcher to a confident, even haughty, field-worker who befriended dissidents and factional leaders at both Gila River and Tule Lake. During her first month at the Gila River camp, Hankey spent her days “alternately crying or writing letters to relatives and academic friends.” Frustrated by the way Japanese Americans avoided her, she tried to dissociate herself from the WRA staff members in the vain hope it would make her more “acceptable” to internees. To ease her anxiety, she “succumbed to the urge to eat enormously and in three months gained thirty pounds.”  Despite these problems, the lonely and miserable Hankey persevered. She later credited her determination to her struggles living through the Great Depression, during which, among other hardships, she endured with her family “eight years in one of the Mexican-American slums of Los Angeles.”  Learning to accept hard work as one of the “essential elements of life,” she felt she had “developed an imperviousness to obstacles, disappointments, and discouragements.” At the age of twenty-seven, Hankey had completed

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junior college and received a scholarship to the University of California, Berkeley. She “worked like a demon” when taking classes from renowned anthropologist Alfred Kroeber. She had heard he was hostile “to the idea of women becoming anthropologists” and “discouraged women graduate students because jobs were hard to get—even for men.” At first, Professor Kroeber found her “phenomenal energy both baffling and amusing.” But he never tried to discourage her interest in anthropology. In fact, Kroeber suggested she take the research position within camp. If she could win over someone like Kroeber, she reasoned, couldn’t she get the Japanese Americans to talk to her? So Hankey persisted. All day long, she approached people and asked them their views of what was happening in camp. In mid-July of 1943 the WRA announced that all “disloyal” evacuees would be removed from Gila and segregated at Tule Lake in northern California. Hankey didn’t even try to talk to the “No-No’s.” She assumed they would be so bitter that they wouldn’t talk to a stranger. Being a “raw newcomer, terribly anxious to behave like a social scientist,” Hankey did not realize “it was stupid and callous to ask these harassed folk to express their views about the United States to a stranger who might well be a ‘spy for the administration.’” Nor had she yet “begun to grasp what the segregation meant to most of these people”: They had gambled their own and their children’s future on cards which would not be turned up till the end of the war; that many of them had quarreled bitterly with friends and relatives who held different views and from whom they were now parted; that many of them, even now, were by no means certain that in asserting their loyalty to the United States they had made the wise decision.

Still, even a novice researcher like Hankey could sense that the people she “tried to scrape up an acquaintance” with were “troubled in mind and wanted to be left alone.” But Hankey persisted, and in the following months she became close to several internees and began to identify with their experience. In fact, Hankey became friends with people who were “No-No’s” and protest leaders. She not only documented their resistance to the government, she actively supported it. Dorothy Thomas knew that Hankey was able to obtain valuable contacts with these leaders because she abandoned any attempt to be an objective scholar. Thomas never chastised the anthropologist for her methods, even though Hankey revealed in a series of letters how she misled

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both administrators and internees. Recognizing that Hankey, outraged by the injustice of the incarceration, had an “anti-Caucasian” bias, Thomas simply warned her to avoid including in her reports the “snap judgments” implicit in such statements as “the grim satisfaction of the administration” and “amazing cooperation of the evacuees.”  Thomas never objected to the way Hankey appealed to certain notions of gender and race to enhance her power as a researcher. Warned by the Gila director to “stay out of both Caucasian and Japanese camp politics,” Hankey informed Thomas, “I stressed my innocuous interests in family life.” Believing that a white female would naturally prefer family research to camp politics, the director left Hankey free to cultivate friends among the camp’s political leaders. When she went to Tule Lake after the riot and army takeover, the administration refused to let a “white woman” proceed around camp without a white male chaperone. Bristling at such “protection,” Hankey knew if she resisted it would ruin any chance she might have to get the segregants to speak freely with her. She plied her police escort with three paperback mystery novels and convinced him to remain in the car while she went to speak with the Japanese Americans. In Doing Fieldwork, Hankey described her escape from the watchful eyes of the administration as “exhilarating and intoxicating.”  She also let Thomas know that she could use internees’ assumptions about her as a “white woman” to win their confidence. The JERS director advised Hankey she had a good chance of overcoming the suspicions of internees because a woman “is less likely to be connected with the F.B.I.”  Hankey informed Thomas that she was able to cultivate contacts among Issei men by asking them to teach her Japanese. “My weekly Japanese lessons,” she wrote Thomas, “are the occasion for a great deal of super ‘free association’ information.” Together they would “tear the whole camp apart and build it up again in the hour long gab fests which follow.”  Other Issei men taught Hankey the “rudiments of Japanese etiquette” because, according to Hankey, her “inferior age and sex status made them less hesitant to give instruction and offer advice.”  By playing the “role of the learner,” Hankey gave internees a chance to assume the superior position in conversation with a Caucasian. Thus, the Issei became the “authority capable of instructing a ‘stuck-up Caucasian.’”  Hankey also received valuable information by acting as the “comforting female friend” to women in camp. She met a woman she called Mrs. Sato

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(Hankey always used pseudonyms to protect her informants’ confidentiality). The woman’s husband had been removed from Gila by the FBI and sent to a Department of Justice camp. Her brother was at Tule Lake. Surmising she was a “lonely woman” who “needed a friend even more than I did,” Hankey responded sympathetically when Mrs. Sato confided her anger at the way her husband had treated her before he was removed by officials: “Before evacuation he worked me like a dog. When I was pregnant I worked so hard [in the field] I nearly busted . . . Either he behaves himself or I’m leaving. He’s never going to boss me around again.”  Just as Hankey had little trouble playing the sympathetic friend, she found it easy to concur when Mrs. Sato derided the Gila staff as ignorant “Okies.” At Gila and at Tule Lake, the anthropologist enthusiastically supported Japanese Americans who resisted what she termed the WRA’s “benevolent dictatorship.”  Hankey later recalled, “As I became more and more involved with the people I was supposed to be detachedly observing, I began to understand more and more of their real feelings and to comprehend the details of their factional plottings; and as this happened, I, in turn, eventually became as ruthless and hard-minded as some of my Japanese associates.”  Whereas Hankey genuinely befriended some dissidents, she was willing to misrepresent herself to obtain information from key factional leaders. Eager to distance herself from the hated administrative keto (a derogatory term for the Caucasian staff ), the “third generation American of German, Polish, and Scandinavian ancestry,” made no attempt to quash the rumor that spread through the underground that she could be trusted because she was a “German Nisei.”  She also played the “sympathetic friend” with dissidents she disliked. One example was a woman she called Mrs. Tsuchikawa, who Hankey deemed “bossy and hysterical” and not “particularly scrupulous” but an important contact. Hankey was even willing to use what she called “the sex technique” on leaders who were “suckers for the weaker sex.” She wrote fellow researcher James Sakoda that she was unsure of how to describe this “technique” in the thesis she was writing: My difficulty is explaining the efficacy of the technique in language which is sufficiently academic. I wouldn’t say that it’s dangerous if used too often; rather it’s dangerous when it’s used with too much force. One must always keep an eye on a convenient door or window so as to be able to make a rapid escape.

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Although she never had to flee from the factional leader she called Mr. Kato, Hankey admitted feeling uncomfortable when he finally confessed he “did not love his wife” and “admired spirited and courageous women like me.” Kato had spent “many hours enlarging and correcting” Hankey’s “historical account” of protest at Tule Lake and provided her with “all manner of valuable documents.” Reluctant to lose one of her “best informants,” Hankey “decided that I would try to find some courteous way to say no to Mr. Kato, see him less frequently, and take my chances.”  Although Hankey never told Thomas about the “close call” with Kato, the director knew throughout their correspondence that Hankey’s detailed reports were based on intimate ties to internees. Never questioning the way she got this information, the director frequently congratulated her on her wonderful “sources.” But Thomas knew, even while Hankey was at Gila, that she was losing her objectivity: “You are, it seems to me, over-identifyingyourself as part of the ‘core of the Japanese community’ . . . Now, Rosalie, you can never become a Japanese or instead of ‘never,’ let us say at least in time to do the study any good.”  Hankey reassured Thomas she was “not trying to become a Japanese” and knew it was wrong to “turn native.” Nevertheless, the director was aware her field-worker had become embroiled in camp politics. Still Thomas did nothing to discourage her activities. Hankey herself would later recognize she became such a “fanatic” at Tule Lake that she could condone murder. When a suspected informer had a knife pushed through his larynx to the base of his brain, Hankey “experienced a cruel and self-righteous satisfaction, for—as I told myself—the WRA and the Japanese accommodators had been asking for it for a long time, and now they had gotten it.”  Recovering from this loss of perspective, Hankey still could not extricate herself from the politics surrounding the resegregation movement. In Doing Fieldwork, she confessed to “two very unprofessional deeds,” constituting a clear breach of JERS rules. In the first, she talked to the Department of Justice staff to keep a friend from being sent away with a group of resegregationists he had criticized and feared. Whereas Hankey first violated JERS regulations to protect an individual from physical harm, her second breach of protocol was motivated purely by spite. Hankey learned that a resegregation leader she called Mr. Kira had not renounced his citizenship. Mr. Kira had been a valuable informant, but Hankey detested him. Friends told her he led a gang that routinely attacked people in the middle of the night. With her charged feelings toward Kira, Hankey let it be known that “one

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f i g u r e 1 2 . Residents are fingerprinted at the Tule Lake Segregation Center. Photographer: Charles E. Mace. Tule Lake Relocation Center, Newell, California. 9/25/43. Series 15, Group 50, Volume 67, Section H, WRA no. H-340, War Relocation Authority Photographs of Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement Collection, BANC PIC 1967.014—PIC, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley.

of the most vigorous exponents of the renunciation of citizenship” had not himself applied for denationalization. She therefore advised the Department of Justice investigators to put Kira “on the spot,” by questioning him before his resegregation compatriots. She was later pleased to hear that Kira became an expatriate and then appealed to the army to remove him from the detention area in Japan because “certain of the young men confined with him were threatening to kill him.”  Hankey believed that serving as an informer to the Department of Justice

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caused her to lose her job at Tule Lake. She recounted how a Washington WRA official called Thomas and insisted the director remove the JERS field-worker from camp: He backed up this demand with a list of impressive accusations: I had consorted with pro-Japanese agitators and attended ceremonies devoted to the worship of the Japanese emperor. I had immoral (sex) relations with a number of Japanese Americans. I had made disrespectful remarks about the project director. I had been a general troublemaker and had tried to subvert WRA policies. I was by temperament an anarchist, and, since my mother had been abused by members of the Los Angeles police force, I had no respect for the law. I had communicated with the Department of Justice.

According to Hankey, Thomas ignored the charges but consented to pull the anthropologist to maintain good relations with camp officials. About the director’s attitude, Hankey claimed, “If she made any fuss about my expulsion it might create a scandal and jeopardize the research project and the reception of the eventual publications that would issue from it.”  Although Hankey found it difficult to leave Tule Lake, she quietly complied because she still hoped the JERS would publish her research. When The Spoilage was published in 1946, Hankey must have been disappointed to discover that even as the book relied on her research and listed her as one of four contributors, her name was never mentioned in the text or in the numerous citations that included her “field notes.”  Still Hankey was able to see her criticisms of the WRA and her sympathetic account of internee protests in print in 1946 and in a 1953 article “The Destruction of a Democratic Impulse” in the journal Human Organization.

CAS Accounts of Internment CAS researchers Morris and Marvin Opler, brothers and anthropologists, worked for the Community Analysis Section. In stark contrast to their JERS counterparts, the Oplers never published any articles or books criticizing the government, even though they too were outraged by the injustice of the incarceration. Unwilling to openly disparage their employer, the two worked “behind the scenes” on legal briefs to help Japanese American resisters. Morris Opler prepared a brief challenging the constitutionality of internment for Fred Korematsu’s lawyers. To help expatriates regain their citizenship,

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Marvin Opler wrote a brief that denounced the unfairness of the segregation process and the pressure tactics used against renunciants at Tule Lake. But the Oplers chose not to challenge the “positive” evacuation depicted in publications written by their own colleagues in the CAS or by researchers in the Poston BSR, which became the model for the creation of the CAS groups in the other camps. Alexander Leighton’s The Governing of Men: General Principles and Recommendations Based on Experience at a Japanese Relocation Camp provided an explicit manual on how to run a “successful” camp. Leighton claimed Poston illustrated the great potential of a “fusion of administration and science to form a common body of thought and action which is not only realistic in the immediate sense of dealing with everyday needs, but also in the ultimate sense of moving forward in discovery and improved practice.”  The history of the Poston strike, according to Leighton, revealed that social scientists could and should prevent “such diseases of society.”  Disregarding any consideration of the strike as a legitimate and understandable protest to the injustice of mass incarceration, Leighton argued the strike could have been avoided with better planning and communication by the administration. Leighton acknowledged Poston had problems because of “stereotype-minded” administrators, “delayed hospital supplies, poor food, slow payment of wages, lack of heating stoves, and similar matters,” and because Issei leaders were not included in camp government. Instead of denouncing such evidence of discrimination, however, Leighton recommended only that future programs “give special attention to the task of integrating the administration with the leadership customs and habits in the social organization of the people being administered.”  Protests at Poston, Leighton declared, simply demonstrated the differences between “human engineering and other types.” He concluded: With a bridge or a building the entire structure can be laid out in advance in the form of a blueprint. For a community this may not be, because the materials used in the building (that is, the individual people, their needs, reactions, beliefs, and social organization) are in a state of equilibrium that alters as the work progresses. Only by frequent checking for results and for changes in the material can human society be guided in a desired direction by the administration.

After equating Japanese Americans with building “material” that could be reshaped after careful scrutiny, The Governing of Men proceeded to compare internees to sick “patients” who needed to “be examined again and again

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so that both the effects of spontaneous alterations and the results of treatment can be taken into account.”  The history of Poston, as represented by Leighton, was not a model of resistance to racial oppression but a model of how a “skillful administration” may “seize the moment” to “achieve extensive changes” in “communities under stress.”  Edward Spicer, Leighton’s protégé at the BSR, and later head of the CAS, never proposed quite as grand a vision of mass incarceration. However, Spicer and other CAS researchers did attempt to bolster the WRA’s history of humane “way stations” promoting Japanese American assimilation and acceptance in American society. Throughout the pages of Applied Anthropology, Spicer and his colleagues, with the exception of Asael Hansen, celebrated community analysts for helping the WRA “rehabilitate” Japanese Americans. In the article “The Use of Social Scientists by the War Relocation Authority,” Spicer described two ways researchers guided the WRA. “On the one hand,” they “offered predictions concerning what would most probably be the result of alternative actions by the administration.” At the same time, they “served an important function in formulating the lessons of hindsight” and helped “measure the effects of the program.” Researchers could be proud of their participation in the CAS, Spicer concluded, because it was “an aid in maintaining communication between a group of administrators and a group of administered people. By communicating the viewpoint of the administered, it aided in the adjustment of the program to needs of the people as the latter saw them.”  Yet the evidence within Spicer’s article belied this image of a compassionate WRA heeding the advice of researchers to improve the welfare of the “administered.” In fact, the analyst reports Spicer cited as examples of “administrative advice” disclosed a pattern of discrimination and unrelenting suffering. For example, Spicer attributed early administrative difficulties to the WRA’s lack of familiarity with Japanese Americans and the need for a period of “adjustment.” But upon claiming a “mutual working accommodation” was achieved after a year, Spicer quoted a report by John Embree that conveyed internees’ deep and abiding anger at the detention. Analyzing the “causes of unrest” in the camps, Embree noted that a “mass evacuation,” regardless of “length of residence [in the United States], citizenship, or past individual behavior,” created “a sense of disillusionment or even bitterness in regard to American democracy.” Anxieties and “feelings of extreme social and financial insecurity” created a “fertile field for

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alarmist rumors.” Further, Embree observed, the “Caucasian” administrative staff often possessed “attitudes of superiority” and evacuees felt the “distinction keenly.” As Embree’s report made clear, such conditions produced an intense resentment against the government hardly amenable to a sense of adjustment: “Armed guards, barbed wire fences, searchlights, visits of government agents, all engender the feeling of being in a concentration camp.”  Embedded within these reports was a history of anguish, indignation, and resistance that Spicer either could not or would not recognize. Acknowledging that registration created a “new series of disturbances in the centers,” Spicer nevertheless declared the crisis improved communication between internees and administrators: At all projects registration brought basic issues for evacuees up to the level of decision. Attitudes which had been kept from staff up to then for fear of misunderstanding came to the surface and were expressed openly. At first, administrators were shocked or mystified, but quickly they began to inquire and learn.

Emphasizing the benefits of this education, Spicer neglected to analyze the implications of the viewpoints communicated by internees to the analysts. Morris Opler’s project analysis of the “Registration at Manzanar,” however, clearly showed a profound sense of alienation and hopelessness among some Issei internees: It must be realized that these aliens are well aware of the resolutions of legislatures and of group and individual demands that they be returned to Japan as soon as possible. Many, despite an earnest desire to end their days in this land, have been led by circumstance to the conclusion that they will never again be able to earn a livelihood in this country, and assume that they will therefore be forced to seek a refuge in Japan. Naturally they wondered whether such a renunciation of Japan would not jeopardize their Japanese citizenship or subject them to punishment or disability at the hands of the Japanese government.

But after showing that Opler informed the WRA of the patent unfairness of the loyalty questionnaire, Spicer described how the administration still segregated the “No-No’s” because they “became convinced that a good deal of non-cooperation sprang from pro-Japanese individuals” and wanted to “further the resettlement program” by screening out the “disloyals.”  In

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other words, the WRA refused to listen to internee “viewpoints” or criticism by its own analysts. Nevertheless, Spicer maintained that during and after segregation, the CAS believed that “disturbances must and could be avoided” by recognizing “the evacuees’ own approach to things.” The trend report quoted by Spicer had been written by WRA analyst J. Ralph McFarling, and it raised serious questions about the analysts’ ability to understand internee hostility toward dispersion and assimilation. McFarling proclaimed, “WRA’s philosophy of resettlement no doubt constitutes an effective solution to many of the problems which brought about evacuation.” Resistance, McFarling concluded, was a “result of the evacuee’s failure to accept WRA’s solution to his problem, and this failure is a result of his not having the opportunity to develop the insight into his problem which the WRA has developed.” Yet the example McFarling presented showed internees who understood but still resisted WRA plans for their future: As an example: WRA says, because you are going to resettle in communities throughout the country and become assimilated into the life of those communities you had better learn to speak English. So we will set up English classes in our education department and teach you English. The Issei do not show up for English classes in large numbers, and we interpret it as resistance. In reality he does not accept the premise WRA starts with and therefore does not see the need for learning English. This may be interpreted as resistance while it actually constitutes two different lines of thought.

Assuming internees would never reject the WRA’s “premise” if they understood the benefits of assimilation, McFarling recommended better communication of WRA goals. It never occurred to McFarling that this “different line of thought” about retaining Japanese language and culture might constitute legitimate “resistance” to a WRA campaign to eliminate the Japanese heritage and ethnic enclaves.

JERS Accounts of Internment One might expect that the WRA’s social scientists would defend their employer and themselves even as they presented evidence documenting a history of racism, discrimination, and protest within the camps. Since JERS

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researchers had no official administrative role, Thomas believed they could provide a purely objective assessment of this “enforced mass migration.” But whereas JERS publications provided a much more critical view of the causes and consequences of internment, they reflected similar assumptions about the negative impact of political protest and the benefits of assimilation. grodzins is silenced

Ironically, the JERS exhibited this bias against political protest when Thomas refused to publish Morton Grodzins’s critical analysis of West Coast politicians and organizations that advocated internment. Thomas had appreciated Grodzins’s skills in obtaining records for the JERS, but she was dismayed by his “unscholarly” attacks on the racist views of internment supporters. Appalled by the number of “Jap haters” among California politicians, organizations, and the press, Grodzins believed West Coast pressure groups were responsible for the mass removal. Later research would show that even though these groups advocated and endorsed internment, they had at most an indirect influence on the true architects of the decision in the War Department and the Western Defense Command. Yet Thomas rejected Grodzins’s analysis not because she saw flaws in his argument or his evidence, but because she felt his judgmental tone had no place in a scholarly publication. Letters between Thomas and Grodzins indicate an inevitable conflict because of irreconcilable views of how field-workers and their academic research should be used. Grodzins portrayed himself as the industrious research assistant who restrained himself from speaking out against what he deemed a rank injustice. He kept quiet so that he could accumulate more incriminating evidence and comply with JERS rules. In 1945 he wrote Thomas that despite “internal strife,” he “scrupulously maintained the several duration pledges” to remain silent during the war: I have turned down every invitation to speak, and one invitation to write an article about the evacuation and resettlement problem. I have discouraged the offers made by several Washington friends to get high officials (including at least one Cabinet member) to work through the Rockefeller Foundation and President Sproul in order to get the pre-evacuation study released. I do not deny, that I have, at times, not been in full agreement with the restrictions imposed. But the important thing is that I have stuck with them.

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“I convinced myself of the importance of the Japanese study,” Grodzins explained, to justify “my non-participation in the war effort.” The “dubious glory of pre-Pearl Harbor parenthood, the unpremeditated chance of getting a deferred job with you, the unexpected disability of a right eye—to say nothing of my own vacillation—all have combined to keep me from participation in the great adventure of my generation.” Postponing the publication of his book would “destroy the pride I have in myself and in my intelligence, and damns to insignificance what I once conceived to be an important wartime effort.”  Reminding Thomas that she had “frequently made the point that social research must be partly justified by its social utility,” Grodzins argued deferred publication would “amount to decreased utility” and “reflect unfavorably on the study as a whole.” He urged the director not to worry about his criticism of public figures because “those people who might take offense at the monograph are in any case not those upon whom you depend for assistance” and it “is a negation of science to apply a criterion of public acceptance to science.”  Grodzins was shocked when he read Thomas’s response. The JERS director, whom he had considered his mentor and friend, chastised him for his “misconceptions” about the study and his role in it. “You were employed by the University of California, as a Research Assistant,” Thomas wrote, and “were paid for this work.” She had permitted him to use in the thesis data he had collected during his JERS research; nevertheless, she retained exclusive control over this information. She further wrote, “As I have told you repeatedly, I will release thesis and report for your own use, after our publication plans are completed. This release will be in the form of a written communication to you.”  (emphasis in the original) Grodzins’s thesis, Thomas proclaimed, required extensive revision before it would be suitable for publication. Besides being “excessively verbose,” it included “a number of intemperate and immature judgements about the behavior and misbehavior of government officials.” Advising him to remove the “polemics” in the last few chapters, Thomas expressed hope that a revision would be published but refused to make any commitments. Stunned at being described as little more than an employee, Grodzins sarcastically signed his next letter “Y’r h’mble and ob’t s’vt.”  Yet Grodzins correctly suspected that his problem with Thomas was not just a case of another powerless graduate student being exploited by a professor. The “politics” of

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graduate school was certainly a factor. But Grodzins thought the “politics” in his analysis was the true stumbling block. He confided to Charles Aikin, a colleague of Thomas’s, that the director felt Grodzins’s “political science viewpoint is bastard to the sociological viewpoint of the larger study” and that she really wanted to “cut the entire manuscript down until it remains a simple chronology of recorded events.” Grodzins further explained: She has never seen the merit of a study in politics, per se, and it was only because of my own bull-headedness that the political monograph was put into the shape it is now. (Remember my seven weeks “leave of absence”?) It goes without saying that I think it would be a grave error to cut down the manuscript as it now stands to make it “fit” the sociological preconceptions of Dorothy Thomas. I think it should be judged on its merits as a work in politics. (emphasis in the original)

Although he still hoped his revised monograph could be part of the JERS series, Grodzins said he would seek another publisher to avoid “emasculating the manuscript of its political significance.”  Three months later, however, Aikin sent Grodzins an evaluation of the manuscript that also called for the removal of much of his “political” analysis. Grodzins, according to Aikin, had “consciously or unconsciously, become a propagandist,” whereas he and Thomas just wanted a “cold telling of the case, a factual summation of fact.” Aikin explained, “As you know, I consider this mass evacuation to have been one of the sorriest episodes in this nation’s history, but you so overplayed your hand that I found myself forever defending what was done against numerous uncritical judgments, and that was annoying.”  Questioning Grodzins’s “technical competence to pass judgments on the military question,” Aikin was disgusted by any comparison of the treatment of Japanese Americans to the Nazi treatment of the Jews. “With equal truth,” Aikin rebutted, “I could compare what some American Ph.D.’s have done to facts with what certain late and unlamented doctors of the equally unlamented German Reich have done.” If he could denounce “America’s Nuremberg laws,” then Aikin thought Grodzins capable of finding “Nazi ideology in a simple anti-negro real estate covenant entered into two decades before Hitler was born.” These were clearly, according to Aikin, “untenable arguments.” Moreover, Grodzins could not publish such “rhetoric” without obtaining a release from many of the people he criticized, or the JERS could

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be accused of a “breach of faith.” Researchers, Aikin concluded, did not engage in the “advocacy of a cause.” Grodzins could enter “into a crusade to help right obvious wrongs” only after publication. Bolstered by Aikin’s criticisms, Thomas later informed Grodzins that two “unbiassed” scholars, Forrest LaViolette and Milton Cherin, agreed the manuscript was “unpublishable.” The scholars pointed to the “propagandistic nature of your writing, and your tendency to overdramatization.” Consequently, Thomas and Aikin decided the manuscript needed to be “completely rewritten by the most competent scholar we can find here on campus,” who would “appear as joint author.”  Grodzins of course found this unacceptable. He went to the University of Chicago Press, which in 1949 published Americans Betrayed: Politics and the Japanese Evacuation. But before the book was published, there was a political struggle over who owned the research materials Grodzins had collected for the JERS and used in his study. Insisting that Grodzins had “pirated” JERS materials, Thomas, and then a University of California investigative subcommittee, urged the University of Chicago to reject the Grodzins manuscript. William Terry Couch, the director of the University of Chicago Press, decided to proceed with publication plans after discovering the JERS did not have a contract forbidding research assistants from using JERS materials. In a letter explaining his publication plans, Couch explained, “There are certain kinds of materials that by their nature belong to the public, and if public or philanthropic funds are spent in the collection of this material, it cannot honestly be kept indefinitely from the public.” Couch, former director of the University of North Carolina Press, compared suppression of Grodzins’s exposé of West Coast anti-Japanese sentiment to an attempt to “keep information concerning white treatment of the Negro from the public at large.” However, Couch suffered for his conviction that racism should be exposed even if in doing so another university was antagonized. He was fired by University of Chicago president Robert Hutchins, who declared “inter-university comity was more important than freedom of the press.”  Thomas and Aikin were outraged when the New York Times suggested Couch might be a victim of censorship. Thomas recruited Howard Jay Graham, a former student of Aikin’s, to rewrite Grodzins’s monograph. In the process, she characterized Grodzins as an insubordinate research assistant unable to get his “biases under control.”  Thomas never recognized

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her search for an unbiased scholar was doomed to failure even after encountering the conspicuous bias of several potential replacements for Grodzins. Graham, for example, initially praised Grodzins’s manuscript as “extraordinarily well done,” but then dismissed it as a “shoddy study in pressure politics and wartime expediency.” Graham wrote to Thomas: It was all of that of course, and most civilized Americans now see and feel that it was. But they also see and feel, unless they are as blind as Grodzins, or downright dishonest intellectually, that the problem in 1942 was defense, and that most of us, had we been charged with Warren’s, Bowron’s or DeWitt’s responsibilities in those difficult days, would probably have reacted as over [precipitately] and over cautiously, and hence as “foolishly” and unjustly, as any of them. (emphasis in the original)

Graham believed the evacuation decision was understandable knowing the fear he himself had felt during those “difficult days” in Los Angeles. He was therefore uncomfortable publicizing evidence that showed, as he admitted, the injustice of internment. “To center attention today,” he warned, “merely upon the pressures, the cupidity, the hysteria, etc that undoubtedly operated at that time is to tell only a part of the story; yet that is the inevitable consequence of a monograph devoted solely to ‘political aspects’ as seen from the vantage point (I started to say ‘comfortable security’) of 1948.” Any study of the politics of the decision, Graham maintained, would elicit a “defensive reaction and ‘reader antagonism’ such as always results when a sensitive conscience is hurt a second time by clumsy and overzealous probing.”  In other words, he and the rest of the country were not yet ready to look too closely at the racism and government misconduct behind the internment. On the other hand, Graham thought the country could sympathize with those who suffered because of the mass incarceration. He praised Thomas’s The Spoilage for placing “the focus” on “the problems and responses” of Japanese Americans. By limiting discussion of the evacuation to a few paragraphs, she had done far more toward “convincing intelligent readers that our wartime behavior toward these people was a terrible national mistake than will any 300 page tome ponderously ‘proving’ the same thesis.” More “national self correction and self criticism,” could be obtained with the “adroit incidental use” of a few of Grodzins’s “major facts and details” than by “morbidly and tediously reviewing the whole sad spectacle.”  With Graham’s admission that he could not confront the “whole sad

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spectacle,” Thomas instead offered the Grodzins rewrite to Oliver Garceau, a political scientist in Maine. Yet Garceau explicitly pointed out the folly of trying to find an impartial scholar before he too declined. “I am conscious,” he confessed to Thomas, “of a definite prejudice which would color my work.” He told her: I was for eighteen months approximately parallelling this study a naval officer in command of an anti-submarine base and operations in a section of the coastal sea lane. I had almost daily contact with Department of Justice officials. The Attorney General’s policies as administered in that area were a source of acute and sustained distress to me. The incidents were so striking and so often repeated that I cannot conceive of passing judgement or simply narrating the evacuation from California with the evidence available to Grodzins and Nishimoto.

His own wartime experience, Garceau acknowledged, could not help but influence his selection and presentation of “the facts” surrounding the decision. After reading a draft Thomas had commissioned from Nishimoto, he noted this “mere chronology,” was “inherently very biassed and perhaps even more subtle propaganda than Grodzins.”  But Thomas never relinquished her faith that an impartial description of the “facts” was still possible. She finally hired Jacobus tenBroek, Edward Barnhart, and Floyd Matson to rewrite Grodzins’s manuscript. But Thomas took little pleasure in the way tenBroek and company denounced Grodzins’s “pressure group” theories and held DeWitt (but not Bendetsen, McCloy, and Stimson) responsible for the injustice. She sent Barnhart a critique of the manuscript before it was published as Prejudice, War and the Constitution. Thomas urged him to leave out the discussion of “theories of responsibility” (including the refutation of Grodzins’s views) and provide an “unemotional ordering of the facts in their context.” Clearly bothered by any evaluation of prejudice and the war, Thomas could express enthusiasm only for the section on the Constitution and its primarily descriptive account of judicial proceedings. the evacuation according to thomas and nishimoto: The Spoilage

Thomas would have certainly appreciated S. Frank Miyamoto’s assessment of her JERS book, The Spoilage, as a study that minimized “biases” by presenting a “chronology of events at Tule Lake from the opening of the center

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in May 1942 to the end phase in September 1945.” Miyamoto aptly summarized the “basic events” at the segregation center described in the study by Thomas and Nishimoto: “WRA restrictions led to a revolt, the revolt led to martial law and suppression, the suppression to the rise of an accommodative leadership and also to an underground, which led to suspicions of informers and to beatings and murder, and so on.”  But in choosing and reconstructing such emotional events, Thomas could not avoid presenting implicit political and cultural judgments, especially given her reliance on Rosalie Hankey and Richard Nishimoto, her two least “disinterested” researchers. Since Hankey had been friends with leaders of the Daihyo Sha Kai, representatives from each of the sixty-four residential blocks at Tule Lake, much of her research focused on their views and experiences. In a review, Marvin Opler, the CAS analyst at Tule Lake, noted the portrayal of this group as the “favored faction,” whose “position is presented approvingly,” and accused the JERS of a tendency “to play sides in factional disputes.”  Moreover, as Lane Hirabayashi had observed, the depiction of Tule Lake politics “in terms of a small number of leaders (often portrayed as devious characters out to control ‘the masses’) represents a projection of Nishimoto’s own political world view.”  Perhaps because of his own attempts to direct protest at Poston, Nishimoto was inclined to believe the few dissidents Hankey interviewed had orchestrated the demonstrations at Tule Lake in response to WRA oppression. In a letter to Thomas, Nishimoto revealed his assumption that most segregants were motivated more by insecurity and “anxiety for the future” than anger or ideology. A “moderate” resister against the WRA, Nishimoto believed the “radical” leaders of the “renunciation” movement had misled these “anxious” segregants. In another letter to Thomas, he affirmed a conviction held by Nisei military volunteers: “actual combat” was necessary to improve their own status and the “status of the Japanese in America.”  In The Spoilage, Hankey and Nishimoto’s influence can no doubt be seen in the emphasis on WRA incompetence, harsh repression against the Daihyo Sha Kai, and the subsequent rise of a group of terrorizing resegregationists. Both researchers sympathized with the protests of the democratically elected Daihyo Sha Kai against WRA mistreatment. But both also felt a faction of the underground resegregation movement had gone too far by intimidating many Tuleans into renouncing their citizenship, and ultimately damaging the standing of all Japanese Americans. Seven out

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of every ten citizens over eighteen years of age renounced their citizenship at Tule Lake. As depicted in The Spoilage, these 5,461 renunciants were the victims of both the WRA and a small group of dissident leaders. Certainly the 4,754 renunciants who joined a mass lawsuit to regain their citizenship and avoid deportation maintained that they had been victims. Yet the meaning of renunciation as a response to “victimization” may have been much more complex than Thomas and Nishimoto allowed. The Spoilage depoliticized renunciation, portraying it as an act caused by WRA incompetence and motivated solely by fear, anxiety, and hysteria. In their book, Thomas and Nishimoto assumed renunciation could not have been a rational or “ideological” response given the large number of segregants. Questioning this “distinction between ‘practical’ and ‘ideological’” reasons, Morton Grodzins, on the other hand, suggested renunciants might have developed an ideological rejection of the United States because of “practical considerations.”  Thomas and Nishimoto were also quick to attribute segregation and renunciation to a lack of assimilation. Using statistical data to analyze responses to the loyalty questionnaire, the authors found “the most striking relationships are factors manifesting variations in acculturation or assimilation.” Specifically, they discovered: “In brief, Buddhists were proportionately more ‘disloyal’ than Christians or agnostics; the order of ‘disloyalty’ proportions descended from Kibei to Issei to Nisei; Californians were more ‘disloyal’ than Northwesterners.”  But what did this signify? As the authors admitted, the camp environment and the “train of individual experience” also played important roles. But Japanese American attitudes about “assimilation,” culture, and politics before the war were perhaps more critical, and the statistical profile shed no light on these. A former Tulean who left before it became a segregation center, S. Frank Miyamoto felt the “disloyal” response was more the product of prewar “discrimination and segregation than of assimilation.”  But by focusing almost exclusively on events within Tule Lake, The Spoilage neglected any analysis of the impact of prewar politics, culture, and community on Japanese American responses to internment. Even though The Spoilage portrayed segregants as victims of both a small segment of protest leaders and the WRA’s misguided policies, the book’s title further stigmatized those the government pronounced “disloyal.” On the other hand, The Salvage, Thomas’s other JERS study of Japanese Americans, trumpeted the “recovery,” or at least the image of recovery, of those

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resettlers who embraced the WRA’s offer of assimilation and dispersion. In the first half of the book, Thomas presented a statistical and demographic profile of changes Nisei experienced during the war. For the second half of the book, she published fifteen Nisei life histories selected from a collection of sixty-four. These histories came from interviews with resettlers in Chicago. They were conducted by Charles Kikuchi, a JERS field-worker and Nisei who had been interned at Gila River. “resettlement and recovery”: the salvage

The Salvage provided one of the first forums for presenting internee perspectives on the war. Yet even these life histories were not free of JERS values and agendas. Thomas selected the fifteen accounts she deemed most “representative” of the resettlement experience. Kikuchi’s life histories and interviews, though quite informative, could not help but reflect his own background and preconceptions. Kikuchi had been disliked by his father and sent away when he was eight years old to an orphanage where he was the only Japanese American. He graduated from San Francisco State University in 1939, and that same year his autobiographical narrative, “A Young American with a Japanese Face,” was published in Louis Adamic’s book From Many Lands. In 1941 he entered the Social Welfare program at the University of California, Berkeley, before being interned in 1942. Opposed to the very idea of ethnic organizations, Kikuchi found it difficult to interview members of these groups. Kikuchi excluded from his interview sample Issei and Kibei resettlers because he did not speak Japanese. Consequently, most of the resettlers he interviewed were “non-agricultural, college-educated, Christiansecular, young adult Nisei of both sexes who tended to be from the Pacific Northwest.”  In the 1980s Kikuchi would acknowledge “the line between my social life and my research work was often blurred, and these activities were sometimes intertwined.”  He recalled, “Since I was trying to define my own attitudes about the role of the Nisei in American life, I had to be on constant guard not to project my own cultural and political biases on the resettler being inter viewed.” First exposed to a Japanese American community after college, Kikuchi “misunderstood the ethnic pride” of Nisei student clubs as “symptomatic of political identification with military Japan.” Ironically, Kikuchi first participated in Japanese cultural activities in camp at the behest of fellow JERS researcher Robert F. Spencer. As he learned about sumo, Go

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(a game of skill like chess), and mochi (“rice cake”) pounding, Kikuchi’s “view of Japanese culture moved from negative to tentative.” Offended by an Issei “cultural bias of male domination,” he was impressed by the college-educated Nisei women he trained as social workers at Gila. “Their efforts,” he would later say, “influenced my later decision to include many Nisei women in the life history sample of Chicago, even though the male resettlers outnumbered females ten to one initially.”  Yet apart from this conscious agenda to promote women’s life histories, Kikuchi tried to find a broad sample. Personally inclined toward a faith in democracy and cultural assimilation, he “tried to include resettlers who were angry, hostile, or unresponsive.” Despite assurances of confidentiality from Kikuchi, some “individuals feared that the material would damage their post-war status.” He was therefore forced to reassure them by discarding a portion of the life histories. These life histories appear, at first glance, to bolster the WRA’s depiction of postwar acceptance and integration. Although all Kikuchi’s interviewees criticized the decision to intern Japanese Americans, many agreed with a female music teacher who declared “evacuation” a “blessing in disguise.”  Praising the benefits of postwar dispersion, most echoed the sentiments of a male civil servant: The evacuation did disrupt my life plans on the Coast, but it has given me the opportunity to work for something that I had given up as impossible. So in that sense, I am glad that we were forcibly removed from our old restricted Japanese community life. The resettlement process has given me a wider perspective on life and it has helped me to emancipate myself from the close knit ties of the Japanese community.

This optimism undoubtedly reflected the wartime growth of Nisei selfreliance described by scholars Harry H. L. Kitano, Valerie Matsumoto, and Mei Nakano. The communal mess halls in camp weakened parental controls as children stopped eating with their parents and roamed around camp with their peers. Assuming social leadership positions denied them in predominantly white high schools, Nisei students became athletic heroes and student body presidents. New political and work roles also fostered independent decision making. Requiring council members to be citizens who spoke English, the WRA regarded Nisei as representatives for the camp population. Personnel shortages moved camp authorities to hire Nisei to staff offices, schools, and hospitals. Because of regulated wages that gave internees equal

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pay for the same work, many children were no longer dependent on their fathers’ earnings. In fact, some Nisei earned more as “professional” workers than their fathers, who were limited to “laboring” positions because they couldn’t speak English. Many exhibited this assertiveness when they left camp to pursue college and work opportunities in the Midwest and East. Thus, whereas Thomas noted some of the Nisei resettlers that Kikuchi interviewed in Chicago had “difficulties in making vocational, personal, or social adjustments,” she still characterized them as the “salvage” from internment “inasmuch as outmigration from camps to the ‘outside world’ in all cases broke their isolation, promoted acceptance by the majority group, extended the range of their participation, and integrated many of their activities into those of the larger community.”  A close reading of the book’s life histories, however, raises questions about the cost of the acceptance and integration of these Nisei. Attacking the idea of a “group identity,” several of Kikuchi’s interviewees conveyed feelings of anxiety and insecurity about their ethnic heritage. “At this time I tended to avoid the rest of the Nisei,” explained one student, “as I felt that we did not have common interests.” He went on to say: My attitude was that if integration was to be worked out right, we had to lose our group identity even if it were hard for us. [In Poston] I had built up some feeling of racial consciousness and this had been developed further during my period in the sugar-beet fields. For this reason it felt good to get into a Caucasian group where I could lose my racial identity to a certain extent.

He and several others agreed with the restaurant owner who proclaimed, “I most emphatically do not want to see a Japanese colony started here” because it would “ruin the whole resettlement program.”  Many applauded resettlement not only for enhancing their freedom from the community but for helping them avoid the community. In other words, more than wanting to break free from communal or parental restraints, they wanted to escape any contact with other Nikkei (individuals of Japanese ancestry). These resettlers accepted WRA proclamations that Japanese Americans could overcome racism only by abandoning ethnic enclaves and assimilating into white society. To encourage integration, camp authorities counseled resettlers to abstain from speaking Japanese in public, to avoid congregating in groups of more than five, and to refrain from being conspicuous. Taking this advice to heart, one female bookkeeper told of

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how she cringed with embarrassment whenever she saw a group of Nikkei on the street. Promoting Nisei dispersion and assimilation, The Salvage omitted voices that endorsed ethnic cohesiveness. But more than two-thirds of the Japanese American population eventually returned to the Pacific Coast. And although Nisei abandoned the residential enclaves—the prewar Little Tokyos and Nihonmachis (“Japantowns”)—and joined a general migration to the suburbs, many still retained ties to the ethnic community. Former internees, as scholars Stephen Fujita and David O’Brien have demonstrated, maintained high rates of participation in Nikkei churches, civic groups, and athletic leagues throughout the postwar period. The Salvage presented only the stories of those Nisei striving for “acceptance” and “integration” after leaving camp; nevertheless, these life histories offered some clues as to why so few Japanese Americans outside the JACL were willing to share their experiences with the public. Even resettlers who dreamed of living and working in an “integrated” environment said they felt uneasy speaking to white Americans. Many feared that alluding to the camps might arouse white hostility. A Nisei businessman admitted, “At times I have gotten an inferiority complex in regard to my race, but I think I was more conscious of it in camp than on the outside.” Further, he maintained, “It has not affected my life too much, as I had made a break in the past and I think that I will do it again after the war in spite of the fact that the future does look dark.”  Unable to deal with the racial stigma caused by internment, he tried to convince himself he was “not affected” by repressing memories of the incarceration. Even those former internees celebrated as “the Salvage” by the WRA, the JACL, and wartime social scientists found it painful to describe their camp experiences. Undoubtedly sharing this desire to forget the incarceration were internees the JERS called “the Spoilage” at Tule Lake and “the Residue” that resisted resettlement. Like “the Salvage,” they may not have wanted to talk about their experiences in camp or the legacy of internment. But given the numerous field-workers in the camps, it is still surprising that no studies by the BSR, CAS, or JERS explored the long-term impact of the incarceration. Several more decades would pass before large numbers of Japanese Americans would be willing to speak about the ways internment affected their lives.

five

The Resurrection of the History of Internment in the 1960s and 1970s

As 1974 came to a close, Edison Uno urged former internees to end three decades of silence about the wartime incarceration. His plea took the form of an article that appeared in the Pacific Citizen, the newspaper of the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL). A community activist and Asian American studies lecturer at San Francisco State University, Uno chastised anyone who claimed “that the entire episode should be forgotten; that it is past history and of very little importance to the children of internees and internees during World War II.” Japanese Americans, Uno insisted, had a duty to resurrect the history of internment because it was a “part of the Japanese American heritage.” He explained: It is history which no one can deny. It is a legacy that will be etched in the annals of history, whether we like it or not. Therefore, it seems to me that we who have survived the experience have a responsibility to make certain our perspectives are documented in the many interpretations of this historic event in our lives.

The forty-five-year-old former internee hoped that even the more conservative members of the JACL, in addition to other activists and a group of revisionist scholars, might join him in promoting a new history of internment. In the late 1960s and 1970s, this small but vocal group of internment critics began to challenge the representations of wartime patriotism and postwar recovery fostered by government officials, JACL leaders, and social scientists from the 1940s to the early 1960s. Whereas these groups presented different views of whether internment was justified by military necessity, as the 185

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government claimed in 1942, all agreed on the benefits of cooperation with the government and either hid or critiqued protest within the camps. All of these earlier depictions assumed that the best response to racism was a demonstration of patriotism and assimilation. With only a few exceptions, these accounts tended to legitimate or excuse government treatment of Japanese Americans within benevolent relocation centers. Therefore, the history created was one that minimized the extent of suffering and resistance among internees, emphasized stories of military service, and overstated the “recovery” of former internees embracing opportunities for assimilation after the war. In the 1960s and 1970s, a small group of community activists and scholars began to challenge these depictions and promote new perspectives. They fostered the reexamination of protest, assimilation, and ethnic pride. The social movements of this turbulent era gave the history of internment new political significance. For the mainstream media and conservative JACL leaders, the improved economic status of former internees provided proof that racism could be overcome without militant protest against the government. These accounts celebrated Japanese Americans for valuing hard work and education, and for having respect for authority. Many even explicitly contrasted quiet and prosperous former internees with angry protesters in other minority groups. The message was clear: if the victims of internment could achieve success in America without complaining about racism or the government, so could other minorities. A small group of dissidents within the Japanese American community denounced these portrayals of the history and legacy of the wartime incarceration. Inspired by activists in the civil rights, black power, and antiwar movements, young Sansei (third-generation) radicals and a few progressive Nisei, like Edison Uno, began to publicly criticize media depictions of Japanese Americans as a quiet and successful “model minority.” They founded magazines and journals to combat the proliferation of these media representations and to draw a link between the long history of oppression against people of color and the mass incarceration, which left a legacy of internee suffering and communal trauma. In these accounts of internment, Japanese American silence was a sign not of recovery but of psychological damage, repression, feelings of shame, and continued victimization. The real lesson of internment, according to these activists, was that Japanese Americans needed to confront memories of the wartime experience. For some, this meant denouncing the

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injustice of internment and joining multiethnic and multiracial coalitions to fight racism and imperialism. Some activists advocated reform and others supported socialist revolution, but they all tried to encourage former internees to share their memories with the rest of the community. During the 1970s, former internees began to heed this call to resurrect the history of internment. A small but influential number of Nisei confronted long-repressed memories of the camps. They joined Sansei activists who were encouraging former internees to remember their wartime experiences. These Nisei and Sansei organized community events, such as pilgrimages to former camps and Day of Remembrance programs, to revive memories of the camps and to remind the public of the injustice of internment. Former internees who participated in these commemorative programs often relived the experience and were finally able to share their memories of the past. But as Japanese Americans became more receptive to discussing the history of internment, they also disagreed about the way it should be remembered and presented. Controversy surrounding the images of Japanese Americans depicted in the books Nisei: The Quiet Americans and Farewell to Manzanar, which was adapted into a TV movie, reflected these community debates about the meaning of internment history.

Edison Uno’s Crusade to Revive the History of Internment Edison Uno played a leading role in this campaign to revive and revise the history of internment. With Uno’s commitment, in the 1960s, to challenging traditional JACL depictions of internee patriotism and postwar acceptance came his intention to change the politics of the organization. He was one of the few militant leaders of the Japanese American community who also had a long history of activism within the JACL. Born and raised in Los Angeles, Uno was interned at the age of thirteen at the Amache Relocation Center in southeastern Colorado. He received permission to transfer to the Crystal City Internment Camp in Texas to be with his father, who had been arrested by the FBI after Pearl Harbor. Many Nisei left camp early to attend school or find work. However, Uno remained in Crystal City even after the war ended. He endured four and a half years, or “1,647 days,” of imprisonment before finally leaving in the fall of 1946. The officer-in-charge at Crys-

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tal City told the teenager he was the last American citizen to be released. Uno returned to Los Angeles, and he joined the JACL in 1948. In 1950 he became a chapter president, the youngest in the history of the JACL. Although Uno remained active and served as a JACL chair and board member, he increasingly challenged JACL leaders’ depictions of internment, ethnicity, and politics during the 1960s and 1970s. After leaving camp, Uno “attempted to read and collect all of the published materials on the Japanese American experience.” As he learned about the racist motives behind internment and the history of camp protest, he questioned the JACL’s emphasis on Japanese American loyalty and heroism. Whereas these leaders advised internees to “forget the past,” Uno brought the reality of internment to a new generation in his Evacuation and the Relocation course at San Francisco State University. At the same time JACL leaders celebrated American democracy, Uno attacked American repression of minorities and organized a committee to help the Indians who occupied Alcatraz. And as Mike Masaoka mingled with Washington politicians, Uno initiated community protests in San Francisco. When asked why he didn’t run for national office, Uno explained, “I personally feel that one of my small contributions to the organization is to be its critic and try to keep them on their toes at all times.”  Disdainful of JACL awards, Uno insisted on removing his name from a 1970 nominee list for the “Nisei of the Biennium.”  Proud of being a gadfly, he believed the organization’s members and resources could play an important role in the social movements of the 1970s. He knew, however, that it would take a significant amount of prodding to change the JACL, as very few Nisei shared Uno’s dedication to activist causes. When in 1974 an anthropologist asked him to keep a diary of his feelings of “selfhood,” Uno provided the following list: I am an active agent of change I am the master of my own fate I am an Asian American I am a non-conforming Nisei I am part of the community I am one who is sensitive [to] the oppressed I am one who is proud of my heritage I am young in spirit I am not a “Quiet American”

The Resurrection of the History of Internment 189 I am human, far far from perfect or successful I am a political being in an unconventional way I am progressive and liberal in my thinking I am successful by my own definition

In 1967 Uno demonstrated this independent spirit when he initiated a virtual one-man crusade to wrest a public apology from Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren for his role in promoting “the forces to bring about the great Evacuation of 1942.” He tried to remind the public that Warren, while attorney general of California, portrayed Japanese Americans as spies and saboteurs. Uno also recounted how Warren, after becoming governor, even argued against permitting Japanese Americans to return to the West Coast in June of 1943 by proclaiming, “We don’t want to have a second Pearl Harbor in California. We don’t propose to have the Japs back in California during this war if there is any lawful means of preventing it.”  Throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s, Uno wrote Warren to ask him to acknowledge his wartime mistakes. He told the chief justice he had “the highest respect and admiration for your contribution to the civil and human rights of all Americans.” For the “sake of history,” Uno asked Warren to “expunge the records of the false statements that only you can forever right.” Warren refused to respond to these letters, however, and when asked about his wartime position declared it was “just a matter of history now.”  Ironically, a group of conservative Marin County Republicans offered to finance Uno’s campaign if he would support their proposal to impeach Warren. A supporter of Warren’s Supreme Court decisions, Uno rejected their advances. In December 1973 Uno actually met Warren, who told him “it would be only a matter of time before this matter would be resolved.” Finally, in June 1974, Uno learned that Warren privately confided to Morse Saito, a Nisei English teacher and missionary for the United Methodist Church, that Warren felt the “greatest regret” for his wartime support of internment. Comparing himself to “Don Quixote” and a “determined knight jousting on behalf of unpopular causes,” Uno persisted in trying to convince the JACL to support civil rights and antiwar and other protest campaigns of the 1960s and 1970s. His Minority of One columns in the Pacific Citizen, according to Sachi Seko, another Pacific Citizen columnist, revealed “a shrewd knowledge that the causes he espoused would not receive the mandate of the average Nisei.” Nevertheless, Seko noted, he “tried to judge

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f i g u r e 1 3 . Edison Uno teaches the history of America’s concentration camps in an ethnic studies class at the College of San Mateo in California. Courtesy of Isago Isao Tanaka.

us out of our pious mediocrity, and sometimes he raged, because we were slow to achieve the level of consciousness he wanted for us.” 

“Model Minority” History Edison Uno was particularly disturbed by JACL support of the mainstream media’s depictions of Japanese “recovery” in the 1960s. These accounts used census data to demonstrate Japanese American progress after the war. There is no question that Nisei took advantage of postwar educational and occupational opportunities to improve their economic status. After leaving camp, many found that they could enter white collar and professional occupations for the first time. In 1940 only 3.8 percent of all employed Japanese American males in California who were fourteen years and older were classified as professional. By 1950 this percentage rose to 4.4, and by 1960 it shot up to 15 percent. Come 1970, it was 23.8 percent. Nisei women also assumed new occupations after the war. According to sociologist Evelyn Nakano

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Glenn, between 1940 and 1950 the percentage of employed Nisei women who held clerical or sales positions increased from 22.9 to 34.6. The number of working Nisei women in the professions increased between 1940 and 1950 from 4.4 percent to 9.2 percent. Employment in these sectors continued to expand during the 1950s and 1960s, so that by 1970 considerably more than half of all working Nisei women held white-collar professional, managerial, clerical, or sales positions. Newspapers and magazines began to cite statistics on education, occupation, and income as evidence of Japanese Americans’ upward mobility and successful assimilation. Since 1940 Japanese Americans recorded the highest level of education among all racial groups including whites. In 1970 Japanese Americans had a median education of 12.5 years, compared with 12.2 years for whites and 9.9 years for blacks. Whereas 10 percent of the total U.S. population was made up of professionals, 19 percent of all Japanese Americans had pursued professions. The median Japanese American family income was almost $3,000 higher than the median white family income. Conservative sociologist William Petersen presented these statistics in a 1966 article that helped spawn a wave of intense media interest in the history of internment and postwar Japanese American success. Petersen’s New York Times Magazine article both recounted the racism that led to the wartime incarceration and celebrated the achievements of former internees. “Even in a country whose patron saint is the Horatio Alger hero,” Petersen proclaimed, “there is no parallel to their success story.” Petersen’s article, “Success Story, Japanese-American Style,” declared that “barely more than twenty years after the end of the war-time camps,” Japanese Americans had “risen above even prejudiced criticism.” After recounting a history of injustice that culminated in the “forced transfer of an entire population to concentration camps,” the sociologist marveled at Japanese Americans’ “remarkable record” of educational achievement, attainment of white collar jobs, and low crime rates. “Every attempt to hamper their progress,” according to Petersen, “resulted only in enhancing their determination to succeed.” He further asserted that their devotion to education was “like a military campaign against a hostile world,” and their “diligence in work, combined with simple frugality, had an almost religious imperative, similar to what has been called ‘the Protestant ethic’ in Western culture.” But Petersen did not credit this incredible work ethic and drive for education to Western culture. Instead he attributed Japanese American success

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to the “persistence of Buddhist moral values,” . . . “greater attachment to family,” and a “greater respect for parental and other authority” stemming from Japanese culture: The Japanese, on the contrary could climb over the highest barriers our racists were able to fashion in part because of their meaningful links with an alien culture. Pride in their heritage and shame for any reduction in its only partly legendary glory—these were sufficient to carry the group through its travail.

Yet the numerous journalists and politicians who later cited Petersen’s article were much more interested in his claim that Japanese Americans overcame a history of discrimination “by their own almost totally unaided effort” than in his analysis of Japanese culture. Even the publishers of his article celebrated the amenable and well-assimilated Japanese. The text of Petersen’s piece ran under pictures of smiling Japanese Americans and a caption announcing that they “lead a generally affluent and, for the most part, highly Americanized life.” Beginning in the late 1960s, other conservative commentators seized on Petersen’s history of Japanese American success to attack civil rights protesters. Angry minority activists, these commentators declared, could learn something from the history of this “model minority”; specifically, that thrift and diligence can conquer racism. In other words, minorities should eschew demonstrations against the government and emulate the quiet, hardworking Japanese Americans who had pulled themselves up by their own “bootstraps.” Japanese Americans reacted to this image in diverse ways. Some immediately condemned these accounts as a thinly veiled attack on African American protesters. They resented the implication that all victims of racism should emulate Japanese American self-reliance rather than demonstrate for their rights. Sansei activist and JACL field director Warren Furutani pointed out how these statistics could be misinterpreted. In the JACL’s Pacific Citizen, he took to task the 1977 Los Angeles Times article “Japanese in U.S. Outdo Horatio Alger.” According to Furutani, the Times piece quoted family income statistics without acknowledging that more Japanese American incomes consisted of two paychecks. Whereas 51 percent of all U.S. families had more than one wage earner, 60 percent of Japanese American families relied on more than one income. In California, where 58 percent of all mainland Japanese Americans resided, Nisei men had higher edu-

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cational levels than white men, without a concomitant rise in income. In other words, even as the Japanese Americans became better educated and earned more, their incomes were still lower than those of whites. A study of San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, and Chicago indicated that the 1970 income of Japanese American men with four or more years of college averaged only 83 percent the income of white men with a comparable education. Moreover, chroniclers of this model minority story ignored evidence of persistent poverty and discrimination. The 1970 census listed 43,356 individuals, or 7.5 percent of the entire Japanese American population, living at or below the poverty line. The fact that 20.8 percent of this group was sixty-five years of age or older drew attention to the plight of many elderly Issei, who never recovered from financial losses incurred during the war. Also, Furutani pointed out that the exclusion of Japanese Americans from “middle level management and supervisory positions,” regardless of training or seniority, tarnished the media’s image of “professional” success. What’s more, a few Nisei began to publicly condemn the way they were presented in these accounts. Several wrote letters criticizing a 1971 Newsweek article about Japanese Americans entitled “Success Story: Outwhiting the Whites.” After repeating Petersen’s history of wartime discrimination against Japanese Americans and their postwar educational and occupational achievements, the article ended by quoting Nisei George Kobayashi: If a black family moved in next door, I wouldn’t like it. I’ve just moved in here and it would drive property values down. It’s always the same story. You maintain a good neighborhood and they just seem to let the whole place fall apart. If you want to get ahead, they have to work—just like the Nisei did.

Kobayashi wrote a letter protesting what he called the “gross distortion,” in the Newsweek piece, of his comments on the racial and social situation of Gardena, in southern California. “Having been subjected to intense prejudice and overt discrimination during my own lifetime,” Kobayashi wrote, “I am fully aware of the problems facing all minorities.” He further explained: There are those still struggling for a fuller measure of equality in our society. And their struggle is our struggle as Americans all, whether we be white, black, brown, red, or yellow . . . We Japanese may have tried to outwhite Whites, but we have done this to prove that we are Ameri-

194 The Resurrection of the History of Internment cans. We want no part of outwhiting Whites as racists. (emphasis in the original)

Although Kobayashi argued his views had been misrepresented, Edison Uno, in his own letter, criticized the political implications of Kobayashi’s comments with respect to African Americans. The “divisive” statement, noted Uno, “perpetuates the institutional racism that must be eliminated if we are to survive in a multicultural society.” Emphasizing statistics on Japanese American educational and occupational success, according to Uno, helped disguise a “history of racism” and “ethnic self-hate” that represented the true legacy of the camp experience. Uno concluded his letter by urging former internees to combat this model minority image by recounting the “true history” of Japanese American suffering both during and after the war. Only by speaking about the pain caused by the incarceration could former internees counter the attempts by “white racists to manipulate Japanese American history to bolster institutional racism” against other minorities. But many Japanese Americans, especially the more conservative leaders of the JACL, felt that after living for so long under a cloud of suspicion, they deserved to bask in the glow of official and popular praise. Nisei who had spent decades striving to replace the image of the hated internee with this image of the loyal, hard-working citizen felt flattered when they were commended for “outwhiting the whites.” Many former veterans felt that their heroic sacrifice during the war had made it possible for Japanese Americans to gain this acceptance from other Americans. Convinced that patriotism rather than protest had helped Japanese Americans improve democracy, they saw nothing wrong with being praised as a model minority. They credited JACL leaders like Mike Masaoka with improving the image of Japanese Americans. They argued that Masaoka’s “positive” history of Japanese Americans displaying courage on the battlefields of World War II had helped eliminate Alien Land Laws, immigration exclusion acts, and the denial of naturalization rights. Why should Japanese Americans emphasize a negative history of racism and discrimination when a positive history had been so effective in winning legislative change? These Japanese Americans applauded news articles that recognized Japanese American loyalty, patriotism, and success. Former internees who had cringed at being identified with Japan during World War II now felt a sense

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of pride as the media celebrated Japanese cultural values. Postwar diplomacy, of course, had already helped transform the image of Japan. After the war ended, America had turned to its former enemy in the Pacific to help contain the spread of communism. As the Cold War progressed, Americans considered Japan a bulwark against Communism in the Soviet Union, China, North Korea, and Southeast Asia. At the same time, Japan relied on American military forces to protect its national security. During the postwar economic boom of the 1950s and 1960s, Americans welcomed Japanese exports, eagerly buying automobiles and consumer electronics. Of course, when the U.S. economy declined and the trade imbalance increased during the 1970s and 1980s, Japanese Americans and other Americans of Asian ancestry, often fell victim to “Japan bashing.” But before these trade wars heated up in the 1970s, many Americans viewed Japan and Japanese Americans in friendly terms. When Japan developed into an important political and economic ally, the image of Japanese Americans improved accordingly. In this more favorable climate, even the staunchly pro-American JACL began to speak out on international issues. JACL leader Mike Masaoka proclaimed a “New Pacific Era” in 1969 when Japan became “the second greatest industrial nation in the free world and the third major industrial complex among all countries.” For the first time, the JACL prepared a formal statement concerning the status of Japan. The league urged the American government to consent to Japan’s request for the return of Okinawa and the rest of the Ryukyu Islands. Celebrating the U.S. agreement to complete the reversion by 1972, Masaoka declared that the JACL’s stand on this issue “not only indicated the political maturity and security of JACL but also the changed and respected status of Japanese Americans in the United States.”  Convinced that mentioning the injustice of the camps might incite a backlash that would undermine this acceptance of the community, JACL leaders like Bill Hosokawa urged internees to forget the past and advised activists to “quit harping about the injustice of the Evacuation.”  In the 1960s and 1970s, most Japanese Americans agreed with Hosokawa that it was best to keep the past buried. Edison Uno knew that it would be difficult to convince former internees to end decades of silence about their experiences within the internment camps. Few Issei were willing to discuss or even acknowledge the impact of racism on their lives, especially in the presence of white Americans. Interviewing Issei in the early 1960s,

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sociologist John Modell discovered that few would describe any encounters with prejudice during the previous half-century. He concluded, “In retrospect the Issei define the rebuffs they have in fact received as not serious.”  Researcher and former Minidoka internee Kenji Ima pointed out, however, that this silence might have revealed more about the interview context and Issei discomfort around white researchers than about Issei acceptance of mistreatment. Ima noted that Issei had no difficulty recounting numerous examples of discrimination when interviewed by fellow immigrant Kazuo Ito in the 1960s. Ima also observed, however, that few internees among the Issei and the Nisei discussed the camp experience in any depth. Many used phrases like “before camp” and “after camp,” but when speaking of the war, limited their references to these chronological markers. Sociologist Tetsuden Kashima noticed the tendency of internees to discuss only “trivial, humorous, or non-threatening” moments with other internees. Some Japanese Americans, particularly the Issei, described camp events but withheld their feelings about the incidents. Participants in the “Issei Oral History Project,” the most well-planned venture of its kind, exhibited this reserve. Conducted in the 1970s by a respected and trusted member of the community, these Japanese-language interviews presented a remarkably candid and detailed portrait of events during and after the war. Nevertheless, the same Issei who provided such a full account of what happened inside the camps said very little about the emotional impact of internment. Some Japanese Americans attributed this reticence to a Japanese cultural heritage informed by the phrase shikataganai, which means “it can’t be helped.” They believed this concept had been ingrained in both Issei and Nisei before the war. Others emphasized the role of postwar practical concerns. After leaving the internment camps, Japanese Americans had been too busy trying to “resettle” to have time to ruminate on injustices during the war. “After the camp experience,” Nisei Cherry Kinoshita explained, “most Japanese Americans’ sole priority was survival—finding a place to live, earning a living, finding a job.” Many Nisei were preoccupied with the “need to support Issei parents who had lost their means of livelihood.” They were also focused on “the need to raise their own families.” Concentrating on developing their careers and obtaining economic security, they had little time or inclination to think about protesting internment.

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A History of Silence and Shame A growing number of Japanese Americans soon began to reevaluate this silence as evidence of psychological damage caused by internment. By the 1980s there would be a consensus among activists and scholars that many internees found it too painful to confront their memories of life in the camps. Dr. Setsuko Matsunaga Nishi testified before a congressional subcommittee that this “puzzling phenomenon of silence” was caused by “unresolved emotional conflict,” in which “anger and grief” were suppressed. After interviewing internees and listening to the 1981 commission hearings on the effects of internment, the former internee attacked any notion of postwar recovery. “The stigma that officially their collective identity made them untrustworthy,” Nishi argued, “was symbolic death for many and had to be repressed.” Internees’ “preoccupation with getting on with the business of life,” Nishi concluded, “was functional to distance themselves from a traumatic disturbance until a time when they could deal with it in a more supportive setting.”  Political scientist Don Nakanishi and Sansei psychologist Donna Nagata, whose cross-generational study is examined later in this chapter, also attributed communal silence to mental and emotional trauma. Nakanishi suggested that silence at the “collective level mirrored an analogous process of repression and denial at the individual level.”  Individuals suppressed memories of internment, according to Nagata, to avoid reliving the ordeal or arousing anti-Japanese antagonism. Nagata further observed that many could only begin “mastering their past trauma through a closer examination of their own losses and suffering” four decades after the camps closed. Former internees who became active in the redress movement would later tell the government of their attempts to forget the trauma caused by the incarceration. During the commission hearings, Nisei Ben Takeshita described why many former internees could not bear remembering how camp had divided friends and family members. The “resulting in-fighting, beatings, and verbal abuses,” Takeshita explained, “left families torn apart, parents against children, brothers against sisters, relatives against relatives, and friends against friends.” Takeshita noted, “So bitter was all this that even to this day, there are many amongst us who do not speak about that period for fear that the same harsh feelings might rise up again to the surface.” 

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Amy Iwasaki Mass, a clinical psychologist, testified that Japanese Americans suppressed feelings of anger at the government’s betrayal because they were “ashamed and humiliated.” They found it “too painful to see that the government was not helping us, but was in fact against us.” According to Mass: We used psychological defense mechanisms such as repression, denial, rationalization, and identification with the aggressor to defend ourselves against the devastating reality of what was being done to us . . . Like the abused child who still wants his parents to love him and hopes by acting correctly he will be accepted, Japanese Americans chose the cooperative, obedient, quiet American facade to cope with an overly hostile, racist America during World War II. By trying to prove we were 110 percent American we hoped to be accepted.

Edison Uno and other Nisei activists, especially those who were adolescents during the war, described having undergone an identity crisis within the internment camps. Although many older Nisei had experienced discrimination before the war, it was never on the scale of the mass incarceration. Nisei adults knew they were excluded from jobs, restaurants, and recreational facilities reserved for white Americans. Although some school-age Nisei were unaware of these discriminatory policies, many knew they were not welcome in white classmates’ homes and could never become school leaders. Even though most Nisei knew of racist individuals and policies, they maintained an abiding faith in American Democracy and justice. They were shocked to discover their own government doubted their loyalty and declared it necessary to imprison them in camps surrounded by armed guards. This rejection destroyed the self-esteem of those Nisei who considered themselves patriotic Americans. Before entering camp, Noriko Sawada wrote a letter to her hometown paper declaring she would proudly comply with evacuation procedures to contribute to the war effort. But three years of imprisonment forced her to recognize that America deemed her an enemy. The barbed wire and the guards in camp convinced Sawada she must have “done something wrong” for her government to “incarcerate” her. After the war, Sawada followed WRA advice not to be conspicuous and accepted the message that it was undesirable, perhaps even dangerous, to be identified as a Japanese American. She went to great lengths to hide her ancestry. When at one point some friendly white soldiers inquired about

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her ethnicity, Sawada claimed she was adopted to avoid admitting her Japanese heritage. She even anglicized her name, changing it from “Noriko” to “Nikki.”  Hiroshi Kashiwagi also attempted to avoid the stigma associated with internment when he left camp. As he returned home, he tried “to slip back as unobtrusively as possible.” Whenever he was asked where he had been in the war, Kashiwagi always felt “put on the spot.” Sometimes he lied and said he had been back East, rather than admit to his Tule Lake internment. For years, he “tried to block out” that part of his life because he thought he “had done wrong!” Tetsuden Kashima, believed many Japanese Americans shared Kashiwagi’s “social amnesia” and feelings of hazukashi, or “shame,” at being imprisoned. Amy Ishii, Edison Uno’s sister, compared internees’ feelings of unworthiness with the self-blame internalized by many rape victims: Women, if they’ve ever been raped, don’t go around talking about it, you know. “I was a victim of rape,” or anything like that. This is exactly the kind of feeling that we as evacuees, victims of circumstance, had at the time of the evacuation. A lot of Nisei and Issei are actually ashamed of the fact that they were in a concentration camp.

Instead of expressing anger about the injustice, many former internees redoubled their efforts to prove that they were “good Americans” by distancing themselves from the Japanese American community. According to Dr. Nishi, many of the Japanese Americans praised for being exemplars of a model minority actually suffered from “workaholism, overconformity, constant searching for others’ approval,” and “chronic anxiety about their achievements and fragility of acceptance.”  Ben Takeshita, for example, rejected his ethnic heritage and attempted “to assimilate into American society” when he returned to his San Mateo high school. He joined the band, a cappella, and the Junior Statesmen club, “to make sure that everyone got to know us as human beings, as fellow citizens, not as disloyal Americans.” After the Korean War started, Takeshita purposely volunteered “to prove, once and for all, that I was indeed a loyal American and I was willing to die for my country.”  Bebe Reschke felt that being interned “did a great deal to take away my feeling of self-esteem and made me more fearful in fighting back.” Consequently, Reschke found it difficult to confront, in 1952, a Detroit teacher

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who was relentless in presenting a history of “treacherous Japs” in her high school history class: She would make such statements such as, those Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, they were sneaky, you can’t ever trust anyone. Those Japs can only imitate, they could only produce junk toys. The dialogue went on daily. At one point I became so upset that I voluntarily stood up and glared at her. I seriously considered taking the matter to the principal, but I was afraid that the teacher would deny her statement and the principal would not support me, so I suffered in silence.

Later Reschke thought it was ironic that she and many other Japanese Americans “felt the way to prevent such devastating occurrences from happening in the future was to become 100 percent American though many of us, especially those of us living in the east consciously tried to lose the Japaneseness we felt was partly responsible for getting us in trouble.” Reschke recalled, “We spoke American, ate and cooked American food and associated in the main with non-Japanese.” 

Sansei Campaigns to Resurrect Memories of Internment This drive to forget the internment experience and assimilate into white society often affected the way the Nisei raised their Sansei children. Many thought they could “protect” their children from the stigma of internment by hiding this part of their history and helping their children to better assimilate. But as the Sansei entered college in the 1960s and were exposed to campus activism, some began to question the value of assimilation. Some Sansei demanded that their parents and other former internees end their silence about the camp experience. The civil rights, antiwar, and ethnic pride movements played a critical role in resurrecting the history of internment by stimulating a reassessment of discrimination and protest. When in the late 1950s civil rights activists began demonstrating against the segregation of blacks in the South, few Japanese Americans actively participated in the movement. But as they watched thousands of blacks endure harassment, imprisonment, and violence to dismantle segregation, some Japanese Americans found themselves reconsidering the community’s emphasis on cooperation with the government and assimilation.

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A few Sansei radicals began to protest against racial oppression and emulated the grassroots tactics developed during the black freedom struggle. By the late 1960s, young Southern black activists in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) questioned the goals and strategies of early civil rights leaders. Criticizing the Southern Christian Leadership Conference’s emphasis on integration and compromise with white liberal authorities, SNCC advocated “black-staffed, black-controlled, and blackfinanced” programs. This emerging “black power” movement championed self-determination and celebrated a distinctive African American culture. Hoping to reclaim their own distinctive culture, as the blacks were doing, some Sansei began demanding information about their history. Former internee Bert Nakano recalled how these protests caused his son and other Sansei to criticize communal silence about the wartime internment: The kids were understanding they’re Asians and they have rights just as much as blacks and Chicanos, so they felt a need to delve into their history, to find out what happened to them as a people. Many of them found out that their parents were in the concentration camps and this appalled them. How could my parents, and all of the Japanese people go quietly into a concentration camp without a fuss, a fight? So . . . the kids started questioning their parents.

Some Sansei believed that their parents’ silence and attempts to assimilate had deprived them of a cultural heritage. According to Chris Maru, her parents’ attempts to protect her from the pain of internment had actually “smashed down” her “pride in being Japanese-American.” Intent on raising her as a “true American,” Maru’s parents discouraged her from learning the Japanese language or Japanese culture. But at the same time Nisei parents emphasized the Sansei’s “American” heritage, many often told their children they had to “do better than everyone else” because they couldn’t escape being labeled as “Japanese.” Consequently, Wendy Ng noted that many Sansei faced “the curious dilemma of being both alien to the Japanese-ness of their parents and grandparents and separated from the dominant majority culture social structure . . . because they belong to a racial minority group.”  During the 1970s, family therapist Nobu Miyoshi interviewed Sansei about their relationships with their parents and their attitudes about internment. Miyoshi, a Nisei, initiated the project after two sisters, Caroline and Theresa Nishi, urged the Eastern District Council JACL to confront

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what they called a Sansei “identity crisis.” The Nishi sisters complained their parents refused to share their internment camp attitudes and experiences. Miyoshi discovered many Sansei shared the Nishi sisters’ desire for better communication with their parents. Amy Nakagami told Miyoshi she felt the generations just couldn’t discuss the subject of the camps. Others commented that when parents spoke about the camps they emphasized the “good times.” Miyoshi concluded parents wanted “to shield” their children from pain and avoid a “break down” in front of their children. The Nisei thought they protected their children with their silence, but Miyoshi felt they “passed down” their pain through nonverbal communication. She even speculated that the Nisei “may not be [as] acutely aware of their own pain as much as the Sansei who are bearing it for them.” Lily Sakata confirmed that parents who tried to hide their past intensified the identity crisis of their children: “It’s some sort of legacy we have to carry but we didn’t live through it . . . We’re handed something we don’t understand. We don’t know what happened to them. We don’t know what it did to them.”  Donna Nagata completed a study in the 1980s that reinforced Miyoshi’s findings. While growing up Nagata knew “camp” only as a “vague, cryptic reference” her family never “directly discussed.” In high school she learned that these “camps” were prison camps, and not summer recreational camps. Then after becoming a psychologist, Nagata decided to investigate whether her family’s silence was atypical. She sent a twenty-page survey to 1,250 Sansei identified by the JACL, the Young Buddhist Association, and personal contacts. Seven hundred and forty Sansei, 60 percent of the original sample, returned the surveys. In addition, Nagata conducted forty-two interviews in which she asked Sansei about the “cross-generational impact” of internment. Forty percent of the survey respondents who were children of internees reported their primary source of information about the camps came not from parents but from books, films, and overheard conversations. Nagata’s interviews also indicated family silence exacerbated a sense of insecurity and self-consciousness. Nagata determined internees’ fragmentary conversations and nonverbal cues produced feelings of low self-esteem and shame in their children. Moreover, Nagata found many Sansei suffered the sense of guilt and fear described by children of Holocaust survivors. Experiencing “the unexpressed pain of their parents,” Nagata concluded, many were haunted by “questions about how life might have been different if their mother or father had been spared the camps.” 

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In the late 1960s and early 1970s, a growing number of Sansei believed that learning the history of internment could help members of their generation resolve these identity problems and empower the entire community. Appalled by the way the mainstream media interpreted their parents’ silence as evidence of success and acceptance, a few began to publish a much harsher assessment of the legacy of internment in Asian American community journals and magazines. Gidra, an Asian American newspaper founded by UCLA students and published in Los Angeles between 1969 and 1974, became a prime venue for this alternative history. Sansei activists like Amy Uyematsu wrote articles for Gidra denouncing the model minority image and urging Japanese Americans to join a “yellow power” movement. These activists believed that Japanese Americans and other Asian Americans needed to recognize and combat a common history of racial oppression. The role models promoted in these accounts were not quiet former internees but militant black power activists. Hearing the exultant cry “Black is beautiful!” Uyematsu declared, had “instilled a new awareness in Asian Americans to be proud of their physical and cultural heritages.” Uyematsu rejected the attempts by “frightened whites” to “tell militant blacks that the acceptable criterion for behavior is exemplified in the quiet, passive Asian American.” Instead she and other activists called on all Asian Americans to reject “the passive oriental stereotype” and to form alliances with other minority activists in campaigns against injustice. Reinterpreting the history of internment gave some Japanese Americans a new perspective on other people of color. Embracing their ethnic heritage, Sansei student protesters demanded the establishment of university programs on Asian American history and culture. While Nisei “got herded into camps,” activist Dale Minami explained, “Sansei got herded into college.” In college, Minami learned that “the camps were not an isolated event but a part of the pattern and practice of racism directed against Native Americans, Blacks, Chicanos, Puerto Ricans, Chinese, and Filipinos.”  In 1989 Evelyn Yoshimura reflected on how she became an activist and described how ethnic studies exposed her to a new history of “Third World people in America” that linked internment to a long history of racial and economic exploitation, “beginning with the . . . genocide of Native American Indians, the kidnapping of Africans,” and “the contract labor system that brought Asians here.”  For Sansei like Yoshimura, this critical analysis of American history

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played a vital role in their development as community activists. Embracing an oppositional “Third World” or “Asian American” identity, Sansei activists participated in demonstrations for the creation of ethnic studies programs and protests against the Vietnam War. Whereas some activists limited their focus to cultivating Asian American pride and culture, many others joined militant political groups. Yoshimura, for example, joined the Asian American Political Alliance to denounce the Vietnam War as “unjust and racist,” and to celebrate the “inspiration of Asian people in Vietnam, fighting for self-determination and freedom.”  Some activists compared the history of internment with a history of racial discrimination during the Vietnam War. In a 1969 Gidra article, Pat Sumi declared that the massacre at My Lai was part of a pattern of genocidal campaigns perpetrated by the U.S. government against Asians abroad and at home. Sumi’s list of atrocities included the murder of civilians during the Philippine-American War, the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the internment of Japanese Americans. Proclaiming “capitalism, racism, imperialism” were “all part of the same package of oppressors,” Sumi called for new political leaders “who are dedicated to the notion that it’s only a revolution, and at that, a Marxist, Leninist, Maoist type of revolution that’s going to free our people.”  Alan Nishio typified many Sansei activists who were radicalized during this period of student and community activism. Even though Nishio was born in Manzanar, the Sansei didn’t know it was an internment camp until he was in college. When he first attended the University of California, Los Angeles, he supported America’s role in the Vietnam War and thought “we should just go there and bomb the hell out of them.” Nishio’s view of politics and the community changed, however, when he transferred to the University of California, Berkeley, a hotbed of student radicalism in the 1960s. While taking a political science course in 1965, he completed a research paper on internment and learned about the conditions at Manzanar. Nishio went home and asked his parents about the camp, but they refused to discuss it. Later, he learned, however, that his father lost his grocery store and most of his possessions in the evacuation, falling victim to alcoholism during his time in camp. He was never able to rebuild his life after the war and became a gardener. Whereas Nishio had “always seen” his father as an “uncommunicative”. . . “alcoholic gardener who hated his job,” learning

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more about the camps helped him put his “family into perspective” and inspired him to become involved in the ethnic community. Disturbed that so few Asian Americans had participated in the civil rights movement in the 1950s and early 1960s, Nishio joined the Berkeley Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and the antiwar movement in the late 1960s. Later he joined the Little Tokyo People’s Rights Organization (LTPRO), founded in June 1976, to protest the redevelopment of Little Tokyo in Los Angeles. In the 1960s and 1970s, there were protests against “urban renewal” plans for Japantowns and the larger Nihonmachis located in city centers. The initial hope that redevelopment would revitalize the areas turned to suspicion and anger: big corporations, especially Japanese multinational corporations, were dominating redevelopment plans, and local residents experienced large-scale evictions. Little Tokyo People’s Rights saw a connection between the relocation of Japanese Americans in the 1970s and the mass removal during World War II. Both removals, LTPRO declared, were caused by racism, economic greed, and government disregard for minority rights. During the crusade against redevelopment, this group of approximately one hundred activists circulated petitions, staged demonstrations, and appealed to the media. Although the campaign failed to prevent the eviction of Sun Building tenants in 1977, LTPRO successfully pressured the government to allocate funds for construction of a community center and senior housing project. In addition, the process of fighting for the rights of Japanese Americans, noted Glen Kitayama, gave activists a “sense of empowerment and trained them” for the struggle for redress later. Other Sansei activists also denounced redevelopment as a second relocation, or forced removal, of Japanese Americans. In San Francisco in 1974, seven members of the Committee Against Nihonmachi Evictions (CANE) chained themselves together at a redevelopment office to protest plans to uproot more Japanese Americans. June Hibino, one of the links in this chain of activists, also was radicalized at Berkeley. Growing up in the working-class town of Wolverine, Michigan, Hibino had little sense of a Japanese heritage. She had few contacts with any Japanese Americans and remembered being called a “Jap” or a “Chink” frequently: It wasn’t every day but it was often enough so that you knew you were different. You came to expect it to happen. I think the reaction was you

206 The Resurrection of the History of Internment wanted to try to blend in and try not to make anything stick out. I remember being embarrassed about having a Japanese-American middle name.

But then Hibino went to Berkeley in 1970 and started taking classes in Asian American studies. One class had a community involvement focus, and she met the organizers of CANE. Participating in mass meetings, picketing, and demonstrations, Hibino worked with tenants in a four-block area and began to identify with the Japanese American community. She also became involved in revolutionary political groups that promoted Chinese Communist ideology, anti-imperialism, and Third World solidarity.

Nisei Memories of Internment Although few former internees supported Sansei radicals who called for socialist revolution, some began to respond to activist demands that they end their decades of silence. In 1969 Isao Fujimoto, who had been interned when he was eight years old, published an article in Gidra declaring that the wartime “failure of democracy” needed to be remembered and discussed. He recounted how, as the “product of an ethnic ghetto,” he had “internalized the subtle ways” the larger society “reminds one to stay in his place” and be quiet. Furthermore, he condemned the way he and many other Japanese Americans had “been infused with a philosophy” that made “the most of a bad situation” and diverted them from “critically appraising the past.”  A small but dedicated group of former internees began to endorse Edison Uno’s campaign to resurrect the history of internment. Some of these Nisei were activists prior to the 1960s. Chizu and Ernie Iiyama, for example, were left-wing “Young Democrats” before the war and continued their activism in New York shortly after leaving the internment camps. Gaining experience in poll watching and door-to-door canvassing, they helped to organize the Nisei for Wallace campaign and maintained their support despite being red-baited. They petitioned to stop the nuclear arms race, participated in a “beach-in” to desegregate a Lake Michigan beach, and picketed stores that refused to hire minorities. Other Nisei became active in community organizations because the social movements of the 1960s transformed their views of assimilation and political protest. Hearing black Americans celebrate their roots made some

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former internees wonder why they, the Japanese Americans, tried so hard to deny their ethnic heritage. By affirming a positive racial identity, black activists gave Nisei like Mei Nakano a sense of pride in their ancestry. Nakano no longer saw it as a “compliment” when people told her she didn’t “seem Japanese.” Instead she let such people know that she was proud of her Japanese roots. No longer ashamed of her Japanese heritage, Nakano also changed her views of the government. During the war, Nakano never thought of criticizing the government, even after her infant son endured a six-week bout with dysentery because of conditions in camp. Instead she blamed herself for failing to meet her child’s needs. Convinced she was responsible for her baby’s suffering, Nakano had difficulty confronting her memories of the internment. Her concern about being a “good mother,” however, ultimately helped her reexamine her past. When her son asked her to speak to his high school government class about the war, she overcame decades of self-denial to share her recollections of life behind barbed wire. Like many former internees, Nakano discovered that “breaking her silence” about the camp ordeal heightened her outrage at the injustice. It also strengthened her commitment to educate people about Japanese American suffering during World War II. After the students in her son’s class gave her an ovation, she dedicated herself to speaking about the camp experience to a variety of community groups. Other Nisei became active in community organizing after participating in programs designed to resurrect the history of internment. Sansei Warren Furutani and Victor Shibata planned a pilgrimage to Manzanar in December 1969 to clean and restore the camp’s remains and encourage discussion of how internment affected Japanese Americans. Furutani later remembered how the idea came up. Stopping in a coffee shop on the way to meet friends, who, like themselves, were in the antiwar movement, the two talked about how other groups had participated in marches “with a cause and a vision of a better world, with no more oppression and no more war.” The United Farm Workers had just marched from Delano to Sacramento. The civil rights movement had inspired the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. The two asked themselves, “What could Japanese Americans organize around?” Searching for a “real issue” that would “move many people,” the two thought of the internment camps. Both had parents who’d been interned and who wouldn’t talk about it. They thought that

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organizing a pilgrimage to a camp might revive memories and spark more discussion within the community. They learned that Manzanar, located in the Owens Valley, was built 225 miles north of Los Angeles, in the shadow of Mount Whitney. As they scouted the site, they found that little remained of the camp. Then Furutani saw a white monument in the camp cemetery: I had the feeling of being somewhere significant—a true pilgrimage. Coming face to face with my own history, I found some old rusted car parts and broken dishes. The dump just east of the cemetery had a wealth of dated, broken, army-issue pottery chards. In the mile-square perimeter of the camp itself, among assorted trees, is an apple orchard. Although left for dead and forgotten, these trees still bear fruit. Just as the camp experience bears fruit for those individuals who want to pick and harvest the lessons and knowledge to be learned, these trees blossom every spring.

Hoping to encourage Japanese Americans to harvest this history, the two began organizing the pilgrimage. Later they learned that what they “brashly declared as the ‘first’ pilgrimage” was the twenty-fifth pilgrimage for two ministers. Rev. Sentoku Mayeda, a Buddhist priest, and his friend Rev. Shoichi Wakahiro, a Christian minister, had returned to Manzanar ever year after the camp closed to conduct a service for the internees buried in the cemetery. Edison Uno participated in this pilgrimage and wrote articles in the ethnic press recounting how the event made Manzanar “more than a memory.” Uno declared, “The past for a few moments became part of the present” and presented the young with “an essential part of their future.” Uno was pleased to see that Sansei “who were perhaps disillusioned with the fruits of affluence and material comfort, have turned from the abundant advantages that their Nisei parents struggled so manfully to provide for them, to search for something that can only be described as spiritual in character.” More than two hundred people bore witness to an event Uno described as “moving and sublime.”  They woke up at dawn and traveled more than five hours on an uncomfortable bus to the site of the first camp built to incarcerate Japanese Americans. Former internee Sue Kunitomi Embrey remembered that there were a few African Americans who were trying to connect internment “to their [own] movement.” A former MP who guarded the Manzanar camp recalled that the war period “was one of the happiest times

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f i g u r e 1 4 . Manzanar cemetery monument, erected 1943. The three Japanese characters literally translate as “soul-consoling tower.” Courtesy of Richard Goode.

of his career.”  Most of the participants, however, were Sansei college students and activists. Yuki Kitahara, who was born at Manzanar, explained that she was “trying to find some symbolism in my own birthright in this country.” A few older Nisei joined the group, and one eighty-four-year-old grandmother, conspicuous among the youthful bus riders, attended to pay her respects to friends buried in the camp cemetery.

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The only signs of life that Uno saw in the desert were the “greying shades of dry sagebrush plants.” The wind “whipped a chilling shock through everyone and the bitter cold reflected the strange feelings and emotions that overcame all of the weary travelers as they viewed the desolate scene.” But then everyone set to work with rakes, shovels, and hoes on the dilapidated remains of the cemetery and the cemetery monument. They cleared out shrubbery and repainted the monument, laying wreaths and flowers at its base: A large bonfire was built to keep the workers warm, although the temporary warmth was little comfort to the bitter cold wind that penetrated the most protective clothing. In utter disbelief, the realities of camp life they had heard of from parents or grandparents or read about became a chilling experience. There was little disagreement among those who had not experienced camp life that this exposure at Manzanar was a new awareness and appreciation of the shameful episode and treatment of American citizens, too often ignored in our history books.

There was a short ceremony that included a Buddhist chant and a call by former internee Rev. Lloyd Wake to “dedicate ourselves to the causes of freedom so that no other people shall have to go through what we had to go through.”  Then the program ended with a speech by Jim Matsuoka, a community activist who had been interned when he was seven years old. Matsuoka indicted the silence of other former internees: The only people that ever came out of that camp were people without souls, the “quiet Americans”—the people who did not dare to say anything or speak up; the people who were afraid to rock the boat. When people ask me, “How many people are buried in this cemetery?” I say a whole generation is buried here. The Nisei Americans lie buried in the sands of Manzanar.

Media coverage of the pilgrimage stimulated community discussion of internment. Newspapers showed photographs of the participants cleaning the cemetery remains and painting the monument. Clips of the event were televised on NBC and CBS news programs. The NBC broadcast of Matsuoka’s description of the Nisei buried at Manzanar provoked a major controversy within the Japanese American community. The ethnic press was filled for several months with letters debating the merits of Matsuoka’s charges. Fred Hirasuna, editor of the Fresno JACL newsletter, led the de-

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fense of the quiet Nisei. Hirasuna criticized Matsuoka and Sansei activists for not appreciating “the hell that most Nisei went through, especially the older ones with children and, in many cases, aged, dependent parents to take care of during that trying period.” Further, Hirasuna proclaimed: No guts? Those Nisei had more guts than Matsuoka will ever have. Let him think twice before making such statements. Let any such Sansei ponder the comparatively sheltered lives that they have led—the things that their parents have deprived themselves of so they might get their education.

These selfish critics of the Nisei, Hirasuna declared, were “aping the worst traits of their American contemporaries” and engaged in “protest for the sake of protest” to gain “notoriety for themselves.”  Other former internees disagreed with Hirasuna. Ken Hayashi, of the Orange County JACL, urged Hirasuna to recognize that “when the younger generation spouts off, we do not necessarily have to accept their words literally, but the message could be very important.”  Sue Kunitomi Embrey defended the Sansei activists as not unmindful of the sacrifices and deprivation of the older Nisei and Issei during the war years. Rather they feel that because of their very experiences, these victims should be in the lead working for changes in our democracy. They are not the only ones who feel this way. I have many Anglo friends who ask me why so few Oriental faces are at meetings on campus, in the community or in the nation. “After what happened, wouldn’t you think that it would make you more active?” My answer is usually “no.” It tends to make for a conservative, almost fanatical attitude toward those who would work for change. And this is the attitude that comes across from Hirasuna.

Bemoaning that she was one of the few Nisei to become involved with these Sansei activists, Embrey exhorted other Nisei to “have meaningful dialogues with these young people.” It was time, Embrey declared, to stop blaming the lack of communication and understanding on the “generation gap.”  Edison Uno, on the other hand, commended Hirasuna for being “outspoken and articulate,” even though he disagreed with his views of the Sansei. Uno respected Hirasuna’s “right and courage to express his point of

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view.” He declared, “We need men like Fred Hirasuna to stimulate the minds of Sansei.” Uno went on to say, “Perhaps his sharp attacks will encourage and promote the kind of leadership Warren Furutani represents, also a notso-quiet American, who is contributing to the changes that pain some of us Nisei.” Uno credited the Sansei for making the trek to Manzanar to “search for the realization of the hell their parents went through.” He speculated, “If the Nisei fully realized the hell the Issei went through, we probably would have resisted the Evacuation and would not have been so quiet.”  Embrey and Uno became part of the Manzanar Committee that helped organize future pilgrimages. Embrey later recalled that many Nisei “were not happy about the publicity” that the pilgrimages received: “We were told not to bring up the subject, that people wanted to forget and it was time to move forward for after all, aren’t our Sansei children in prestigious colleges such as UCLA and USC.”  But many Sansei refused to let their parents forget what happened during the war, and they worked with Embrey, Uno, and other community organizers to promote discussion of the history of internment. The Manzanar Pilgrimage became a yearly event, serving as a catalyst for pilgrimages to other camps. Each year more and more Nisei participated in these programs. In Seattle, on February 19, 1978, Sansei activists organized the first Day of Remembrance program. The event served to commemorate, on the same day in 1942, the signing of Executive Order 9066. More than two thousand people attended, some of whom participated in a reenactment of the removal of Japanese Americans by force, in army trucks, to the “assembly center” at the Puyallup Fairgrounds. Other activists began organizing annual remembrance programs in cities where there was a major Japanese American population. Increasing numbers of Nisei, many of whom enjoyed financial security and extra leisure time because their children had left home for college, began to participate in these commemorative events. These rituals helped former internees face suppressed memories of internment. Seeing camp remains, reenacting events during the war, and hearing other Nisei describe their internment histories encouraged former internees to confront their past. These events helped people almost literally relive the wartime experience, and many found that they could discuss their camp ordeals for the first time. Even former Tule Lake segregants, who had been stigmatized by other internees, began to share their experiences with the public. In 1975, during the second annual pilgrimage to Tule Lake, Hiroshi

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Kashiwagi composed and read a poem about how the Sansei’s “enthusiasm” and “sense of justice” helped him face painful memories of the camp: Whatever we did here; the commitments we made Loyal or disloyal; compliance or resistance; yes or no It was right Because the young people make it so Because they seek the history from those of us who lived it So we must remember and tell it We must acknowledge it and tell it

The Campaign Against the Image of Japanese Americans as the Quiet Americans Many of the Nisei and Sansei who organized the commemorative events, and the rituals attached to them, hoped these programs would help destroy the image of Japanese Americans as a model minority. They wanted the public to hear Japanese Americans recount a history of pain and suffering that belied the image of recovered and successful Japanese Americans. In so doing, they hoped to promote an image of angry Japanese Americans who denounced the racial oppression manifested by internment and who protested against the government. In other words, they tried to challenge the version of Japanese American history that JACL leaders like Mike Masaoka had cultivated for several decades. Edison Uno and other progressive Nisei tried to convince the JACL to support this new interpretation of Japanese American history and politics. They hoped leaders like Masaoka, whom they dubbed the “Old Guard,” would end the accommodationist politics and emphasis on assimilation that helped foster the model minority image. Failing to change the organization’s politics, the reformers then tried to challenge its portrayal of the Japanese American community. Learning that JACL leader Bill Hosokawa planned to publish a book entitled Nisei: The Quiet Americans; The Story of a People, they waged a campaign in which they attempted to convince the author to change the title. This protest over the book’s title (played out later in this section) encouraged a reexamination of published depictions of internment and Japanese American history. Hosokawa’s book was commissioned in 1967 by the Japanese American Resource Project. Originally conceived to provide a history of the Issei,

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the project was approved by the national JACL in 1960 and chaired by Shigeo Wakamatsu. Wakamatsu and his committee turned to the Japanese American community for financial support: “The response was gratifying. Many made contributions in memory of their immigrant parents. Responding to the need to record their story, the community contributed more than $200,000, an impressive sum in those times.”  T. Scott Miyakawa, of Boston University, prepared a list of study objectives that included conducting a sociological survey, producing a “definitive, scholarly volume” on the history of Japanese Americans, and assembling a documentary collection that included oral histories and memorabilia that would be housed at a university. The University of California, Los Angeles, was selected as the depository, and Miyakawa was named director. The project received grants from the JACL and the Carnegie Corporation in the respective amounts of $100,000 and $140,000. Not accustomed to the “unhurried pace of academia,” the committee decided to commission a “popular” history while waiting for the completion of several sociological and historical monographs. As Wakamatsu later explained, Hosokawa, who had been a member of the committee, agreed to write a book that “while historically accurate, would capture the broad, dramatic sweep of the Japanese American experience.”  Some of Hosokawa’s critics were disturbed that the project’s first publication focused on the Nisei rather the Issei. Others felt that the subtitle “Quiet Americans” was an endorsement of the conservative political stance they were trying to combat. Many of these critics came from the ranks of the JACL’s District Youth Council. Hoping to attract Sansei members, the JACL established this separate structure in 1966. Merilynne Hamano, a past Pacific Southwest District Youth Council chair, called on JACL to reevaluate its credo “Better Americans in a Greater America.” A “better American,” declared Hamano, “sought to be aware and proud of his own ethnic heritage and contribution to this country.” He recognized that America “created a society where white standards have been imposed at the expense of the original culture of the peoples.” Instead of striving to assimilate or prove his patriotism on the battlefield, Hamano maintained, a “better American” . . . “believed enough” in the “ideals of democracy, justice, and equality, to fight for them for himself and his fellow citizens.”  In 1968 Sansei and Nisei dissidents within the JACL formed an Ethnic Concerns Committee to address the increasing tension between minority

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groups. National chair Dr. David Miura suggested JACL change its name to the “Asian American Citizens League” and recruit community activists to devise more grassroots programs. In 1970, when Raymond Uno, a Utah judge and the son of a JACL “old timer,” became the first “second generation JACLer” elected national president, he encouraged Sansei community activists to develop new programs. This proved controversial when a Nisei member walked into the Pacific Southwest District office, run by activists Jeffrey Matsui and Warren Furutani, and saw posters of the Black Panthers, Ho Chi Minh, Che Guevara, and César Chávez. Nisei farmers directly threatened by Chávez’s unionization campaign were particularly outraged. Because many Old Guard leaders found little common ground with these “Young Turks,” heated debates ensued. A number of student members supported the 1969 Third World Strike, which demanded the development of ethnic studies at San Francisco State University. At the same time, older Nisei endorsed efforts by acting university president S. I. Hayakawa to squash the protests. Conservative members complained when radicals pressured the JACL to cancel, albeit unsuccessfully, Hayakawa’s appearance as a guest speaker at a chapter installation. When these older members attended Hayakawa’s presentation at the San Francisco Athletic Club, they were confronted with 135 activists holding picket signs. Many of these protesters were JACL “militants.”  Hearing field director Furutani call for protest marches against the Vietnam War, Old Guard vets yearned for the days when Japanese Americans “demonstrated” for rather than against the government. The JACL had to choose, as Mike Masaoka put it, between remaining a Nisei organization “catering largely to the needs and demands of a semi-affluent, middle class, middle-aged community,” or becoming a “tri-generational organization” . . . “adjusting its programs and projects” to the “militants, the activists, and the protesters among the young Japanese Americans of today.”  Hoping the JACL would support the second option, Edison Uno led the effort to challenge JACL leader Bill Hosokawa’s depiction of Japanese Americans as quiet Americans. Hosokawa originally intended to name his historical chronicle Americans with Japanese Faces but his publisher, William Morrow and Company, feared it “would be offensive and appear racist to a large segment of the book-buying public.” Mike Masaoka told Uno that the publisher’s market research indicated the “Quiet Americans”

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title was “saleable.” Whereas Masaoka acknowledged this survey probably didn’t include “our young Sansei who may have some special feelings on the subject,” he emphasized “it did include the larger American public to whom we hope to sell far more books than to our own group, for their education—you know.”  However, Uno denounced Hosokawa’s proposed book title, Nisei: The Quiet Americans; The Story of a People, for portraying Japanese Americans as a “model minority” that succeeded in America by quietly cooperating with established institutions. He and other JACL dissidents urged the organization’s traditional leaders to retire this image and promote one of Japanese Americans as protesters during and after the war. They charged that the title minimized internment’s legacy of pain and anger, alienated activists from other minority communities, and discouraged resistance against racial discrimination. Throughout 1969, Uno and a handful of other protesters organized a campaign to lobby Hosokawa, the publisher, and the JACL, which had commissioned the book, to substitute a new title. Uno said this campaign involved not just a “mere controversy about a book title” but a “question as to the relevancy of the JACL to the Japanese American community.” At stake, according to Uno, was whether the JACL was “responsive to the needs and desires of its membership” and the “best interests of all persons of Japanese ancestry.”  Others agreed with Uno that the community needed “writers” to provide an “accurate reading of our history” that included camp protests demonstrating “how assertive we have been.”  In a letter to Howard Cady, Hosokawa’s editor, protester Ray Okamura argued the title implied the book was a “propaganda device to tell Black Americans and Mexican Americans to behave like ‘good little Orientals’ who know their place.”  When Hosokawa and the JACL refused to change the title, the activists urged Japanese Americans to write protest letters to the editor and publisher. Mineo Katagiri, president of the Executive Committee of the Asian Coalition for Equality in Seattle, told William Morrow that his committee voted unanimously to protest the title because they “resent being stereotyped as nice, quiet, docile people” and “consider ourselves to be active, creative, participants of this society.”  Howard Cady informed the Hokubei Mainichi, a San Francisco Bay Area newspaper, that he received “dozens and dozens of protest letters, cards and telegrams” from “educators, community leaders, Nisei organizations, and many active JACL members.” The

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quantity and tone of these letters indicated to Cady that Nisei were obviously not “quiet Americans.”  Cady received only one letter that approved of the “Quiet American” label. But some Japanese Americans urged Hosokawa to retain the title in the ethnic press. Some of Hosokawa’s defenders felt he was faithfully representing the impact of Japanese cultural values on the second generation. They believed reticence was a part of the Nisei’s cultural heritage, which should be retained and promoted. Nisei Joe Hamanaka defended the second generation’s otonashii, or “silence,” by noting that Richard Nixon declared the “majority” was “silent.”  Old Guard leaders like Mike Masaoka defended the subtitle “Quiet Americans,” arguing, “It can mean the kind of quiet dignity and constructive activity that caused my Issei mother, for example, to raise eight children through the depths of the Depression after Dad was killed in an automobile accident in 1924.” Masaoka went on to explain: It may be a matter of semantics, but the word “quiet” does not mean “passive,” “submissive,” “unwilling to assert one’s rights,” etc. It can refer to meaningful and positive action, though not “loud,” “outspoken,” “violent,” and “aggressively demonstrative.” It can produce worthwhile consequences, without fanfare, publicity, notoriety, etc.

The publisher announced it found an alternative title, Nisei: A Valiant Odyssey, “acceptable,” but “because of pressure from JACL officials the revised title was rejected.”  In a letter to JACL president Jerry Enomoto, Hosokawa revealed that he had agreed to change the title until he learned that the JACL Ethnic Concerns Committee passed a resolution threatening to boycott the book. Outraged that “some individuals had taken it upon themselves to seek to censor the title,” Hosokawa then insisted on retaining it as a matter of “principle.”  Hosokawa’s established reputation as a writer within the community and curiosity about the controversy undoubtedly contributed to the book’s popularity. The publisher sold more than 10,000 copies in just two months. Widely distributed, the book helped subsidize the Japanese American Resource Project’s activities of collecting historical material and preparing more scholarly works. The JACL also used profits from the book’s sales to present gift copies to key Washington officials during the 1969 holiday season. Among the almost 500 recipients were the president, vice president, each cabinet secretary, each Supreme Court Justice, 100 senators, and 250 congressional representatives

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who had a JACL chapter or several JACL members in their districts. Mike Masaoka described the book’s distribution as the “most effective and constructive public relations–education project ever carried out by JACL, or persons of Japanese ancestry, in the nation’s capital.”  More than 200 of Hosokawa’s supporters demonstrated their appreciation of his “public relations” work at a formal book-signing party in Denver. Hosokawa not only rejected the attempts to get him to change his title, he retained material in the book that he knew would incite his critics. The foreword to Quiet Americans, written by Edwin O. Reischauer, aptly summarized the book’s “dramatic story of adversity, challenge, and triumph”: No immigrant group encountered higher walls of prejudice and discrimination than did the Japanese—the denial on racist grounds of the right to naturalization, the denial in the areas where they largely lived of the right to own land or enter certain professions, and eventually complete exclusion. None experienced a more dramatic crisis than they did when, on the outbreak of war with Japan, one hundred thousand of them—aged immigrants and their assertively loyal American-born children alike—were herded from the West Coast into what amounted to concentration camps. None retained greater faith in the basic ideals of America or showed stronger determination to establish their rights to full equality and justice, even when their fellow Americans seemed determined to deny them both. None showed greater loyalty to the United States or greater willingness to make sacrifices on the battlefield or at home for their country.

The “outcome, of course,” according to Reischauer, “has been the great American success story writ large—a Horatio Alger tale on an ethnic group.” Said Reischauer, “No group has won greater respect or a position of more solid achievement in this country than have the Americans of Japanese origin.”  Hosokawa ended his depiction of a history of loyalty and patriotism conquering racism with an epilogue that compared the success of Japanese Americans with the “unproductive struggles of other minorities to win social respect and economic security.” Hosokawa declared, “Looking on the extremes of apathy and militancy among Negroes and Hispanos, some Nisei from the comfort of their upper middle class homes have been led to ask: ‘Why can’t they pull themselves up by their own bootstraps the way we did?’ ” The answer, Hosokawa suggested, had been given by sociologist William Petersen when he praised Japanese values for instilling “respect of authority and pride of family and culture.” After quoting liberally from

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Petersen’s famous 1966 New York Times Magazine article, Hosokawa speculated that it might have been “an element found deep in the Nisei’s ‘Japaneseness’ that enabled him to make good in America.” He offered: “If this is so, then the Nisei was not as free of the influence of his heritage as he had believed after making an all-out effort to become American. And this, as it turned out, was not necessarily bad.” Acknowledging that racism continued to exist in America, Hosokawa felt the Nisei were “not likely to be susceptible to the more virulent forms.” He suggested, “They have sacrificed too greatly, moved too far, accomplished too much not to feel they have a large measure of control over their own destiny.” Moreover, Hosokawa maintained that many Americans had “abandoned the old concept of a national melting pot in which all elements must lose their identity and have adopted the idea of an all-American stew in which each of the ingredients remains identifiable.” He further proposed that no minority need be “considered an unassimilable clot” and could contribute “its particular flavor to the enriching of a more desirable society.”  Most mainstream reviews of the book confirmed the fears of Hosokawa’s critics. In the San Francisco Chronicle, William Hogan praised Hosokawa’s “lack of bitterness” and his recording of a “great American success story, a Horatio Alger tale on an ethnic scale.”  Hosokawa’s account of how a Nisei “despite adversity”. . . “remained faithful to his country,” and “shed blood for her,” . . . “to prove his love for America” also impressed Dick Gima, of the Pacific Citizen. Barron Beshoar, in the Denver Post, ended a glowing review by proclaiming, “At a time when other minorities are rushing through the streets with raised fists and crying out against discrimination and injustice, ‘Nisei’ is remedial reading for Americans of all colors and beliefs.”  Nevertheless, a few commentators disapproved of the book’s moral against protest. George Ringwald, a Tokyo correspondent for Business Week, wrote a review for the Rafu Shimpo, a Los Angeles daily newspaper, that criticized Hosokawa’s depiction of “the Orient’s ‘good niggers’ of America” who “knew their place” and went “quietly” behind barbed wire. In Crossroads, a Los Angeles weekly journal, Mary Tani wondered why Japanese Americans were “still in a stage that Black Americans have already graduated from.” She declared, “Blacks don’t glorify American war heroes anymore” because these accounts didn’t “get them on an equal basis with the whites.” Tani observed, “Now the Black heroes are those who suffer persecutions” . . . and “get jailed or even killed for their efforts to gain equal justice in the U.S.A.” 

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Leftist scholars and activists like Yuji Ichioka also denounced the book. In a review published in Gidra, Ichioka pronounced Hosokawa’s subtitle, “The Story of a People,” misleading because two-thirds of the book was devoted to the history of the JACL in particular. Hosokawa’s depiction of triumphant soldiers and politicians, Ichioka noted, failed to consider the “possible psychological damages which Nisei may have incurred because of their minority experience and the trauma of World War II.” The Sansei, he declared, should be particularly disturbed by the book’s message “that they should be grateful” for the “rich harvest of America [that] is now available to be reaped because of JACL’s commitment to American ideals.” Ichioka further proclaimed: It appears, ironically, at the very moment when Sansei activists are asking: what have we been integrating into? Into a nation conducting a politically and morally bankrupt war against Vietnamese people in the name of freedom and democracy? A nation bent upon exterminating militant Black leaders? A nation which is moving to [the] extreme right in the name of law and order? A nation in which the so-called “American Dream” has turned out to be a violent nightmare? His theme is totally out of touch with the hard realities of the time.

In 1969 Ichioka insisted, “‘Americanism’ still basically means racism, superpatriotism, and rightwing politics.” He concluded: The “last thing we need is filiopietistic, popular history . . . in this time of political, social, and moral crisis in America, old and new problems demand radical approaches, not tired orations.” Ichioka urged Japanese Americans to “question old assumptions” and “bid the old guard to retire as ‘quiet Americans.’” 

The Call for New Interpretations of Internment During the late 1960s and early 1970s, Japanese American activists and writers also criticized the portrayal of World War II history in autobiographies by Japanese Americans. Bruce Iwasaki published a critical review of Japanese American authors in Roots: An Asian American Reader, a 1971 collection that became a mainstay in Asian American studies classes. Iwasaki accused several writers of promoting a success story stereotype. Monica Sone’s 1953 autobiography, Nisei Daughter, was “ingratiatingly cheerful.” Daisuke Kitagawa’s 1967 Issei and Nisei: The Internment Years was “overly

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biased toward Christianity, somewhat irritatingly accommodationist, and rather simplistically glib.” Iwasaki compared Daniel Inouye’s 1967 Journey to Washington, in which Inouye recounts his life in Hawaii, his war heroism, and his election as a U.S. senator, with a Horatio Alger novel. Whereas Iwasaki admired Inouye’s achievements, he worried that the book’s implicit message of “succeeding in terms of the majority culture’s norms” might “reinforce this racist society.” He charged Inouye’s book with reacting “more to white middle class values of success than to the problems common to the entire Asian community.” His book thus “unintentionally” revealed “how America likes its minorities to behave.” The only book that discussed the history of World War II that Iwasaki could recommend was Daniel Okimoto’s 1971 American in Disguise. Iwasaki praised Okimoto, a Sansei who was born in a relocation center, for providing a more “realistic autobiography” that had “no illusions about the depth of American racism.” Although he acknowledged Okimoto’s book was not written as a success story, Iwasaki noted that the author had “moved from the San Diego ghetto to an education at Princeton, Harvard, and the even more prestigious Tokyo University.” Iwasaki asked, “What publisher would have it otherwise?” He wished, however, that this “generally enlightened book” had explored “the paradox of Nisei social clannishness and the drive to assimilate white middle class values that wrenches the identity of so many post-war Japanese Americans.”  Frank Chin, a noted Chinese American playwright and activist, echoed Iwasaki’s criticisms of assimilation and accommodation but more fully indicted Americans in Disguise. In his introduction to Aiiieeeee! a 1974 collection of Asian American literature, Chin denounced Okimoto for denigrating Japanese culture as the “culture of the pathological victim” and for presuming that his race “disguises” his being American. Ironically, all the aspects of these books that Iwasaki and Chin criticized had been praised by white reviewers. Recently, literary scholars have provided a more complex reading of “protest” and “accommodation” in Monica Sone’s Nisei Daughter. But all the magazine and newspapers that reviewed the book when it first came out in 1953 celebrated Sone’s “cheerful” description of her life growing up on the Seattle waterfront, her internment at Minidoka, Idaho, and her resettlement in a Midwestern college. The Chicago Sunday Tribune reviewer T. W. Tanaka admired the “warm hearted, sometimes sobering, but more often gay and humorous story.” 

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Georgianne Sampson declared, in the New York Herald Tribune, that Sone’s “account of life in the relocation camps” was “deeply touching, and occasionally hilarious.”  The moral of “this unaffected honest little story,” J. H. Jackson told readers of the San Francisco Chronicle, was “one of smiling courage.”  The most eff usive tribute to Sone’s “positive” attitude, was provided by Takahashi Oka, in the Christian Science Monitor: Humor and warmth, not frustrations, characterize the tone of Mrs. Sone’s book. She never becomes bitter, even in some of her brushes with race prejudice. With lively pen she describes the hodge-podge life she led, suspended as it were, between two cultures . . . The idea of America as a melting pot may seem old-fashioned today. Monica Sone’s book is an encouraging reminder of the melting pot at work, even under apparently unfavorable circumstances. It gives us hope, not merely for America, but for the world of tomorrow.

Yet the same Sone who ended her 1953 book by proclaiming, “The Japanese and American parts of me were now blended into one,” gave a very different interpretation of the legacy of internment when she testified before the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians in 1981. She told the commission that when she left Minidoka she felt “like a mauled creature, afraid of what lay before me.” She offered this detail: In April 1943, I boarded the train alone in Twin Falls, Idaho, to go to Indianapolis. I sat in my seat, shrunk in its corner, hoping that I was not too visible. I kept my face buried in a magazine. I had feelings of guilt, self-hate, and fear. My guilt came from the feeling that I had abandoned my aging parents in camp. Another guilt was the old, ongoing one of having a Japanese face.

“My self-hate,” Sone explained, “came from having allowed myself to be uprooted and interned.” She said, “Many times I wished I had disobeyed the order and been arrested.” Sone recalled she had “lost hope” after being “herded into camp,” and concluded her “citizenship meant nothing.” Talking to people in the Midwest about her camp experience, she allowed herself to believe she was “emotionally ok” because she could talk about the past. After becoming a clinical psychologist, however, Sone realized that the “adjustment” that so many reviewers had admired in 1953, “was one of repressed pain and anger.” She realized by 1978 that she had tried to make herself forget the pain of internment with a “wallpaper of self-comforting

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platitudes,” but she “still harbored unresolved feelings of resentment and anguish.”  Sone’s “self-comforting platitudes,” however, had made her book appealing to reviewers in 1953. Reviewers also extolled Inouye’s Journey to Washington for showing how individuals could overcome racial discrimination. R. W. Henderson applauded Inouye’s “dramatic, spellbinding, enthusiasmevoking story” of the “rise from a boyhood in the Hawaiian slums to become the first man of oriental descent to sit in the United States Senate.” Apparently, Henderson didn’t know that Hiram Fong had preceded Inouye into the Senate, but the reviewer did aptly summarize the highlights of Inouye’s career: He tells of his instant involvement in rescue work after Pearl Harbor . . . the heroic record of the 442nd Combat Team in the Italian Campaign, the advancement from private to captain, his long rehabilitation after severe wounds, his entry into Hawaiian politics, and the reorganization of the Democratic Party.

Inouye, Henderson concluded, had demonstrated a “fierce Americanism” that was “based on a consummate faith in democracy regardless of race or religion” and “backed by unfailing integrity and supreme courage in war and peace.”  Americans in Disguise, as literary scholar Stephen Sumida recently observed, was a “self-conscious, admitted apology for being Japanese American.” Okimoto’s tone, Sumida noted, “is excruciatingly apologetic, blaming himself and his race rather than the social conditions he nonetheless knows are oppressive.”  In the early 1970s, Okimoto’s soul-searching quest for acceptance and his attempt to “work within the established system” outraged radical Asian American critics like Frank Chin but impressed white critics. Even Okimoto’s criticism of discrimination against African Americans elicited comments pointing to his model minority status. J. J. Conlin’s review in Best Seller praised how Okimoto “talks of the Negro problem sympathetically and yet not without the racial pride of one from a subculture which always worked hard and had a devotion to education as a spur to achievement.”  But the praise and criticism evoked by Okimoto paled in comparison to the extreme reactions to Farewell to Manzanar by Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston and James D. Houston. Reviewers generally praised the Hous-

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tons’ 1973 book and the subsequent 1976 television movie. Some community activists, however, denounced the book and film for misrepresenting the history of racism and internment. But Jeanne Houston also had many defenders within the Japanese American community. She was seen as someone who had helped educate the public about the injustice of internment and prompted Japanese Americans to confront memories of what they endured. The creation of Farewell to Manzanar reflected the resurrection of internment taking place within the community during the late 1960s and early 1970s. Interned at Manzanar at the age of seven, Jeanne internalized feelings of guilt and shame that she suppressed for more than twenty-five years. She married writer James D. Houston and decided that her primary role was to support him and their children. She never thought of writing about Manzanar until her nephew took a sociology class at Berkeley and studied internment. Aware that he had been born in Manzanar, he tried unsuccessfully to get his parents to talk about the camp. He then turned to his “Aunt Jeannie,” thinking “she’ll just talk about anything.” But when he asked her about the camp, Houston found it difficult to describe the experience: I just told him all the superficial things which I had already told Jim. Jim knew I was in camp, but whenever I talked about it, it was always very superficial, about how we played baseball, or what we ate, and the funny names of people there, how we went swimming here, how we went on picnics. Very superficial. And that’s how everybody talked about it. Hey, what did you do in camp? What block were you in? He just sat there and looked at me very strangely and then he said Auntie, how did you feel about that? For the first time, I stopped and allowed myself to feel about it, and it was devastating. I realized why my sisters couldn’t talk to their kids about it. So I started to cry and I was real upset. I said well, maybe I’ll tell you another time. I talked to Jim about it and said that, I’ve really got something going on here. Then I started crying all the time . . . I have a very large family. And I thought, my goodness, for the family legacy I owe it to them, I should be able to write a biography, tell them about it, or something.

But Jeanne didn’t feel she could write the book alone and relied on her husband for support, encouragement, and writing help. Often as they taped hours of her recollections, Jim had to reassure Jeanne that her experiences

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were interesting and important because she felt “unworthy.”  The process of writing the book and the film script helped her overcome these feelings of shame. Determined to do the book justice, the Houstons began researching published accounts of internment. Jim Houston noted that while there were many “brilliant” studies of internment, none had made the experience “accessible”: Then we made a decision about the kind of book we wanted—accessible to a wide reading audience, not just to a specialist in the field. In order to do that, we needed to make it a story, to focus on the experience of one family and the relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, between brothers and sisters, forced into this outrageous situation which is political and military, but not to put the emphasis on the political.

Hoping to educate “middle class America,” the Houstons tried to “elicit feelings of empathy, of compassion, and human-to-human responses.” They did not want to “exploit feelings of guilt.”  Consequently, they avoided discussing the causes of internment. As Jeanne Houston explained, “People can’t argue with me about whether it was right or not” because “it’s just about the effects of evacuation on one family as I know them.” But since Jeanne was so young when she was interned, much of the book’s presentation of camp events was derived from, in addition to her own fragmentary memories, published research, yearbook photographs, and the recollections of others. Farewell to Manzanar described the barbed wire and the armed guards in camp, but it also portrayed Boy Scouts, beauty parlors, glee clubs, softball leagues, and a dance band called The Jive Bombers that played any popular song except “Don’t Fence Me In.”  “In such a narrow world,” the book declared, “in order to survive, you learn to contain your rage and your despair, and you try to re-create, as well as you can, your normality, some sense of things continuing.”  Much of the book dealt with her father’s deterioration in camp, Jeanne’s identity problems, and her “double impulse: the urge to disappear and the desperate desire to be acceptable.”  But although most of the book focuses on Jeanne’s coming-of-age experiences, the Houstons also took a position on historical controversies at Manzanar. After acknowledging that the loyalty oath “became the final goad that prodded many once-loyal citizens to turn militantly anti-American,” Farewell to Manzanar presented “No-No’s” as “pro-Japanese” dissidents who harassed Jeanne’s fa-

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ther when he refused to support their “resistance.” Moreover, the book declared that “history has proved the JACL was right” in advocating military service, because “the most effective way Japanese Americans could combat the attitudes that put them in places like Manzanar was to shed their blood on the battlefield.”  Farewell to Manzanar’s version of the internment experience proved extremely popular with critics. Wallace Stegner reflected the views of most reviewers when he called the book “touching, funny, affectionate, sad, eager and forgiving.”  Several agreed with the Library Journal’s Katherine Anderson when she praised the book for being “written without bitterness or recrimination.” Anderson noted that even though Jeanne’s desire for acceptance took a toll on her psyche, the book nevertheless “reflects the triumph of the human spirit during an extraordinary episode in American history.”  Other reviewers, such as Lee Ruttle, were moved by the way Houston explored “the tragic, almost total destruction of her own father’s spirit.” Ruttle declared in the Pacific Citizen, “So skillfully is the story told, one gets the impression that these characters, while of one particular family, they represent the more universal story of all the evacuees in all the camps.” Ruttle concluded, “What Bill Hosokawa accomplished in his Nisei: The Quiet Americans, truly an outstanding documentary of great importance, Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston has, in her book, added the quality of poignant, moving prose.”  The television screenplay, written by the Houstons and John Korty, won a “Humanitas” prize for providing “a moving testimony to the strength of the family and the courage of the human spirit despite the injustices of the situation.”  The National Education Association recommended the book and film for classroom use in 1976. It is still frequently assigned in schools promoting a “multicultural” curriculum. When I ask my students at the University of California, Santa Cruz, whether they read anything on internment before college, the one book they’re most likely to mention is Farewell to Manzanar. The film Farewell to Manzanar, produced and directed by John Korty, was controversial even before it was televised in 1976. During filming, the Manzanar Committee issued a public statement criticizing Korty, who had earlier directed The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, for failing to seek more community input into the script. However, Edison Uno, a member of the Manzanar Committee who served as a technical adviser on the film, defended Korty as receptive to community feedback. Uno praised the film as a “historic first” for using “genuine Nisei and Sansei” in all the major

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roles, and declared it was not intended to be a documentary but a personal story of one family. Sue Kunitomi Embrey, on the other hand, was disturbed by the way the film de-emphasized white racism and portrayed Japanese Americans in the riot scenes as rabble rousers. Embrey believed “their main concern was to get it on television as a commercial enterprise.” In fact, Jeanne Houston admitted that the film “implicitly acknowledged white racism,” because “only in that way are you successful in both holding and educating the audience about the injustices.”  The most vocal opponent of the film was writer and critic Frank Chin. After playing a minor acting role in the movie, Chin requested the removal of his name from the list of credits and gave Korty a two-and-one-half-page letter denouncing the film as “the most despicable self-righteous white racist vision of Japanese Americans in American film.”  Chin then attacked the movie in a series of articles that appeared in the ethnic press. In one article he declared he had broken off his friendship with the Houstons, saying, “I don’t want to be the friend of anyone who willfully destroys their history and culture for a night on NBC prime time.”  In another he declared, “Farewell to Manzanar is the only movie or TV film to remove awareness of white racism” . . . “from the minds of Japanese Americans and Japanese American history and life in the camps,” and the “first to go below the standards of decency set by Go For Broke! twenty four years ago.”  Go for Broke! may have ignored the history of resistance in the camps, but Farewell to Manzanar presented the resisters in a negative light. Outraged by the film’s “implicit” discussion of racism and “explicit” criticism of resistance, Chin declared it was “less honest about white racism and the Japanese lockup in concentration camps” than notoriously racist films like The Purple Heart and Escape from Manzanar, both from 1945. Frank Chin accused the Houstons of “selling out” the Japanese American community by perpetuating images of Japanese Americans striving for assimilation and demonstrating loyalty through military service. Chin and other activists wanted to promote accounts that questioned the very meaning of assimilation and patriotism. In the mid-1970s, Chin and other Asian American authors rediscovered John Okada’s No-No Boy, a novel about camp resistance and a community torn apart by internment. The group was impressed by the book’s portrayal of a postwar Seattle community “full of pain, depression, suicide, anger, bitterness, and guilt.” Chin and the others pooled their resources together in the Combined Asian American Resources Project and reprinted the novel in 1976. Activists like Chin em-

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braced the book because Okada did not present docile or successful model minorities. Okada’s characters were anguished, self-loathing, and, in some cases, insane. Published in 1957, the book initially failed to sell out an edition of 1,500 copies. “Japanese Americans who were aware of No-No Boy,” Gordon Hirabayashi explained, “seemed to be embarrassed by its appearance and tended vigorously to reject it.” Twenty years later, however, the reissued book sold out two printings of three thousand copies each and became a standard offering in Asian American Studies courses. The Houstons were subjected to such harsh criticism because their book and film were released at a time when Nisei and Sansei radicals were trying to publicize accounts of internee anger and resistance to combat the model minority image. These activists condemned the Houstons because they felt they had bolstered this image and misrepresented the history of racism and internee protest. The fact that the book and film were popular and praised by conservative politicians, such as Republican S. I. Hayakawa, only compounded the crime in the eyes of activists like Chin. The Houstons responded to the attacks by urging people to remember “it is a drama, not a documentary, and that it is not intended to be the story of every Japanese American family.” Affirming that “there are many more and many different kinds of stories to be told before the full meaning of the internment years is brought to light,” they hoped “this film will lead to other accounts from that crucial era of our common past.”  Many viewers who had been interned also defended the film. Karl and Elaine Yoneda felt it was “worth seeing” but wished Korty had taken some of their suggestions to show a “Jap Hunting License” poster or anti-Japanese press headlines, and to show the riot was the result of the “cunning manipulation” of “a handful of ready-to-die-for Emperor fanatics.” The Yonedas maintained that the movie “brought tears and anger to former concentration camp residents in spite of the errors and omissions.” They felt the “blanket denunciations [of the film] insult the many participants who believe it brings out some of the Evacuation story.” They hoped that the movie’s ten million viewers “will want to learn more about this shameful period of U.S. history.”  Paul Shinkawa felt it was ridiculous to expect the Wakatsuki family to “be either definitive or average.”  George Yasukochi argued that no “one documentary, even of War and Peace length, could present the real story of Evacuation and camp life” and thought the fact that it was shown was a positive step. Watching the film brought back memories to Sachi Seko, who found herself thinking, “I knew someone just like that.” Whereas Seko

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also wished the film had discussed the causes of internment, she appreciated the poetic presentation of the psychological effect of internment: One sensed the bleakness of the evacuees and saw it repeated in the creative set reproduction of Manzanar. One could not help but respond to the totality of emotions. We were spun through that cataclysm of anger to acquiescence, of sorrow to shame.

The Houstons’ supporters felt they helped Japanese Americans confront buried memories of internment. Community activists had clamored for a discussion of internment, and the Houstons had presented the experience before millions of readers and viewers. People who had never heard of the camps before could see how a family had suffered behind barbed wire. The very fact that it was shown on network TV and received such acclaim indicated that the public was receptive to hearing about internment experiences. Moreover, the Houstons hoped that former internees struggling with identity problems and repressed memory would gain inspiration from their film counterparts. In public appearances, the Houstons discussed how Jeanne remained “imprisoned” in Manzanar long after she left the camp. They described how recognizing that Manzanar had produced a “mentality” of shame and guilt liberated Jeanne from feelings of inferiority. Noting the therapeutic effects of dealing with these memories and writing about the experience, the Houstons encouraged other Japanese Americans to share their recollections with the public. The Houstons had never set out to write a history of internment. They thought they had avoided politics by not addressing the causes of internment. But this omission was seen by some community activists as a political betrayal because these activists wanted Americans to understand a very different history. They wanted to show a history in which virulent antiJapanese and anti-Asian sentiment preceded internment so that no Americans would think the decision was the product of war hysteria. They wanted to celebrate resisters who refuted the model minority image and provided models for contemporary activism. The Houstons insisted this was simply the story of one family, but these critics worried that many readers and viewers would see the experiences of the Wakatsuki family as representative of the entire community. The response of mainstream critics legitimated these concerns. The controversy over Farewell to Manzanar foreshadowed the turmoil surrounding books by Maxine Hong Kingston, Amy Tan, and Lois-Ann

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Yamanaka. Critics of these authors argued that Asian American writers had a duty to challenge racist stereotypes. Noting that the public often failed to recognize distinctions between fiction, personal memoir, and community history, these critics insisted that all Asian American writers had a responsibility to promote accurate histories that would help communities combat racism. Of course, defenders argued for artistic freedom. What’s more, they condemned the critics for reinforcing stereotypes. Critics gave the impression that minority writers were incapable of writing anything but a factual account of an entire community’s experiences. Accusing these critics of promoting censorship, the defenders argued that the best way to combat racism was to encourage diverse publications and perspectives. During the 1960s and 1970s, Japanese Americans began to urge all former internees to share their memories of internment with the public. A few Nisei responded to these calls and began recounting their wartime experiences. But when there were so few accounts presented to the public, activists worried that the depictions of Japanese Americans in Nisei: The Quiet Americans and Farewell to Manzanar would define popular perceptions of the community’s history. Farewell to Manzanar may not have set out to tell the “story of a people,” but critics argued that the Houstons should have anticipated the book would be interpreted in this way. Critics such as Raymond Okamura declared that the fact that the drama was “absorbing, the acting heartrending, and the scenes are near-perfect recreations of the World War II concentration camps” made the film more dangerous. Using “teary sentimentality combined with strong drama,” the film, like Korty’s earlier production The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, “show minorities overcoming injustices through patience and forbearance.” Consequently, Okamura concluded that viewers “are taken back in history, treated to two hours of emotion-draining euphoria, and released feeling good about themselves and America.” He criticized the film on five major points: (1) It uses the unique story of one untypical family to distort the common experience and history of Japanese Americans; (2) it denies the role of white racism and absolves white Americans of accountability; (3) it destroys Japanese Americans as a people by robbing them of humanity, pride, language, and names; (4) it stifles legitimate protest and generates submissive behavior by minorities; (5) it protects the American egalitarian myth and thereby promotes white supremacy.

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Okamura charged the film with hiding “the sober, calculated, deliberate, and organized use of the war as a convenient pretext to accomplish the longdesired goals of white supremacists.” White racism was masked “through the techniques of unseen radio announcers and second-person discussions.” White persons in authority, such as the camp commander, were portrayed sympathetically, and even the soldiers who shot two demonstrators were “shown horrified at their own misdeed, and are thus instantly pardoned.” The film therefore instilled “respect, trust, and gratitude for white authority.” Okamura denounced the movie for portraying “people with legitimate grievances” as “malcontents and hoodlums who go around in gangs beating up people.” According to Okamura, “Farewell to Manzanar favors the collaborators by making their speeches sound more reasonable, and honors the shikataganai [‘it can’t be helped’] ethic by making inaction seem noble.” The “haunting afterimage” left by the film “is that of a Japanese American obediently kowtowing at the feet of the great white benevolent fatherprotector, and being told kindly to have patience, keep faith in America, and everything will turn out happy at the end.”  Okamura’s anger undoubtedly reflected the fact that he had spent many years trying to dismantle this image. During the 1970s, he had urged Japanese Americans to denounce past and present racism in America. Okamura had tried to promote revisionist scholarship that challenged the images presented by the WRA, the JACL, the social scientists in the camps, as well as Bill Hosokawa and the Houstons. His review of Farewell to Manzanar footnoted a book by Roger Daniels, University of Cincinnati historian, on the history of the prewar anti-Japanese movement. His review also cited an article on the Manzanar Riot by Arthur A. Hansen and David A. Hacker that sympathetically presented resisters’ criticisms of the JACL and Americanization programs. Okamura and a growing number of community activists believed such scholarship could help mobilize Japanese Americans in political campaigns to fight racism and assimilation. They praised studies that denounced American racism, documented oppressive camp policies, and recovered a history of resistance within the camps. They publicized these histories of America’s concentration camps during grassroots campaigns, as they tried to establish a new image of Japanese Americans who confronted the government and demanded political change.

six

America’s “Concentration Camps” Revisionist Histories and Activism in the 1960s and 1970s

In 1976 Raymond Okamura took to task the then-existing literature on the history of internment. He published a bibliographic essay entitled “The Concentration Camp Experience from a Japanese American Perspective.” It appeared in Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, an anthology that became a vital resource for Asian American Studies courses. “Most prior books,” Okamura declared, “were reiterations” of the WRA’s “conceptual framework” that “the camps made the best of a bad situation.” Okamura recounted how the WRA had “controlled the written record within the camps” and that “WRA-affiliated scholars gathered the basic data which formed the basis for all subsequent works.” He also criticized the studies by the wartime “white sociologists and anthropologists” because “no matter how well intentioned, the presence of non-prisoner scholars in a prison camp environment conjured tacky questions about the purposes for the research.” Okamura charged that histories of the Japanese American Citizens League, such as Bill Hosokawa’s Nisei: The Quiet Americans, “glorified submissive behavior and promoted the ‘success story’ myth.” These “‘success story’ books,” Okamura believed, “were a disservice to the aspirations of other minorities.” He acknowledged scholars like Roger Daniels, who examined the role of racism against Asians in the decision to intern Japanese Americans, as well as oral historians like Arthur A. Hansen and Betty E. Mitson, who collected personal recollections that “by-passed the dependence on WRA documents.” Nevertheless, Okamura had greater praise for the publication of Years of Infamy: The Untold Story of America’s Concentration Camps by former internee Michi Weglyn as a “major breakthrough 232

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for the telling of Japanese American history from a Japanese American perspective.” Other scholars challenged Weglyn’s claims that her book provided an untold story, but Okamura felt the subtitle was warranted. Okamura knew that there were several revisionist scholars before Weglyn who had challenged the portrayals by the WRA, JACL, and wartime social scientists of internment. In fact, two other essays by Okamura that cited this alternative scholarship appeared in Counterpoint. These revisionist scholars had emphasized a history of racism, protest, and suffering that attacked WRA accounts of a benign evacuation. They likewise assailed JACL depictions of patriotic internees and social scientists’ images of assimilated and recovered internees. Okamura had used evidence from these accounts of oppressive “concentration camps” and militant resistance in Japanese American political campaigns in an effort to spur Japanese Americans to action. But he realized that as a former internee, Weglyn might be better able to influence other former internees who were not familiar with this research. Celebrating Weglyn’s approach for providing the “viewpoint of an outraged victim,” Okamura hoped that “many others will follow.”  Okamura knew that historical research could have a powerful impact on political activism within the Japanese American community. A chemist by profession, he ultimately became a self-trained expert on internment scholarship and an influential political activist. He promoted revisionist interpretations during several successful political drives. These included the repeal of a law that permitted the creation of detention camps for political dissidents, the designation of former internment sites as “concentration camps,” and the obtaining of a pardon for Iva Toguri, famously dubbed “Tokyo Rose,” who was convicted of treason for her Radio Tokyo broadcasts. These successful campaigns during the late 1960s and early 1970s demonstrated that presenting revisionist or radical histories of racism and government mistreatment could mobilize outraged victims in a grassroots struggle. The campaigns for the pardoning of Toguri and for the repeal of Title II, a Cold War law allowing mass incarceration in a national emergency, however, also illustrated the enduring influence of the more conservative interpretations of internment that revisionists had challenged. Even Okamura recognized that promoting different histories before the Japanese American community and the national government could prove vital for political change. In other words, political activism during this period often ben-

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efited from a strategic convergence of radical and conservative historical representations. Radical activists like Okamura were able to marshal enough grassroots support within the Japanese American community to convince more conservative organizations, like the JACL, to take up these battles in Washington. As JACL lobbyists assumed control over the struggle, however, they emphasized a history of loyalty and patriotism to gain the backing of the general public and politicians. Ironically, crusades first inspired by indignation at a history of government oppression ultimately triumphed by praising a history of American Democracy.

“Concentration Camp” Scholarship Okamura was not the only Japanese American activist who hoped more former internees would embrace revisionist interpretations of the camp experience. In 1974 Edison Uno urged JACL members to recognize that Japanese Americans had been confined in concentration camps. Uno tried to persuade former internees that the term was not simply invented by radical Japanese American activists. He therefore presented extensive evidence that the camps had been called concentration camps by non–Japanese Americans during and after the war. Upon reprinting eighteen quotations by wartime “government officials, military leaders, politicians, and writers” who used the term, Uno noted that “non–Japanese American authors” had published books recently that employed it as well. There was Allan R. Bosworth’s America’s Concentration Camps and Roger Daniels’s Concentration Camps USA. Footnoting these references, Uno tried to convey the scope of this evidence. Further, he wondered why many Japanese Americans continued to use the euphemisms evacuation and relocation. He concluded that former internees “who have strong objections to the current use of the term ‘concentration camps’ are probably reacting from a deep sense of guilt or shame.” Uno described how he and Ray Okamura, as cochairs of the Title II repeal effort, had “attempted to educate our community and the public as to the real reasons for our internment.” Exhorting Japanese Americans to speak out against the racism that produced the incarceration, Uno maintained, a “concentration camp is a concentration camp is a concentration camp.”  Activists like Okamura and Uno promoted revisionist scholarship as to the causes and consequences of internment. These studies reflected the

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perspectives of researchers who were intellectually and politically shaped by the social movements of the 1960s. Critical of racial segregation and suspicious of governmental abuse of power, many of these scholars had been civil rights activists and antiwar demonstrators. Their research thoroughly discredited the myth of military necessity and documented the racism, war hysteria, and political expediency that shaped the development and implementation of internment policies. Challenging earlier depictions of internment as a wartime mistake, they emphasized the oppressive nature of the camps by calling them concentration camps. These researchers also criticized earlier accounts of internee responses to mass incarceration. Instead of celebrating cooperative internees for demonstrating their loyalty, they praised internees who protested against the government. Earlier studies presented resistance as an aberration or an unfortunate result of internment. The WRA and the JACL tried to minimize and hide a history of protest in the camps. Studies by wartime social scientists acknowledged conflict within the camps but tended to portray resistance as the product of internee misunderstanding. Revisionist researchers, on the other hand, argued that protest was not a “tragic” response by a few internees but a legitimate and widespread reaction to mass incarceration. Documenting a history of draft resistance, demonstrations by “No-No’s,” and the rejection of WRA Americanization programs, they hailed internees who protested the injustice of internment and proclaimed pride in their Japanese heritage. Revisionist researchers had very different assumptions about the meaning of democracy, patriotism, assimilation, and racism in the context of history. Internment was not just a single misstep on the path toward a glorious democracy. The wartime mass incarceration was one of many examples of government oppression before and after World War II. Japanese Americans were not victims of hysterical fears generated by the attack on Pearl Harbor. Internment was caused by a long history of white supremacy and racism toward Asians. Heroic soldiers were not the only patriots who deserved recognition. Internees who defended their citizenship rights and refused to serve in the military while their families were behind barbed wire displayed an equally patriotic commitment to the Constitution. Internees who refused to comply with WRA assimilation programs had fought for and preserved a vibrant culture. Therefore, the history of internment was not marked by a triumphant march toward progress but a reckoning of the country’s failures.

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The pioneering scholarship of Roger Daniels, a University of Cincinnati historian, reflected these views. After serving in the merchant marine during World War II, Daniels found employment with the Congress of Industrial Organizations, and on weekends worked at the San Francisco docks with the International Longshoremen’s and Warehousemen’s Union. He enrolled at the University of Houston in 1950. While there, he tried to facilitate exchanges between his white classmates and African American students at Texas Southern University. He knew he wanted to study racism when he entered the graduate history program at the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). His dissertation was published in 1962 as The Politics of Prejudice: The Anti-Japanese Movement in California and the Struggle for Japanese Exclusion. Tracing the role of labor unions, progressives, and other “groups supposedly dedicated to democracy” in the campaign to end Japanese immigration, Daniels drew attention to “the antidemocratic threads that make up a goodly part of the fabric of our national heritage.”  Daniels then investigated the “antidemocratic threads” that caused internment, in Concentration Camps USA: Japanese Americans and World War II. Conducting research on government documents in this era before the 1976 Freedom of Information Act could be daunting. Daniels nevertheless found ways to get around restrictions on classified documents. A supportive archivist allowed him to examine FBI documents. After trying to memorize as much of the documents as he could, Daniels would sneak to the bathroom to take notes on the material. Also, Daniels received invaluable help from Dr. Stetson Conn, the chief military historian of the United States Army. Conn had published a 1964 study showing that the military did not view internment as a military necessity. Conn gave Daniels access to his personal notes that cited material no longer available at the National Archives. He also made sure that Daniels saw his underlined notes of recorded phone conversations that documented the influence of Major General Allen W. Gullion, his assistant Karl Bendetsen, and Assistant Secretary of War John J. McCloy in convincing DeWitt and the civilian heads of the War Department to support plans for mass removal. This evidence helped Daniels demonstrate that Executive Order 9066 was the product of racism, paranoia, and the abuse of power by civilians who controlled the army. For example, after recounting how Attorney General Francis Biddle objected to mass removal, Daniels quoted McCloy’s response that the “Constitution is just a scrap of paper to me.” 

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The tone of Concentration Camps USA was not one of sadness or regret. Daniels clearly conveyed his outrage at the injustice of internment. In his book he agreed with Morton Grodzins when he wrote: the “precedent and constitutional sanctity for a policy of mass incarceration under military auspices . . . betrayed all Americans.” Daniels disagreed with “the general tendency of educated Americans,” including historians, “to write the evacuation off as a ‘wartime mistake.’” He proclaimed: Rather than a mistake—which, according to the dictionary is “an error in action, calculation, opinion or judgment caused by poor reasoning, carelessness, insufficient information . . . a misunderstanding or misconception”—the legal atrocity which was committed against the Japanese Americans was the logical outgrowth of over three centuries of American experience, an experience which taught Americans to regard the United States as a white man’s country in which nonwhites “had no rights which the white man was bound to respect.”

Daniels ended his statement with the infamous quote from Chief Justice Roger B. Taney’s 1857 Dred Scott v. Sanford decision. Daniels pointed out that the chief justice’s sentiment “was merely echoed by the United States Supreme Court during World War II.” Mass incarceration “not only betrayed all Americans, but grew directly out of the American experience,” and it “reflected one of the central themes of American history—the theme of white supremacy, of American racism.”  Daniels also explained why he believed the camps deserved to be called concentration camps even though the camps “were not generally brutal.” He acknowledged that “there were no torture chambers, firing squads, or gas ovens waiting for the evacuated people,” and he agreed that the “American concentration camps should not be compared, in that sense, to Auschwitz or Vorkuta.” He declared that the camps “were, in fact, much more like a century-old American institution, the Indian reservation, than like the institutions that flourished in totalitarian Europe.” Nevertheless, Daniels pointedly noted that they were “places of confinement ringed with barbed wire and armed sentries.”  Daniels agreed that internees were never subjected to systematic execution; however, he described how several internees were shot and killed by “trigger happy” guards. Even though many in the public equated this term with the Nazi death camps, Daniels insisted on using the controversial label. Ironically, Stetson Conn, who had been so supportive of Daniels’s research, criticized Daniels’s

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use of the term in a review in the Pacific Historical Review. Although he praised Daniels’s analysis, Conn accused him of going “too far in suggesting a likeness between the American treatment of the Japanese and the German enslavement and annihilation of whole peoples.”  Daniels replied that Conn was chiding him for a view he had “specifically repudiated” within the text of his book. Rejecting arguments that use of the term necessarily evoked images of German extermination camps, Daniels noted that both Roosevelt and Justice Owen J. Roberts referred to the Japanese American “concentration camps.” He explained that because the American “concentration camps” had confined individuals without charge or trial, simply on the basis of ancestry, they had fulfilled the definition established by the British during the Boer War. He used the terms assembly center and relocation center when the context demanded it; however, Daniels maintains to this day that the camps that incarcerated Japanese Americans should be called concentration camps. By altering views of the causes of the incarceration, Daniels’s history of America’s concentration camps encouraged some Japanese Americans to confront their memories of the war. Instead of blaming themselves for the incarceration, former internees could now cite a wealth of evidence indicting the racism of the architects of internment. Daniels also got out his message by sharing his research with the community. His friendship with sociologist Harry H. L. Kitano helped Daniels reach Japanese Americans directly. Kitano, a professor at UCLA, published in 1969 the influential study Japanese Americans: The Evolution of a Subculture. The book’s discussion of internment, and its resultant silence and shame, stimulated discussions about the impact of internment on Japanese American culture. A respected member of the Japanese American community, Kitano served as a mediator between conservative leaders within the JACL and radical students in campus organizations. Kitano and Daniels tried to stimulate discussion of the internment years before students began demanding historical information. At UCLA in 1967, the two sponsored the first academic conference on the causes and consequences of internment. Some Japanese American leaders in the community opposed the conference because they did not want to revive the past or stir up bad feelings about the war. But other Japanese Americans wanted to discuss the injustice and found Daniels’s research helped them shift responsibility for internment from themselves to the government. Ivy Makabe Down, a sociology instructor

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at a junior college, wrote a letter to the Pacific Citizen that described how Daniels indicted internment as “a betrayal of all Americans.” Down urged Japanese Americans to recognize “there is no reason for most people to feel any sense of guilt for the Evacuation” and to “understand that it was a logical culmination of many years of anti-Asian agitation.”  This realization helped Sue Kunitomi Embrey come to terms with her painful past: I began to see that internment was not just an isolated case . . . I realized that the evacuation was only part of what had been happening to the Asian immigrant. So I could put it in better perspective, not blow it out of shape, see it as part of a continuum . . . I think once the Nisei realize that there are these things that are done to people, and that it’s all due to racism, then I think they can go on from there . . . I think once you face it, know it’s there, possibly find ways and tools of coping with it, I think then you can let go of the past.

Empowered by this knowledge, Embrey became a community activist, a cochair of the Manzanar Pilgrimage, and a fervent advocate of this new concentration camp scholarship. Hoping to disseminate this information to the Japanese American community, Embrey prepared a pamphlet in 1972 entitled The Lost Years, 1942–46. It served to summarize the research conducted by Roger Daniels and other critics of internment. In his criticisms of internment, Daniels also took to task accounts that stressed “the cooperation and compliance of the inmates, thus perpetuating the basic line of both the WRA and the JACL.” Acknowledging that there was “little spectacular, violent resistance,” Daniels noted that “from the very beginning of their confinement, the evacuated people were in conflict, both with their keepers and with each other.” Drawing on research he conducted with Douglas W. Nelson, one of his graduate students, Daniels recounted conflict within the internee community at Heart Mountain in Wyoming. He described a “division between those who insisted on the immediate restoration of their rights—what one might call the ‘left opposition’—and those who took the WRA–JACL line of accommodation to ‘military necessity.’ ” Daniels explained that he used the term “left opposition” not to denote a Marxist viewpoint “but to differentiate them from what I call the ‘right opposition,’ those who for one reason or another rejected America and professed Japanese ideals.”  After describing the draft resistance at Heart Mountain, Daniels declared that this example

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of the “left opposition . . . calls into question the stereotype of the Japanese American victim of oppression during World War II who met his fate with stoic resignation and responded only with superpatriotism.” Moreover, Daniels noted that the history of resistance “has been almost totally ignored and in some instances deliberately suppressed by chroniclers of Japanese Americans.” The domination of the JACL–WRA view in these accounts, according to Daniels, illustrated “E. H. Carr’s dictum that history is written by the winners.” Explaining that some authors “have either consciously underplayed it or suppressed it completely, hoping thereby, in their view at least, to manage and improve the image of an oppressed people,” Daniels proclaimed that some individuals “will find more heroism in resistance than in patient resignation.” 

Histories of Resistance Other revisionist scholars explored this heroic resistance in more detail and praised the group Daniels had called the “right opposition” for their protests against the government. Scholars Gary Okihiro as well as Arthur A. Hansen and David A. Hacker denounced earlier depictions of resistance as merely random “incidents” by small groups of agitators. They argued that opposition was widespread and continuous within the camps, and they criticized earlier accounts for ignoring or condemning this resistance. Their interpretations reflected the impact of the turmoil of the 1960s, when more Americans viewed protest as a legitimate, even necessary, response to injustice. They were part of a new generation of scholars that was determined to “decolonize the writing of the past” by restoring the voices and experiences of oppressed peoples to the historical record. Scholars such as Gary Y. Okihiro were profoundly influenced by the social movements of the 1960s. A conscientious objector, Okihiro served three years in the Peace Corps to avoid facing the Vietnam draft. In the early 1970s he went to graduate school at UCLA and helped develop Asian American studies on campus. In 1972 he made a personal pilgrimage to the Manzanar site and was moved by the “silences of the past.” Inspired to restore Japanese American stories to the pages of history, Okihiro wrote an article that reinterpreted camp records produced by the WRA and JERS. In the piece, he tried to destroy the “myth of the loyal and subject victim.”

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This article did not appear in a traditional American history journal. Okihiro and Hansen and Hacker all discovered that established “American” history journals were not interested in publishing accounts of Japanese American resistance. In the 1990s they would publish their research in the Journal of American History and be invited to speak before the Organization of American Historians. But in the 1970s this research was not yet accepted outside community journals. They were, however, able to publish their findings in the Amerasia Journal, which had been founded by Asian American scholars–activists and was committed to disseminating research to academics and members of the Asian American community. Okihiro declared himself a “revisionist historian” who regarded the “concentration camps as the culmination of nearly a century of anti-Asian agitation and racial discrimination in America, the essential thrust of which was exclusionism and cultural hegemony.” Revisionist historians, Okihiro explained, “linked resistance in camp with pre-war resistance and the “struggle to survive in a racist American West.” Internment, according to these historians, was “not so much a moral lesson to White America as it is a part of the history of Asians in America.” Emphasizing historical continuity, said Okihiro, they rejected attempts to treat “resistance in terms of unconnected ‘incidents,’ minority ‘troublemakers’ and ‘pressure groups.’”  In the late 1990s Okihiro acknowledged that there were many different kinds of experiences and points of view in camp. But seeing history as a dialectic, he still felt the revisionists had played a significant role in challenging the assumptions of earlier histories of internment. He felt it was important to “state a position strongly” before refining and adding layers of complexity. Okihiro’s article “Japanese Resistance in America’s Concentration Camps: A Re-evaluation” appeared in the Amerasia Journal in 1973. It provided a celebration of camp resistance. In the article, Okihiro criticized earlier depictions of internees as “downtrodden victims of a racist America gone hysterical, as hopelessly impotent and retiring yet ultimately rising up from the dust of defeat to patriotic triumph when given the opportunity to prove their basic loyalty.” According to Okihiro, these “ liberalhumanitarian” interpretations provided two explanations for resistance within camp. Writers subscribing to the “pressure–release theory” portrayed resistance as “inevitable due to the pressures exerted on the Japanese internees, as part of the camps’ frustration syndrome and as constructive to the community as a whole by regaining its stability through the act of tension

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release.” The second interpretation, which Okihiro dubbed “the ‘pro-Fascist’ troublemaking minority explanation,” tended to target “personalities as the cause for spreading discontent and engaging in resistance activities rather than on social forces.” Identifying the Kibei as “malcontents,” this perspective presented resistance “as a minority response, sporadic, and therefore unimportant.”  Okihiro advocated an alternative framework based on the historiography of colonialism in Africa and slavery in America. These “revisionist histories” emphasized “the continuity of African and slave societies, their resiliency and vitality despite European colonialism and white overrule.” Okihiro endorsed the assumption of these histories, “that societies tend to resist externally imposed change in their institutions, that these acts of resistance are continuous and that they are effective.” Okihiro then used this point of view to reinterpret resistance at Poston and Manzanar. He challenged WRA depictions of the pressure–release theory, which characterized the 1942 strike at Poston as an “incident” that “provided a healthy release for pent-up emotions” and allowed the camp to emerge “as a stronger and more stable community.” Okihiro disagreed with the tendency to contrast “responsible” protest at Poston with “irresponsible” protest at Manzanar. His alternative “model of resistance” declared that in both cases there was an “underlayer of resistance potential, . . . community mobilization and articulation of demands,” and a crisis. The difference, according to Okihiro, lay in the administration’s response to each crisis. The Poston administration compromised and the majority of resisters obtained an “acceptable modus vivendi.” “Administration intransigence” at Manzanar led to continued open defiance and “the redirection of resistance into new forms which would be para-administration.” Okihiro argued that this rechanneled resistance, although complex and difficult to identify, was widespread and included resistance to Americanization programs and the “proliferation of Japanese cultural societies and clubs and sports organizations” that followed traditional forms of protest. In fact, Okihiro suggested that the “true nature of Japanese resistance to white control” went beyond “the visible forms of resistance,” such as the “occasional petition, strike, or riot,” and was embodied by “the persistence of the traditional matrices of Japanese institutions, values, and relationships.” He maintained that such resistance to assimilation provided the “real history of the Japanese reaction to imprisonment and colonization in America’s concentration camps.”  In a later article, Okihiro argued that resistance was often “rechanneled away

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from open rebellion into ethnic beliefs and practices” embodied by “the ethnic church, language schools, and even unofficial ‘unions’ that upheld Japanese traditional values of filial piety, the primacy of the family, and ethnic solidarity.”  Arthur A. Hansen and David A. Hacker analyzed how ethnicity influenced open rebellion and provided a “perspectivist” interpretation of the Manzanar Riot in the 1974 article “The Manzanar Riot: An Ethnic Perspective.” The perspectivist approach abandoned the quest for objective history and recognized that the “historian’s mind is grounded ineluctably in experience” and “observes through selected frames of reference.” The authors deliberately avoided any attempt, in their discussion of the riot, to evaluate the conflicting, even contradictory, accounts of whether Harry Ueno beat Fred Tayama, or why the military police fired upon the crowd. Hansen and Hacker focused on comparing different perspectives of the event. They criticized the “WRA–JACL perspective” for trivializing the event’s cultural significance and presuming that “the American past made sense only if read as a triumphant progression toward the fulfillment of the nation’s democratic potential.” The WRA, “like all good bureaucrats,” called the event an “incident” to protect its image and its presentation of Manzanar as a “‘model’ American community.” The JACL endorsed this presentation, according to Hansen and Hacker, because the league viewed internment as “an opportunity to prove their loyalty, thereby paving the way for the enjoyment of democratic liberties in the postwar world.” Although later writers did not act as apologists for the mass incarceration, they were, however, “obeisant to the entrenched WRA–JACL notion that the riot was inspired by dark, anti-democratic elements.” Also subscribing to a progressive view of history, these writers were preoccupied with constructing a “heroic portrait” of internees’ “unstinting allegiance to the war effort at home and abroad.” They therefore presented resistance as “highly atypical episodes or situations provoked by a handful of subversives.”  Promoting an “ethnic perspective,” Hansen and Hacker focused on the riot’s “cultural meaning” within the Japanese American community. They challenged the portrayal of the Nisei as “thoroughly Americanized” and argued that the riot was a response to WRA–JACL attempts to replace Issei leadership and eliminate Japanese cultural values. According to Hansen and Hacker, the riot reflected protesters’ anger over a WRA policy requiring English be spoken at camp meetings. The riot prompted calls for Japanese

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solidarity embodied by proclamations of the Yamato Damashii (“Japanese spirit”): Finally, the behavior of the crowd at the evening gathering before the camp jail prior to the shooting—heckling at the military police, speaking almost exclusively in Japanese, and singing the Japanese national anthem and other Japanese songs—is culturally revealing. For the internees, the jailing of Ueno became a rallying point for their willingness to resist those (like the WRA, the JACL, and the military police) who appeared to threaten their cultural heritage and identity.

The “entire community,” according to Hansen and Hacker, “served notice that their determination and ethnic identity would not be relinquished without a struggle” and eventually transformed Manzanar into a “Little Tokyo of the desert where, as in prewar days, the most salient community characteristics were group solidarity and the predominance of elements of Japanese culture.” 

Michi Weglyn’s Years of Infamy Revisionist scholarship by Daniels, Okihiro, and Hansen and Hacker influenced Nisei activists like Ray Okamura, Edison Uno, and Sue Kunitomi Embrey. Sansei activists who explored their research in Asian America studies classes were also affected. But the first work to reach a broad audience among former internees was Michi Weglyn’s Years of Infamy: The Untold Story of America’s Concentration Camps. Many Japanese Americans, who never thought of studying the history of internment, read Years of Infamy after learning it was written by a former internee with no formal training in historical research. In the preface, Weglyn explained her motivations for writing the book. As a teenager, she had trusted Roosevelt’s rationale that internment was in the best interest of the country. Like many Japanese Americans, she wanted to prove her loyalty. “Somehow the stain of dishonor we collectively felt for the treachery of Pearl Harbor must be eradicated, however great the sacrifice, however little we were responsible for it,” she wrote. Twenty-five years later, curiosity led her to examine documents at the National Archives. She resolved to write the book when she heard Attorney General Ramsey Clark claim that America never had concentration camps.

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Weglyn spent seven years conducting research at the National Archives, the Library of Congress, and the Pentagon. Sometimes the revelations literally made her sick for days, but she felt she had a responsibility to “those whose honor was so wrongly impugned, many of whom died without vindication.”  Her husband, Walter, a Jew who avoided the Nazi death camps by hiding in eleven different places when he was twelve years old, supported her determination to document the suffering of internees. According to Weglyn, publishers praised her scholarship but refused to publish such a harsh indictment of government leaders. In 1976, however, “the climate had changed with Watergate and the Pentagon papers,” and William Morrow agreed to publish the book. Weglyn’s book gave many Japanese Americans their first exposure to a history of economic competition and racism that fueled the attacks of antiJapanese organizations, journalists, and politicians. Many former internees became angry when they read Weglyn’s account of how the Munson Report, which certified the loyalty of Japanese Americans in Hawaii and on the West Coast, had been suppressed by government officials. Nisei who had wanted to prove themselves to the government were able to denounce the government after reading Weglyn’s argument that the U.S. State Department wanted hostages of Japanese ancestry to serve as a “reprisal reserve” guaranteeing the safety of American prisoners held by Japan. Many Japanese Americans also learned from Weglyn about the plight of more than two thousand Japanese Latin Americans who were living in Central and South America. They were arrested and shipped to the United States, and then incarcerated in Department of Justice internment camps. Weglyn’s book encouraged many Japanese Americans to speak publicly about their experiences in camp. “I don’t think anyone who lived through the ‘camp experience,’” reviewer Mary Karasawa declared, “will be able to finish reading this book without experiencing every range of human emotion—much of which has been lying dormant for the past 30 years . . . You will swear, you will cry, you will feel bitter, but you will surely begin to see the pieces of the puzzle come together.”  Years of Infamy enabled Karasawa “to develop further insight into racism” and “the politics and rationale of expediency in some national decision making.” After finishing the book, Karasawa felt the “need to really talk about it.” Ruby Yoshino Schaar, stalwart of the JACL, expected to dislike the book because she had heard that it criticized the league’s wartime leaders. But two days

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after receiving it, she called Weglyn to tell her that she “couldn’t put it down.” She then sent numerous letters to JACL chapters, media representatives, and friends promoting the book. Academic reviews were mixed. Arthur Hansen felt Years of Infamy “deserves recognition as a work of seminal importance.” Hansen noted that Weglyn’s book was “theoretically and methodologically undistinguished.” Further, he indicated that more fastidious historians would find fault with Weglyn’s “tenuous chronological grounding, dilative use of choice documents, penchant for purple prose” and other problems. Hansen, however, praised Weglyn for sympathetically portraying internee resisters, especially renunciants, who had been ignored or condemned by other authors: Instead of cavalierly dismissing this sector of the internee population as a small, subversive band of pro-Axis troublemakers, Weglyn shows that their number was considerable, their intentions often honorable, their plight representative—in an extreme way—of that of all internees, and their actions consonant with the American tradition of libertarian dissent.

Consequently, Hansen credited Weglyn with vindicating “the honor of many wrongly impugned Japanese Americans,” overcoming “the debilitating effect of her own Americanization,” and forging a “new interpretative framework for the next wave of scholars.”  Gary Okihiro completely disagreed. He called Years of Infamy “nothing more than old wine in new bottles.” He declared, “Its central defect is that its focus of attention is the American government, the military, the WRA administration, and white and JACL civil libertarians, instead of the Japanese themselves.” This was not the “untold story,” Okihiro argued, because others had already documented the myth of military necessity and government duplicity. The real untold story, according to Okihiro, was “the history of the Japanese internees themselves, their innermost aspirations and fears, and their daily struggle for survival.”  Okihiro felt that by emphasizing a “strong sense of community and an optimistic spirit of cooperation in the daily running of the camps,” Weglyn failed to “grasp the underlying causes of Japanese resistance, both at Manzanar and Tule Lake.” Okihiro also attacked Weglyn’s research. He noted that Roger Daniels had “revealed” the Munson report earlier and criticized her for neglecting to mention that “despite [Munson’s] assessment that most of the Japanese were basically loyal, he still feared the fanatical few ‘who will tie dynamite

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around their waists and make a human bomb out of themselves.’” Okihiro declared, “Weglyn’s failure to mention Munson’s fearful admission is irresponsible in the extreme, particularly because her case of ‘government duplicity’ is built on the basis of the Munson report.” He concluded, “This omission lends little support to her credibility as a historian.”  Even though Okihiro still believed Years of Infamy was flawed scholarship, he sent Weglyn a letter in 1989 acknowledging her book’s enormous impact on the Japanese American community. Edison Uno declared the book “a must for every library in the land and must reading for every American.” He insisted, “No other book contributes so many new facts: the shameful conspiracies, the official deceptions and cover-up.” Uno thought the book was “a masterful contribution to the rewriting of that part of our history too long distorted and misrepresented.”  Nisei Paul Tsuneishi thanked the publisher for providing what “most of us within the Japanese American community are finding to be the most meaningful book of the evacuation and internment experience.”  Tsuneishi and William Hohri, a vocal critic of the JACL, praised Weglyn’s discussion of the role of JACL leaders during the war. “One of the things I appreciated most,” explained William Hohri, “was the presentation, without a heavy hand, of the facts about informants and the pragmatism of the JACL on the renunciants.”  Joy Yamauchi, editor of the Tozai Times, recalled the “empowering” effect of the book. People couldn’t believe “that any Nisei, let alone a Nisei woman, could write with such passion and conviction.” She explained: People were amazed that Weglyn, who was not a historian, could write a simple truth in a way that touched all who read it. In essence, Weglyn forced people to re-examine all of camp history. Her painstakingly careful research uncovered government duplicity and propaganda . . . It kicked off discussions and debates, opened up the community and more than a few wounds. It began the healing process for all those touched by the evacuation process.

Weglyn publicly urged former internees “who have lived in shame and silence for many years” to “begin to speak more openly” about the “government’s crimes” . . . “so that it can never happen again.”  During the 1970s and 1980s, increasing numbers of former internees responded to Weglyn’s call and confronted repressed memories of the camp experience. She became known among many Japanese American activists as the “mother of redress.”

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f i g u r e 1 5 . Michi Weglyn at a tribute in Los Angeles in 1998 for her contributions to the Japanese American community. Courtesy of the author.

Activist Kiku Hori Funabiki praised the book for boldly revealing “events which were not widely known to the community.” Researcher Aiko HerzigYoshinaga credited Weglyn with laying “the seeds for the Redress Movement” and being “a catalyst in Japanese Americans looking at themselves and looking at their history.”  In fact, throughout the history of the redress movement, leaders of opposing factions praised Weglyn for inspiring their activism. Even though Weglyn didn’t speak at the 1981 commission hearings, many participants referred to her research when criticizing the rationale for internment. Weglyn also generated discussion of community activism in the 1970s.

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In her epilogue, she reviewed how the model minority image had triggered a “searching self-examination” among the Nisei: Are we “good” in the eyes of whites, they began to ask, merely because we “know our place,” bend over backward not to offend, work hard, and “don’t make waves”? Are we America’s “good niggers”? Some challenged the validity of a “success story” achieved at the price of such rigid conformity and accommodation: one that has stifled spontaneity, stunted and underdeveloped their creativity, undermined a people’s impulse for compassion—such as concern for and involvement in the troubles of other minorities—because of their own need for security.

“Indeed, the more militant, usually younger, Nisei agree,” Weglyn declared, “that it’s high time to get out from under the debilitating ‘quiet American’ if their needs are to be taken seriously.” Weglyn noted that Nisei began to respond to Sansei calls for community discussion of the internment experience. After “the initial pain of wounds reopened,” Weglyn explained, “it was as though a terrible burden had been lifted.” Nisei “began to recognize, however, reluctantly, the merit of the Sansei’s determination that the story be remembered, studied, and talked about so that people will be forever reminded that concentration camps and wholesale contempt for individual rights and lawful procedure are not the exclusive province of corrupt tyrannies and maniacal dictatorships.” 

“Concentration Camps” of the 1960s and the Repeal of Title II Weglyn paid tribute to activists like Raymond Okamura and Edison Uno, who had launched a political campaign in the late 1960s to prevent the revival of concentration camps in America. In the late 1960s there was a genuine fear that the government might imprison without trial other Americans in detention camps. In 1968 Texas Congressman Joe Pool told a Dallas audience worried about disruptive “peaceniks” that “under a declared state of war we could get the Attorney General to prosecute certain people for sedition and treason” and the “Justice Department could move to put them into concentration camps and leave them there for the duration of the war.” Such pronouncements, at a time when many believed protesters and rioters were in fact waging

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war in the streets of America, prompted Look magazine, in the spring of 1968, to do the cover story “America’s Concentration Camps.”  Look senior editor William Hedgepeth wondered whether the government could use Title II, the Cold War law permitting “mass imprisonment” during an “internal security emergency,” against “radical” groups in the late 1960s. Title II of the Internal Security Act of 1950 passed despite a presidential veto. The law granted the attorney general the power to “apprehend” and “detain . . . each person as to whom there is reasonable ground to believe that such person probably will engage in, or probably will conspire with others to engage in acts of espionage or sabotage.”  In 1952 the Department of Justice set up six detention camps, including Tule Lake, for use in an emergency. Funding for these camps continued until 1957, and the law was not repealed until 1971. In his 1968 article Hedgepeth wondered, “Did a swelling preponderance of New Leftists, Old Leftists, hippies, pacifists, protesters and the vocal disgruntled in general” have reason to be “cold-eyed certain that the Federal Government is ready and waiting to clap them into mass detention camps?” Yet even as Hedgepeth discounted militants’ claims that camps had already been prepared, he acknowledged that a “simmering mood of tension and distrust throughout the land” gave these rumors the “ring of potential plausibility.”  City police, Hedgepeth noted, were “now equipping themselves as if they expected to take on the Vietcong.” He recounted a series of telling reactions by a range of individuals: Just six days before he was assassinated, Martin Luther King Jr. expressed fear of a “ghetto perhaps cordoned off into a concentration camp.” The chief counsel for a Senate subcommittee shrugged, “One can always envision the invoking of a statute on the books if the proper conditions arise.” Assistant Attorney General J. Walter Yeagley resented the allegations but also insisted “some provision should be made to detain persons who might be prone to sabotage.” Hedgepeth went on to say that a general in the Pentagon acknowledged the possibility of martial law and mass arrests. He then concluded his article with a federal official imagining out loud just how his staff might “sit down and start working out transfers in a hurry.”  As Look readers contemplated such scenarios, Japanese Americans remembered their own incarceration during World War II. Raymond Okamura hoped Japanese Americans could remind the country that “it had happened here.” For although the Look article mentioned that World War II

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camps provided a “grisly precedent for this type of mass imprisonment,” it said little about this history. However, Okamura had spent the last year mobilizing the JACL in a campaign to publicize the history of internment and denounce Title II. In the summer of 1967, he sent the league a letter declaring that “as the historic victims,” Japanese Americans “have a public duty to prevent a revival of these camps.”  Frustrated by the tepid response from the JACL’s traditional leaders, Okamura and an ad hoc committee resurrected images of internment to convince members to push for a repeal of Title II. Yet once the organization agreed to sponsor the campaign and recount the history of internment, a struggle took place over how that history should be portrayed. League dissidents like Okamura hoped denunciations of internment and a history of racism in America would demolish the image of Japanese Americans as a model minority and align the community with groups protesting against the government. But JACL leaders like Mike Masaoka believed a history of Japanese Americans volunteering from behind barbed wire to fight for American democracy would prove more compelling to his allies in Congress. Ultimately, the campaign to repeal Title II succeeded because each group targeted its history of internment to its own receptive audience. Whereas Okamura and other activists attacked a history of racism to maintain community pressure for the repeal, Masaoka presented accounts of Nisei patriotism and used his political connections to secure the passage of repeal legislation. This strategic convergence of radical and conservative historical representations was critical to the repeal of Title II in 1971. Militant activists who considered themselves JACL “outsiders” initiated calls for the organization to use its resources to rectify a historic injustice. After encountering JACL leaders reluctant to tackle controversial issues, these dissidents marshaled support from league members by publicizing a history of racism and government mistreatment. This demonstration of a commitment at the grassroots level persuaded JACL leaders to take up the campaign in Washington. League lobbyists and Japanese American members of Congress won political support for the campaign by presenting a history of internee loyalty and patriotism. Ironically, JACL’s conservative credentials both delayed the organization’s involvement in the campaign against Title II

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and helped it succeed after numerous radical groups failed to win public or political support. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, condemnations of Title II by left-wing groups generally fell on deaf ears. Then as enthusiasm for McCarthyism waned, the emergency detention camps set up in 1952 fell into disrepair and most people forgot about the law. However, the turmoil of the 1960s rekindled fear of Title II. Rumors that the government was preparing camps for dissidents were fueled by the widespread distribution in 1967 of the sixty-page booklet Concentration Camps, U.S.A. Freelance journalist Charles R. Allen Jr. had been commissioned to write the booklet by the Citizens Committee for Constitutional Liberties, which had been calling for a repeal of Title II since 1961. Allen claimed that before the end of the Korean War in 1953, “the government of the United States was seriously advancing plans to put at least 12,000 ‘Communists’ in detention camps.” The government’s “Operation Dragnet,” according to Allen, now planned to imprison peace demonstrators, civil rights activists, and ghetto rioters as Communist “insurrectionaries” bent on overthrowing the government. As evidence that mass incarceration was imminent, Allen claimed the Internal Security Division of the Department of Justice had already printed one million formal detention warrants. Even though Allen’s booklet never documented these charges, it validated the worst fears of militants all too familiar with FBI surveillance and incarceration. Underground newspapers were filled with stories of government concentration camps. The Berkeley Barb even claimed “informed sources” told of a plan for a “round-up of more than 35,000 ‘radicals and hippies,’” on June 24, 1967, “the day LBJ is scheduled to officially declare war on North Vietnam.”  Black activists Stokely Carmichael and H. Rap Brown gave speeches stressing the connection between the incarceration of “colored” people of Japanese ancestry during World War II and the incarceration of black protesters in the 1960s. Brown warned one all-black audience, “They sure can’t fill up thirteen camps with Stokely and me . . . so who do you think is going to be locked up in those camps?”  Lester McKinnie, chair for the Washington office of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), showed a journalist a thick “report on where all the camps are.”  After listing the names of twelve facilities, the Black Panther Party newsletter alerted readers that a camp “may be your home tomorrow or it may be your

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place of burial the day after.” Those who were “brainwashed” and didn’t embrace armed self-defense for survival in “fascist U.S.A.” would find Tule Lake “waiting for you.” They could then follow in the footsteps of the Japanese Americans who in 1946 “fled the barbed wire and clapboard GI barracks like the wretched internees they were.” 

Raymond Okamura’s Crusade Most of the mainstream media portrayed these rumors of concentration camps as rampant but unwarranted. Raymond Okamura, however, was more inclined to believe the critics of Title II. After being interned at Gila River, Okamura didn’t trust government officials who claimed that such camps were inconceivable. Moreover, he believed Japanese Americans, as the “passive beneficiaries of the Black civil rights movement,” needed “to assume the leadership in order to promote Third World Unity.” By fighting for a repeal of Title II, Japanese Americans could align themselves with groups like the SNCC, which protested against injustice. After failing to get Bill Hosokawa to change the title of his book Nisei: The Quiet Americans, Okamura hoped the repeal campaign would replace this image of his generation with an image of angry victims fighting government oppression. The repeal effort also would provide Nisei an opportunity to demonstrate solidarity with militant Sansei students. Okamura admired the goals and methods of students in the Third World Liberation Front at the University of California, Berkeley, and San Francisco State. These young people protested against the Vietnam War and demanded the inclusion of ethnic studies in the curriculum. The Nisei, Okamura believed, needed to emulate the Sansei, who asserted their “ethnic pride,” remembered the history of the camps, resisted the “pressures for assimilation,” and refused to be “subservient to the white man.”  Okamura asked for the JACL’s help despite his never having been a member and the organization’s never having shown interest in becoming embroiled in the turbulent social movements of the 1960s. Okamura knew the league was dominated by Nisei like Mike Masaoka, a former veteran who had spent two decades celebrating Nisei patriotism and American Democracy as he lobbied Capitol Hill. Masaoka had little sympathy for the SNCC, ghetto rioters, or Sansei militants. Yet Okamura recognized

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that the JACL’s conservative credentials also meant the organization was less vulnerable to the attacks that had stymied earlier critics of Title II. The twenty-five thousand members of the JACL could not be dismissed as a group of Commies or paranoid extremists. Repeal activists could make use of an already existing organizational entity. Moreover, the JACL’s national reputation would draw media attention, which would allow repeal activists to “campaign visibly as Japanese Americans.”  So Okamura wrote a letter to JACL headquarters calling for a repeal campaign and declaring all Japanese Americans “should be intimately concerned about the possibility the camps will be used again.” However, Okamura’s letter was more of a challenge than an appeal. He expressed hope that JACL leaders “will not take the attitude ‘It is not meant for us this time so we are not worried.’ ” He also said he realized “the move to repeal the McCarran Act will be embarrassing to the JACL since you so strongly supported the original passage.” Okamura continued, “Many of us argued against the bill because of the dangers to civil rights, but unfortunately you were short-sighted and supported it solely for the Issei naturalization rider.” He concluded by saying he hoped the JACL was “big enough to admit a mistake and work toward a rectification.”  Masaoka took umbrage with Okamura’s indictment of the JACL Isseinaturalization focus. Masaoka had always viewed this campaign as the highlight of his lobbying career and charged Okamura with distorting JACL’s history. He accused Okamura of being “like so many others who do not take the time and trouble to study the facts, yet blame the so-called Walter-McCarran Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952 for all manner of evil and injustice.” He insisted the “record shows that the JACL was among those organizations that opposed the Internal Security Act of 1950, and especially the so-called concentration camp section.” Indeed, the JACL had condemned the passage of Title II in 1950. Masaoka neglected to mention, however, that two years later, as the JACL lobbied for a bill granting Issei the right to apply for citizenship, it did not object to this bill also funding Title II detention camps. But Masaoka felt no need to justify the JACL to an outsider, who “presumed to tell JACL what to do.” Instead he recommended that before dictating policy, Okamura become a member, and then “try to persuade the local chapter, the district council, and the national organization that your suggestion merits serious consideration and should be followed.” 

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Even if Okamura’s letter had been more conciliatory, it’s doubtful JACL leaders like Masaoka and Bill Hosokawa would have been in any way receptive to a cause associated with left-wing organizations, militants, and revolutionaries. “At a time when many Americans were extremely nervous about Communist subversion and disturbed by campus unrest,” Bill Hosokawa would later recall, “repeal of a harsh internal-security measure seemed to be an impossibility.” In his memoirs, Mike Masaoka said that although he agreed the “principle was laudable,” he had “reservations” about “lobbying Congress on such a controversial issue” and felt it “would overextend the limited resources of my office.”  Okamura found members of Congress and the American Civil Liberties Union also unwilling to pursue a repeal. Radical organizations, on the other hand, enthusiastically championed the campaign. The Berkeley Asian American Political Alliance, which included antiwar activists and supporters of the Black Panthers, began distributing Allen’s Concentration Camps, U.S.A., and started a petition drive. But Okamura did not give up on the JACL. He took Masaoka’s advice. He became a member and started organizing an ad hoc committee in the San Francisco Bay Area, with the help of veteran JACL activists like Mary Anna Takagi, Edison Uno, and Chizu Iiyama. Okamura persisted in seeking league support because he sensed it might be possible to bypass Old Guard leaders, like Masaoka and Hosokawa, with direct appeals to more progressive members. He knew that some Nisei and a growing number of Sansei within the organization were tired of JACL banquets and eager for political activism. Throughout the late 1960s, these dissidents challenged Old Guard members, with their emphasis on assimilation, patriotism, and cooperation with the government. These battles within the JACL mirrored leadership struggles in other minority communities between advocates of accommodation to white initiatives and those favoring defiance and resistance. In 1969 Roy Nishikawa, a former national-level league president and board member, gave a chapter installation speech reviewing the internal strife dissidents like Okamura had generated. A self-proclaimed member of “JACL’s Establishment,” Nishikawa acknowledged “more and more members are realizing that JACL has to be more than fancy installation banquets, more than a ‘Whing Ding,’ more than sponsoring a queen candidate, more than a mere social outlet.” He urged members to recognize that a growing number of Nikkei (Japanese descendants) felt the league should

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cultivate a sense of ethnic pride and seek “justice and equal opportunities for all persons.” Nishikawa ended his speech by repeating a warning he made in 1958, that JACL had to “adjust, adapt, and keep up with the times in this dynamic world or it would slowly wither away and die.”  Okamura found many Sansei league members eager to change the organization’s ideology and tactics from the ranks of the District Youth Council. Enlisting the help of these radical JACLers, Okamura and his ad hoc committee persuaded the league’s Northern California–Western Nevada District Council to approve a resolution to spearhead a repeal of Title II. Still, the committee faced resistance from the highest levels of the JACL. After consulting with “various people in government,” league national president Jerry Enomoto urged the committee to give up the battle. He explained that it would “just give the reactionaries and right wingers a real excuse to agitate for even tougher laws against dissenters and activists.” Conscious of JACL leaders’ concern about protecting their public image, the committee used the media to generate support, at the 1968 National Convention, for the repeal campaign. Committee members posted reproductions of the 1942 evacuation order throughout the convention site. When newspapers published pictures of league officers standing next to these orders, the issue could no longer be avoided. The JACL endorsed the resolution, thereby committing itself to the repeal effort.

Conflicting Histories of Internment Once the national JACL joined the repeal fight, there ensued a struggle between the Ad Hoc Anti-Detention Committee and Masaoka and his followers for control over the campaign. After many heated battles, the two sides agreed to focus on different elements of the campaign. The committee would develop a “national public information and education program” while Masaoka directed a “congressional legislative drive.”  But tension never abated as one group disapproved of the other’s tactics and interpretations of the history of internment. Masaoka was not pleased when committee members continued to cultivate radical support for the repeal. Asian American Political Alliance volunteers spent “countless nights and weekends in exhausting work sessions and in going out on speaking engage-

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ments.” Other student groups from the University of California, Davis, and Yale University also helped sponsor petition drives and letter-writing campaigns. Street demonstrations and public forums were sponsored by antiwar organizations like Asian Americans for Action, in New York. Uncomfortable being allied with known agitators, the JACL Old Guard was shocked when Okamura and other Young Turks tried to radicalize the league itself. Kats Kunitsugu recounted, in a guest column for the JACL’s Pacific Citizen, the dismay he and other Nisei felt while attending a meeting on Title II, sponsored by the Asian American Political Alliance (AAPA) at the University of Southern California. It was the first time he had met the more “militant young members of our Japanese community” and “a black representative in person expressing his rage and impatience in his own way—in the language of the gut and gutter.” After expressing “disgust with talking, letter-writing, [and] meetings,” the “black representative” then astounded Kunitsugu by declaring “guns equal power, and power was the only talk the white establishment understood.”  Stunned, Kunitsugu was in good company. In the same issue, Sansei Jeff Matsui described how Nisei attending a JACL civil rights workshop blanched when asked to contribute to a bail-bonds collection can for Sansei students arrested on campus. What’s more, a “minor outburst against the Nisei’s complacency” was delivered at the end of the session by Penny Nakatsu, a nineteen-year-old founding member of the AAPA. Okamura, in particular, relished baiting JACL conservatives. Whereas many older Nisei endorsed efforts to squash the 1969 Third World Strike put forth by S. I. Hayakawa, acting president of San Francisco State University, Okamura was an outspoken defender of the students who were demanding the development of an ethnic studies program. After Hayakawa was invited as the guest speaker for a San Francisco chapter installation, Okamura organized a picket line of 135 protesters at the San Francisco Athletic Club. Undaunted JACL conservatives then invited Hayakawa to address a banquet in Turlock, California. Okamura attended and helped disrupt the dinner by passing out anti-Hayakawa leaflets. He proceeded to berate the Old Guard, who had joined the Caucasians in the audience in giving Hayakawa a standing ovation. This incident, Okamura announced in an article for the Pacific Citizen, “should be proof enough that whites are still leading the Nisei around by their noses.” Deriding “Uncle Tom Nisei” who believe

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“Hayakawa’s hypnotic and ingratiating rhetoric about the Nisei’s success, and how Sansei and Blacks should emulate the Nisei behavior,” Okamura challenged the Nisei to “start behaving like men and women.”  At public events as well as in articles and letters published in the Pacific Citizen, Okamura criticized traditional JACL depictions of the history of internment. Whereas JACL leaders portrayed internees redeeming their place in America through military service, Okamura emphasized a history of “white racism and its effect on the Japanese.” In a story on a multicultural training seminar for Berkeley public school teachers, he was quoted as dismissing the notion that anything good came out of the camp experience. “We could have been killed in the camps, just like the Jews,” Okamura proclaimed, “and no one would have cared.” Taking offense at this comparison of Americans and Germans, a white teacher insisted, “We are not guilty.” Okamura then countered by declaring, “The fact that you think Americans can do no wrong is exactly the problem.”  But Okamura and his fellow militants reserved their fiercest attacks for publication in the newsletter of the National Liberation Caucus, which they organized in 1970. Demanding “constructive changes within the organization,” the caucus hoped to replace Mike Masaoka as the JACL’s Washington lobbyist, form a separate civil rights and legislative arm, and develop a national committee on education. The group vowed to replace the JACL convention fashion shows and “whing-ding” parties with political workshops and rap sessions on “racism, poverty, and war.” The newsletter praised a “stirring speech” delivered by Mary Kochiyama, a longtime activist in Harlem and friend of Malcolm X. She became famous when she was photographed cradling the militant leader’s head as he lay dying at the Audubon Ballroom. “The concentration camp of 1942,” Kochiyama declared, “was not an isolated mistake but typical of the way in which the United States has dealt with people of color.” Tracing a history of “suppression” and “growing fascism,” Kochiyama denounced the “treatment of African slaves, the confinement of Indian people in exchange centers and reservations, the Vietnamese herded into strategic hamlets, the isolation of Okinawans in a military base, the containment of blacks in the ghettoes, and the repression of students and dissidents.”  The government, according to one position paper, was “responsible only to the wealthy upper class which is raking in money by selling munitions to continue the wholesale genocide of Asian people in Indochina.”  America also

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was condemned for a history of “racist oppression, capitalistic exploitation, and imperialistic neocolonialism” in a resolution demanding the immediate release of such “political prisoners” as the Chicago Seven, Black Panther leader Bobby Seale, and the Panther Twenty-One (the leadership of the eastern region of the Black Panthers). Okamura hoped such indictments of American history and politics would convince Japanese Americans to join in the protest against the government in the Title II campaign and to become active in the civil rights, antiwar, and ethnic pride movements. The Title II campaign inspired Mei Nakano, the former internee who recounted her camp ordeal to her son’s high school class. She was inspired to become involved in other battles against injustice. Nakano first took part in the struggle to repeal Title II because she felt it effectively served to justify the wholesale internment Japanese Americans had endured. Not yet ready to demand redress, Nakano and other Japanese Americans could voice their opposition against the possibility of repeating the internment. Many future redress activists would gain valuable political experience by writing letters to representatives, distributing information, and leading workshops during this four-year campaign. Honored by the JACL for her work on the campaign, Nakano described how the repeal of Title II made her realize that she could fight successfully for political change: “It made me feel good that I was doing something that needed to be done and that I had some power in this world. It made me realize that as small as it is, whatever you do, has some impact someplace.”  Nakano then honed these newly acquired skills by becoming active in the antiwar crusade. Campaigning against the war in Vietnam and Cambodia gave her more experience in speaking out against government policy. No longer afraid to criticize the government in public, Nakano continued to speak about her camp experiences in schools, at community events, and with the redress movement. But Title II committee leaders also knew that radical pronouncements would alienate mainstream Americans and politicians the campaign needed for the repeal. Consequently, the history of internment presented to the mainstream media and to government officials differed significantly from the history portrayed to Japanese Americans in the pages of the Pacific Citizen or the National Liberation Caucus newsletter. For example, a pamphlet distributed by Okamura’s JACL Anti-Detention Camp Fund recounted the injustice of internment but left out the bitter legacy and radical lessons

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highlighted in other forums. After stating, “110,000 Japanese Americans were incarcerated in ten concentration camps,” the brochure emphasized that “two thirds of them were American citizens” who were never “tried and sentenced.” Rather than describe internment as evidence of a continuous history of oppression against all people of color, the pamphlet called it a “blot on American history.” And while expressing concern about the revival of such camps, the brochure said nothing about the views of the demonstrators and rioters likely to be targeted. Instead of denouncing the government, it stressed the need to protect constitutional rights. All Americans could empathize with the campaign’s fear that under “the provisions of this law, defendants need not be given a judicial trial.” 

The Repeal of Title II and a History of Loyalty and Patriotism Thus despite all their battles, Masaoka and Okamura agreed to present Japanese Americans to mainstream America not as angry protesters but as citizens devoted to the preservation of the Bill of Rights. The media began publicizing this campaign, especially after public officials made comments that seemed to confirm activists’ concerns. One source invariably mentioned in campaign materials and media accounts of the repeal effort was the May 1968 report “Guerrilla Warfare Advocates in the United States,” by the House Committee on Un-American Activities. Edwin E. Willis, chair of the committee, declared that “black militants have essentially declared war on the United States, and therefore they lose all constitutional rights and should be imprisoned in detention camps.” Undoubtedly, Willis never anticipated that when he proposed using Title II to round up black militants as “communists, and therefore insurrectionists in aid of a foreign enemy,” he gave Masaoka, Okamura, and newspapers throughout the country the “evidence” needed to support a repeal. Other public officials provided fodder for the campaign. In April 1969, FBI director J. Edgar Hoover set off alarm bells while explaining a need for the surveillance of Chinese Americans. Communist China, Hoover declared, had been “flooding the country with its propaganda and there are over 300,000 Chinese in the United States, some of whom could be susceptible to recruitment through ethnic ties or hostage situations because of relatives in China.”  Such statements not only recruited the Chinese

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American Citizens Alliance into the campaign but led the Seattle Times to denounce “Hoover’s racial slur” and call for a repeal. Further, the Times maintained that Chinese Americans should never have to wonder “how safe they are from being victims of the same fate as the Japanese Americans during the war.”  But the campaign received its biggest boost when the Atlantic Monthly magazine ran a story on newly appointed deputy attorney general Richard Kleindienst and student protesters in May 1969. Kleindienst reportedly said, “If people demonstrated in a manner to interfere with others, they should be rounded up and put in a detention camp.” Making headlines throughout the country, the quote was retracted by a Department of Justice bent on swift damage control. Of course, the deputy attorney general claimed he was misquoted and maintained, “I never suggested putting anyone in a detention camp.” The Department of Justice then issued its own disclaimer, insisting that “there has never been any discussion in this Administration of establishing detention camps for student demonstrators or any other demonstrators.”  Editorials supporting the campaign frequently quoted Willis, Hoover, or Kleindienst to explain why Japanese Americans, given their own camp experience, sought the repeal of Title II. The Los Angeles Times agreed with Japanese Americans who maintained, “As long as this provision remains in force, it endangers us all.” The Cleveland Plain Dealer noted, “The tragic episode during World War II involving the forced relocation of 109,560 citizens of Japanese ancestry should be a warning to the country” that such an “abuse of freedom should never again be tolerated.” Huntington, West Virginia’s Herald-Dispatch declared, “Nazi-type concentration camps, such as we established in the United States in the early days of World War II must never again be used for the persecution and humiliation of American citizens.” A repeal, according to the Louisville Times, would provide a “belated acknowledgement to Japanese-Americans of the injustice done by their removal during World War II to concentration camps euphemistically called ‘relocation centers.’ ”  Speaking at local churches and colleges, Japanese American volunteers continued to keep the issue in the media spotlight, drumming up public support inside and outside the ethnic community. All ninety-four JACL chapters participated in a letter-writing campaign to Congress, and fifty chapters secured resolutions endorsing the repeal from their local govern-

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ments.  Several hundred public forums and media appearances also helped the campaign gain backing from more than five hundred professional, business, labor, veterans, social, religious, and civic groups. Yet Mike Masaoka knew that he needed more than this evidence of grassroots support to obtain a repeal in Washington. He worried that some of the radical groups who had struggled for so long alongside Okamura’s committee would damage JACL’s reputation and the campaign. However, the ad hoc committee refused to eject them from the campaign or to give Masaoka the power to approve campaign publicity and activities. Despite Masaoka’s objections, the committee continued, in the repeal effort, to work with early pioneers such as the National Committee to Abolish the House Committee on Un-American Activities even though conservative members of Congress had often disparaged the group as a “front” for the Communist Party. But Okamura and the committee agreed not to publicize such radical support in appearances before the government. Okamura later acknowledged, “What was once a frightening radical issue was transformed into a safe moderate one,” and “slowly, but inevitably, leadership of the campaign slipped into the hands of professional lobbyists and congressmen.”  First Masaoka persuaded the Nisei members of Congress, including two U.S. legislators from Hawaii, specifically, to sponsor repeal legislation. In April 1969 Senator Daniel Inouye introduced a repeal bill that had 23 cosponsors in the Senate, whereas Congressman Spark Matsunaga introduced an identical bill that had 156 cosponsors in the House. Testifying before the Senate Judiciary Committee, Masaoka gave no hint of the radical origins of the repeal campaign. On the contrary, he argued a repeal was needed because “certain black militants have taken advantage of these rumors to foment greater unrest and even fanned the flames of revolution and destruction in urban ghettoes.” Others had “used these rumors to threaten Vietnam War protesters” and “to escalate the confrontations and violence on campus.” Masaoka did declare a “repeal of Title II is justified because it unnecessarily provokes and intimidates, and threatens and circumscribes, those who legitimately disagree with conditions as they are and desire to correct them.” But he also solidified JACL’s conservative standing by affirming that the “JACL may not necessarily agree with their analyses or alternatives, but JACL believes that the constitutional guarantees must apply to them equally as they must apply to those who would defend the status quo.” 

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Praising the Nisei military record and bemoaning the denial of due process during World War II, the Senate Judiciary Committee quickly cleared the bill, and the full Senate unanimously approved the measure in December 1969. Congressman Matsunaga’s bill encountered fierce opposition, however, in the House Internal Security Committee, headed by Richard Ichord, from Missouri. While preparing for hearings before Ichord’s committee, Okamura acceded to Masaoka’s advice to “cull the list (of organizations that have by resolution endorsed the repeal effort) to take out certain types of organizations in order that JACL need not defend them.”  The same man who criticized the JACL’s endless glorification of the 442nd also allowed league president Jerry Enomoto to introduce him before Congress. Enomoto described Raymond Okamura as someone who “served as a captain in the United States Army Signal Corps for 8 years and also had a brother who was a captain in the Army.”  In his testimony, Okamura noted that the repeal effort had the “endorsements of the city councils of every major city in the State” of California, “the board of supervisors of the major counties,” and the state legislature. He then submitted “for the record a partial listing of the organizations endorsing repeal.” This list highlighted governmental bodies, public media, and churches. It made no mention of many left groups that had worked with Okamura’s committee, including the National Committee to Abolish the House on Un-American Activities Committee, the Asian American Political Alliance, and the American Committee for Protection of the Foreign Born (on the attorney general’s list because of its ties to the Communist Party, this group counted among its members famous radicals like Mary Kochiyama). Yet even this sanitized account of the history of the Title II campaign could not persuade Ichord that the push for repeal was anything more than a Communist Party ploy to dismantle the Security Act for its own evil gain. As he saw it, the JACL had been duped by Communists who had persuaded them to believe that Title II “was in some way related to the unfortunate experience of Americans of Japanese ancestry who were detained in World War II.”  As an alternative to an outright appeal, Ichord’s committee proposed establishing boards to provide “expeditious hearings.” These hearings, Ichord claimed, would allow the government to contain the Communist threat while assuring Japanese Americans that the World War II mass detention would never be repeated. Mired down in Ichord’s committee, the future of the campaign looked bleak.

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Then Matsunaga and Masaoka demonstrated their “political maneuvering” skills by revising the repeal bill to “address a change in the United States Code as it pertains to imprisonment of prisoners.” This change took the bill out of Ichord’s Internal Security Committee and placed it under the jurisdiction of a Judiciary subcommittee, chaired by Robert Kastenmeier, a Wisconsin Democrat with a record for supporting human rights. Moreover, Kastenmeier’s administrative assistant, Kaz Oshiki, had been interned. Noting that he and Oshiki were the same age during the war, Kastenmeier said he “wanted to do everything he could to make up for the failure of democracy” that imprisoned his aide “as though he had committed some heinous crime.”  The Judiciary Committee endorsed a modified version of Matsunaga’s bill that proclaimed no citizen could be imprisoned under the conditions specified by Title II without an act of Congress. Masaoka then used his congressional contacts to help Matsunaga’s bill get through the Rules Committee for a full House vote. Masaoka personally appealed to Congressman Emanuel Cellar, chair of the House Judiciary Committee, to fight for Matsunaga’s bill and against Ichord’s alternative proposal. Within fifteen minutes of Masaoka’s delivering this plea, Cellar emerged from the hearings, congratulated Masaoka, and told him the House floor would hear only the proposal by Matsunaga. There was smooth sailing through the rest of the campaign. On September 14, 1971, the Matsunaga bill won handily in the House by a vote of 346 to 49. Two days later, the Senate agreed to Inouye’s request for early consideration of the House version, and then unanimously approved the bill. As they spoke on behalf of the bill, prominent members from both houses praised the patriotism of Inouye, Matsunaga, and the JACL. Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield said the repeal “will in a way repay men like Senator Inouye who lost an arm in the second world war and Representative Matsunaga who was wounded several times in the second world war for the sacrifices which they made for their country.”  House Speaker Carl Albert, who rarely spoke in support of legislation on the House floor, paid tribute to Mike Masaoka by quoting a speech given by Congressman Frank Fallows during the Issei naturalization campaign. Like Fallows before him, Albert told the story of the Masaoka family and the heroism of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. Even though Masaoka’s mother was “interned behind barbed wire,” she “encouraged her sons in their desire to

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enlist, which all 5 did.” All were wounded and one was killed in action. Albert then reminded the members of Congress that the Masaokas were “but 5 of the 33,300 sons of Japanese parents who served” during World War II. A “much decorated group,” the 442nd sacrificed the lives of 200 men to rescue 189 “white Americans in the Vosges Mountains.” Albert could testify that Mike Masaoka and his wife, who’d been friends of the Albert family for many years, were “good neighbors and fine Americans.” 

Multiple Lessons of the Campaign As Japanese American activists celebrated the repeal of Title II, they disagreed about the lessons derived from the campaign. David Ushio recalled in a Pacific Citizen column how he had believed the “grass-roots campaign was moving very well” until he went to Washington to help Mike Masaoka coordinate Capitol Hill strategy. There he “discovered immediately that legislation does not move as fast or as easily as many people believe it should.” To pass a bill in Congress, “many unheralded, crucial decisions must be made and only the experienced and politically astute who are JACL friends in Congress could ultimately make them.” These politicians, according to Ushio, deserved “much more of the credit for the repeal of Title II.”  While a few other articles mentioned Okamura’s committee, none emphasized its role in the campaign. What’s more, letters to the Pacific Citizen asked why the numerous stories of the struggle on Capitol Hill said little, if anything, about the grassroots work of the Ad Hoc Anti-Detention Committee. Phil Ihara complained that “only the slightest passing recognition was conveyed to the person responsible, and who can be considered to be the most influential force in the JACL—Ray Okamura.” The “three-ring circus” in Washington, according to Ihara, simply “brought forth our demands.” Ihara honored Okamura, “Edison Uno, determined JACLers, and the consorted efforts of the Sansei” for sustaining the battle in “the dingy churches of Nihonmachi” and “hospital homes.” Ihara went on to say: Here was the battlefield; here were the tired eyes, clattering of typewriters, and the final strategy. Make no mistake. All the congressmen who eventually supported repeal were our final representation there in Washington. The JACL and PC owe Ray full recognition, and must be written as such

266 America’s “Concentration Camps” in any future articles. It’s this generation of Nisei, with their unselfish grinding dedication for all of us that have united the Sansei and Nisei for relevancy in the JACL.

Another reader, Renee Renouf, felt the Pacific Citizen should correct the “oversight” in its coverage by reprinting the Hokubei Mainichi tribute to Ray Okamura. Complying with this request, the Pacific Citizen presented readers with a very different account of the repeal of Title II that gave almost exclusive credit to Okamura. The headline read “Four Years of Determined Push Led by Ray Okamura—Hard Hitting One-Man Drive Bears Congressional Fruit.” This version portrayed “experienced JACL leaders” who “thought the campaign effort would embarrass the organization if it failed.” According to Hokubei, “By sheer determination and dedication, the one-man campaign became a crusade with early superficial support of the national JACL.” Hokubei concluded, “If the Matsunaga and Inouye bills are signed into law, the dream of Ray Okamura will be fulfilled.”  But the same issue of the Pacific Citizen also included a letter denying Hokubei’s version of the repeal campaign. After reading the story, a puzzled Kaz Oshiki asked, “Who is Ray Okamura?” The administrative assistant to Congressman Robert Kastenmeier had been involved in legislative strategy since 1969, and yet he couldn’t recall “contact either with the name or the person of Ray Okamura” in pushing the legislation here in Congress. Citing Senator Inouye, Mike Masaoka, and David Ushio, as others had, Oshiki declared that the “one man” who really “must be given credit” was Spark Matsunaga, “who time and again button-holed his colleagues and won them over to the side of the repeal.”  Three years later, in 1974, more balanced accounts of the campaign were provided by Ray Okamura and other Ad Hoc Committee activists in the Amerasia Journal. These articles acknowledged that the repeal required the activism of both the radical and conservative elements of the Japanese American community. Between 1967 and 1969, the push for repeal was inspired and sustained by community activists who launched a public education and publicity campaign. Edison Uno, a cochair of the Ad Hoc Committee, said the crusade “sparked the imagination of Japanese Americans throughout the United States who utilized the Title II issues to enlighten and sensitize politicians, public media, educators and the general public about the gross injustice of mass incarceration—in the past or future.” 

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Hiroshi Kanno, who led the effort in Chicago, praised these grassroots activities for mobilizing support from “Blacks, Chicanos, radicals, liberals, middle class Whites, and finally, even conservatives.” For Kanno, the campaign underscored “our identity as an oppressed racial minority in this country.” Not only did Sansei and Yonsei (the fourth generation) “begin to understand how our parents and grandparents were treated because of their color, but non-Asian groups as well began to view us not as a silent, successful minority group, but as an oppressed minority group.”  Yet Kanno also recognized the campaign “exposed” the “need to rely on professional lobbyists and politicians; the need to cater to congressional committee chairmen who hold extraordinary power; and the exclusion of the people from the real decision-making process.”  Even Okamura, a harsh critic of JACL attempts to control the campaign, acknowledged the organization’s conservative reputation won critical endorsements in 1969 and 1970. Deputy Attorney General Richard Kleindienst wrote a letter to the committee that recommended repeal because the legislation was “extremely offensive” to many Americans: Various groups, of which our Japanese-American citizens are the most prominent, look upon the legislation as permitting a reoccurrence of the roundups which resulted in the detention of Americans of Japanese ancestry during World War II . . . In the judgment of this Department, the repeal of this legislation will allay the fears and suspicions—unfounded as they may be—of many of our citizens. This benefit outweighs any potential advantage which the act may provide in a time of internal security emergency.

The mainstream media and members of Congress who supported the repeal echoed the sentiment in a Nation editorial: “In contrast to previous attempts by alleged radicals, the current movement for repeal is under ‘correct’ auspices . . .The JACL interest could hardly have been more soundly motivated.” 

“Concentration Camp” Landmarks Just one year after Title II was repealed, however, the JACL was accused of being a radical organization because of its involvement in a campaign to

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designate Manzanar a California State historical landmark. In November 1971 Warren Furutani submitted an application requesting the registration of Manzanar as a historical landmark. He did so on behalf of the Manzanar Committee and the JACL, as he was a member of both. The California Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee quickly approved the application in January 1972, and it asked Furutani to submit proposed text for a landmark plaque. The text that Furutani proposed after consulting with the Manzanar Committee sparked a major controversy: From war hysteria, racism, and economic greed one hundred ten thousand persons of Japanese ancestry were directed by Presidential Order on February 19, 1942 to leave their homes and to relocate to America’s concentration camps. Manzanar was the first of such camps built during World War II bounded by barbed wire and guard towers in a mile square confining 10,000 men, women, and children of whom the majority was American citizens . . . This plaque is laid in the hope that the conditions which created this camp will never emerge again— for anybody, at any time. Then may this plaque always be a reminder of what Fear, Hate and Greed will cause men to do to other men. Tondemonai! [unbelievable]

Furutani was asked to resubmit a proposal of no more than sixty words. This proposal also included a radical description of Manzanar as a concentration camp established because of “hysteria, racism and economic greed.”  The Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee objected to the term concentration camp and the harsh indictment of “racism and economic greed” as causes of internment. The committee suggested a “less pointed and biased” text that would still “convey the message that this is an incident in our history of which we are not particularly proud and we hope that it shall never happen again.” The committee’s proposed text provided a less

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harsh critique of the causes of internment and a more positive description of Manzanar: “As a result of the hysteria of the early days of World War II, / 110,000 persons of Japanese ancestry were interned in America’s / relocation centers by Presidential Order no. 9066 issued on / February 19, 1942. / Manzanar, first and largest center, a self-contained city / Developed by 10,000 citizen and alien internees, remains in / Memory of their sacrifice and perseverance. / May these conditions never emerge again for anybody, at any time. / Tondemonai!”  Furutani, the Manzanar Committee, and the JACL rejected this attempt to eliminate “racism and greed,” to substitute “relocation centers” for “concentration camps,” to replace the “barbed wire and guard towers” with “self-contained city,” and to emphasize internee “sacrifice and perseverance.”  There were several contentious meetings over the issue as neither side accepted the other’s text. When the volatile Furutani stopped meeting with the Landmarks Advisory Committee other JACL representatives tried to negotiate an agreement. On October 27, 1972, national vice presidents James Murakami and Frank Iwama appeared before the Landmarks Committee. They apologized for Furutani’s volatility and expressed the JACL’s appreciation for the designation of Manzanar as a landmark. But the only change they agreed to make to the proposed text was to drop “Tondemonai.” Murakami told the committee that he had been stationed in Germany during World War II, and he had seen Dachau. Whereas he agreed that there was no comparison between Manzanar and Dachau, he felt that the “forced labor and confinement camps which were also called concentration camps” did compare to Manzanar. The JACL agreed to allow its staff to work on revising the wording, but the more radical Manzanar Committee members issued searing attacks against the Landmarks Advisory Committee. In a press release, Manzanar Committee cochairs Warren Furutani and Sue Kunitomi Embrey accused the Landmarks Committee of “blatant disregard for the suffering of Japanese American victims of internment and a refusal to face the realities of history.” The release declared, “For more than a year the state committee has been stalling in its negotiations with the Manzanar Committee and it is obvious to us today that they have been doing so in bad faith and with an insensitivity that truly smacks of the racism which placed us in the camps thirty years ago.” Protesting the actions of the Landmarks Commit-

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tee, Furutani and Embrey proclaimed, “If, indeed, we wish to insure that ‘these conditions . . . never emerge again—for anybody, at any time,’ then we must, in the name of truth and justice, acknowledge and accept the camps for what they were.”  The JACL approach was less confrontational but also adamant. In meetings and letters, the JACL appealed to William Penn Mott, director of the California Department of Parks and Recreation, to override the Landmarks Committee. Henry Tanaka, the JACL’s national president, wrote Mott a letter declaring that “the term ‘America’s concentration camps’ properly and aptly describe the experiences of those of us who were forced, without due process of law, by our own government into confinement behind barbed wire.” Moreover, Tanaka maintained that the term would “remind all Americans that our country should never again fail to uphold the constitutional laws which we all cherish and protect.”  While the JACL tried to persuade Mott and the Landmarks Committee to approve the text as written, the Manzanar Committee launched a grassroots campaign to provide evidence of public support. The Manzanar Committee issued press releases and gave interviews to publicize the controversy. Also, activists distributed throughout the Japanese American community, and across college campuses, a form letter supporting the original text. Hundreds of these letters were sent to Mott, including more than 350 letters of support from non-Asians. Several historians also urged Mott to support the Manzanar Committee’s text. Arthur A. Hansen felt, however, that neither “the wording for the monument suggested by the State nor that advanced by the Committee is historically satisfactory.” Charging that both statements “appear to have unduly sacrificed veracity for ideology,” Hansen suggested another alternative text. His composition mirrored Warren Furutani’s sixty-word revision but offered several significant differences. Furutani’s “From hysteria, racism and economic greed” became “As a result of racism, economic greed, and the hysteria / following the Pearl Harbor catastrophe.”  Hansen’s description of Pearl Harbor helped to contextualize the “hysteria.” Endorsing the use of the term “concentration camps,” he switched the order of the causes of the incarceration so that “racism” and “economic greed” came before “hysteria,” and were thus given greater prominence. Furutani’s phrase, “May these conditions never emerge again / for anybody at any time,” became in Hansen’s version “May such flagrant infringement of civil rights never

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happen again.” The reference to the “flagrant infringement of civil rights” provided a more specific warning for future generations. But Mott most objected to the text’s inclusion of “racism” and “economic greed.” Unlike the Landmarks Committee, he was willing to include some reference to concentration camps. After meeting with JACL representatives in November 1972, Mott approved a text that included “barbed wire and guard towers.” This version used “concentration camp” as an adjective in the final phrase, “May these concentration camp conditions never emerge again.”  JACL representatives Frank Iwama and Dave Ushio presented Mott with research documenting the racism and greed of a variety of internment advocates. However, Mott rejected what the league offered and declared that not all Japanese Americans agreed with the JACL’s view of internment history. Mott and the Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee had received some letters from Japanese Americans describing the JACL and the Manzanar Committee as “radical” groups that did not reflect the entire community. Many of these critics wanted a less “bitter” text that celebrated Japanese American loyalty and patriotism. Henry Taketa, a lawyer in Sacramento, declared that the “obvious militancy among the J.A.C.L. leadership of today” did not “truly represent the hearts and minds of their fellow Japanese Americans.” Taketa felt the plaque should make clear that Japanese Americans were detained “solely because of their ancestry under the guise of military necessity,” and that these citizens still demonstrated “unquestionable loyalty to their country and unyielding faith in the American democratic process in the face of humiliation and sacrifice.” Consequently, Taketa suggested that the plaque pay tribute to internee patriotism by declaring, “As thousands upon thousands went forth from Manzanar and other W.R.A. Centers to serve with valor in the Armed Forces or to work on farms and in war industries, they gave living proof that ‘Americanism is a matter of the mind and heart and not a matter of race or ancestry.’”  Shonin Yamashita, an Issei from San Diego, denounced the “concentration plaque drive” as a “communist scheme to discredit [the] U.S.” He sent Mott an article he wrote for the Kashu Mainichi, a Los Angeles newspaper, that accused the “self-appointed champions in our community” of spreading “anti-American propaganda of hate and vengeance.” Urging Japanese Americans to “be big enough to forget and forgive,” Yamashita argued that

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“erecting a hate-America monument at Manzanar” would insult the American people. After ridiculing Asian American activists for promoting the “socialist’s oratory,” Yamashita urged Japanese Americans to “join the silent minority and sing out the song of eternal enlightenment.”  Yamashita supported Lillian Baker’s campaign against the proposed plaque. Baker, a writer from Gardena, California, waged a virtual crusade against the use of the term “concentration camp.” She founded the group “Americans for Historical Accuracy” to give her personal campaign, which had approximately thirty supporters, the appearance of clout and objectivity. In the 1980s she was the most vocal opponent of redress, and she appeared at the 1981 commission hearings, and several congressional subcommittee hearings, to denounce the concept of redress. Throughout these campaigns, Baker’s defense of the term relocation centers remained quite consistent. She quoted extensively from the Supreme Court decisions to prove that internment was constitutional. Baker also cited Dillon S. Myer’s descriptions of the camps as evidence that they were benevolent way stations. She tried to bolster Myer’s credibility by noting that he had been praised by the JACL. Moreover, Baker “documented” internees’ happy experiences in the camps by selectively using WRA photographs and records. She showed pictures of smiling internees at weddings, beauty contests, and baseball games. She reproduced editions of the Manzanar Free Press, the camp newspaper, describing picnics and dances as evidence of WRA’s commitment to making life in camp enjoyable. In addition, Baker researched the ethnic press to compile “evidence” from former internees that disputed the image presented by “radical activists.” She copied accounts of camp “reunions” to prove that former internees had happy memories of the camps. Also, Baker found testimonials by former internees who were not angry or bitter. Ruth Yamazaki, for example, wrote a column for the Pacific Citizen that declared she had “many pleasant recollections of life in the concentration camp” and could “see much good that resulted from our forced evacuation.” Agreeing that there was no justification for internment, Yamazaki nevertheless argued that it was “the best thing that happened” to the Issei. “For the first time, they found the meaning of leisure, of not having to worry about the rent and other bills.” Yamazaki echoed earlier depictions by Myer and the JACL that stressed the benefits of postwar dispersion and assimilation. Resettlement, according to

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Yamazaki, gave Japanese Americans, “a chance to experience a new way of life” . . . “free from the discrimination they had always faced” in California, and to discover “the friendliness of the people in the other states” who “offered good jobs.”  Baker inundated the California Department of Parks and Recreation with letters and material showing this perspective of the internment camps. What’s more, she tried to mobilize support from the press. But the “liberal” media often discounted her “facts,” leaving Baker frustrated. She complained that Sue Kunitomi Embrey and the Manzanar Committee were given extensive exposure in the Los Angeles Times and on major television networks. Baker, on the other hand, couldn’t get much coverage, and when she did, she was presented as if she were “seeking some ‘revenge’ or was acting out of bitterness.” With the exception of the Gardena Valley News, which ran a regular column by Baker, few newspapers gave her a venue to present all the “facts” she had amassed during her “research.” She was simply quoted as objecting to the way the term “concentration camp” maligned and dishonored America. Ultimately, however, neither Baker nor the Manzanar Committee’s grassroots campaign experienced a decisive victory in the final decision. Despite extensive lobbying on both sides, Mott remained committed to including the phrase “concentration camp conditions,” and excluding “racism and economic greed.” The impasse was broken when the Manzanar Committee and JACL leaders appealed for help from state representatives. The Manzanar Committee won the support of Assemblyman Alex Garcia. He had written Mott and declared that he could not “understand or accept” his objection to the terms. Garcia suggested they meet at the state capital to discuss the issue. The JACL’s James Murakami, Frank Iwama, and Dave Ushio met with State Assembly Speaker Bob Moretti and asked for his assistance in resolving the text issue. Moretti also wrote Mott and urged him to include the words “racism” and “greed” on the plaque: When we consider that Japanese-Americans, not German or ItalianAmericans or any other group of foreign descent, were subject to this order, I believe it is clear that elements of “racism” were involved in the decision to imprison these people. In addition, statistics indicate that only about one-quarter of the property owned by Japanese-Americans before internment was recovered. The hasty departure imposed upon them forced

274 America’s “Concentration Camps” the sale of property and possessions at well below their real value. In some cases, possessions and property simply were left behind and expropriated by people who could only be described as “greedy.” 

Garcia arranged a meeting on March 19, 1973, that included Moretti, Mott, JACL officers, Manzanar Committee members, and state senators Ralph Dills and Mervyn Dymally. No minutes were taken at this meeting, but the influence of the state legislators clearly caused Mott to change his position. Afterward, Sue Kunitomi Embrey claimed that Mott agreed to include “racism and economic exploitation” on the plaque because the “controversy would have gone to the State Legislature and embarrassed Mr. Mott.”  R. Coke Wood, of the Landmarks Advisory Committee, asserted that Mott had been subject to “political pressure and threats that his budget would be cut.”  Of course, Mott never publicly admitted either factor had played a role in his decision. He responded to the critics of his decision by declaring: I well agree that originally the camps were set up as “relocation centers.” However, it was pointed out to the Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee, and to several legislators conducting hearings on the subject, that the dictionary definition of “concentration camp” in almost every instance is a place in which political prisoners were detained. I think you will agree, for the most part, internees in the relocation centers were “political prisoners”; therefore, the words “concentration camp” were not thought to be improper.

Mott claimed that the proponents of the plaque “were able to substantiate the statements to the satisfaction of our staff, the Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee, and the legislators and their staff who both attended our Landmarks Committee meetings and held meetings of their own.”  Mott never admitted that his views of “racism” and “economic exploitation” had changed, or that the Landmarks Committee was outraged that he had overridden its rejection of the plaque. The last remaining controversy was settled when, along with the JACL, the Manzanar Committee was listed on the plaque as a sponsor of the landmark registration. The landmark was dedicated on April 14, 1973. The plaque read as follows: In the early part of World War II, 110,000 persons of Japanese ancestry were interned in relocation

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f i g u r e 1 6 . California Historical Landmarks plaque at Manzanar. Courtesy of Richard Goode.

centers by Executive Order 9066, issued on February 19, 1942. Manzanar, the first of ten such concentration camps, was bounded by barbed wire and guard towers, confining 10,000 persons, the majority being American citizens. May the injustices and humiliation suffered here as a result of hysteria, racism, and economic exploitation never emerge again.

The Tule Lake Landmark: Concentration Camp or Segregation Center? The Manzanar plaque set a precedent and encouraged other JACL activists to apply for landmark status at Tule Lake. Tule Lake’s history was different

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from that of Manzanar, given that it served as a segregation center later in the war. But the appeal to gain landmark status for the site was no less controversial. As in the case of Manzanar, conflict within the JACL was generated over the text that was submitted for the Tule Lake plaque. Several versions proposed by the Tule Lake Committee of the Northern California–Western Nevada District were sent back by the District Council. The third version submitted to the District Council declared that “ten concentration camps were established” in the United States, and then described how Tule Lake “later became a segregation center where internees were forced to renounce their American citizenship through government duress.”  After several contentious meetings, the JACL proposed a plaque in July 1975. The text excluded any references to Tule Lake’s history as a segregation center: Tule Lake was one of ten concentration camps established during World War II to incarcerate 110,000 persons of Japanese ancestry, of which the majority were American citizens, behind barbed wire and guard towers without charge, trial, or guilt. These camps are reminders of how racism, economic and political exploitation and expediency undermine constitutional guarantees of United States citizens and aliens alike. May the injustices and humiliation suffered here never recur.

In many ways, the response replicated the reaction to the Manzanar plaque. Lillian Baker objected to the term “concentration camp” in meetings and letters, and the Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee, now renamed the State Historical Resources Commission, again rejected the term in May 1976. But before its May decision, the commission enlisted staff historian Eugene M. Itogawa to prepare a report on the terminology for the organization’s executive secretary, Knox Mellon. In his report, Itogawa argued that refusing to use the term “concentration camp” would, “in essence, ignore relevant official governmental documents prepared by government officials and military leaders during World War II.” He noted that scholars like Roger Daniels had documented these public statements in published scholarship. Itogawa also noted that “professional historians and sociologists” had been consulted and that Daniels, John W. Caughey, and Harry H. L. Kitano “have concurred with the appropriateness of retaining the concentration camp phrase in the text.” Then Itogawa raised the question of Tule Lake’s role as a segregation center. “The role of Tule Lake

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as a segregation center housing recalcitrant internees from the other nine camps,” Itogawa argued, “should be acknowledged within the context of the plaque.”  Ironically, radical activists like Raymond Okamura and Lillian Baker also agreed that the plaque should acknowledge Tule Lake’s unique role within the history of internment. Of course, they offered very different interpretations of the nature of that unique role. Okamura praised Tule Lake as the “center of the Japanese American resistance movement.” He argued that “the text of the plaque should say something about the fact that Tule Lake was a maximum security mass segregation prison for those inmates who protested and fought the unreasonable loyalty questionnaire imposed by the War Relocation Authority.”  Lillian Baker, on the other hand, declared Tule Lake an “internment camp for the ‘hard-core, proJapanese,’” who “refused to take a loyalty oath.”  Herbert Rhodes, the director of the State Department of Parks and Recreation, however, decided not to address the issue of Tule Lake’s history as a segregation center. Rhodes announced on March 16, 1977, that he had reversed the decision of the State Historic Resources Commission and accepted the JACL’s original proposal, with the minor addition of the word “American” before the term “concentration camps.” Rhodes explained his decision, declaring, “It is imperative that this generation as well as future generations be reminded of the incarceration.” Rhodes acknowledged distinctions between the “gas oven type camps of Nazi Germany and the conditions that existed in the American concentration camps.” But he wanted to call attention to the fact “that people were held against their will behind barbed wire compounds patrolled by armed guards.” He “hoped that the plaque would in some way contribute to the spirit of guarding against these types of camps happening again in this country.”  Despite this victory regarding the concentration camp language, some Japanese Americans insisted on reminding the public of the distinctive experiences of Tule Lake segregants. During the plaque dedication ceremony, Ben Takeshita, the JACL’s Northern California–Western Nevada District Council governor, recounted his experiences at Tule Lake. The editor of the Pacific Citizen described Takeshita’s address as “the first time a Tule Lake segregee has openly spoken on the subject at a JACL function.” Takeshita recalled how he arrived in Tule Lake in the fall of 1944 as part of a “No-No” group. During his two years there, he spent most of his time

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learning Japanese, because “we had thought that eventually all of us would be sent back to Japan.” Never allowed to speak English, Takeshita called himself a “ kibei—made in the USA, for I couldn’t speak any English, even to my English-speaking friends that visited me in camp.” Then Takeshita admitted that “up to ten years ago, I would not have told anyone where I learned my Japanese nor would I have admitted that I had been at Tule Lake” as a “No-No.” Takeshita declared that the “deep scars” from that period were “still evidenced this very day by the wording on the Tule Plaque.” The fact that Tule Lake became a segregation center in 1943 was “a fact of history which many JACL members still wanted to keep buried when approving the wording.” Takeshita asked the audience, “How long is it going to take for us Japanese Americans to forgive and forget those years of violence and outright hatred created amongst us by the U.S. government and U.S. Army?” He urged Japanese Americans to “feel comfortable enough to admit” that “some of us were indeed No Nos and others were Yes Yeses, and to agree that we sure were suckered into fighting against each other.” Takeshita challenged all former internees to “express all those good and bad feelings you may have had about Tule Lake and that period of our camp life.” He maintained that “it is our duty as good American citizens to bring out the bad as well as the good from our past history, no matter how painful it might be, no matter if some of us might feel some backlash.” 

The Pardoning of “Tokyo Rose” The combination of community activism and “behind-the-scenes” maneuvering that influenced the repeal of Title II and the Manzanar historiclandmark campaign also influenced the campaign to obtain a pardon for Iva Ikuko Toguri, famously known as “Tokyo Rose.” A Nisei, Toguri was convicted of treason in 1949 for broadcasting over Radio Tokyo programs targeted at American troops. She had been forced to do so by the Japanese government. Pardon activists often drew on mobilization tactics developed during the Title II appeal. As the campaign progressed, these participants gained more experience publicizing wartime injustices. Many activists, including

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Clifford Uyeda, Edison Uno, and William Hohri, would later utilize these skills in the struggle for redress. The pardon campaign also helped the Japanese American community come to terms with its past and reevaluate definitions of patriotism and loyalty. Both the Title II and pardon enterprises criticized the government, but the committee supporting Toguri also called on the ethnic community to make amends for its silence during and after her trial. Roger Daniels has noted that the willingness of the community to support Toguri’s pardon suggests “its growing psychological security.”  During her trial, JACL leaders feared any association with Iva Toguri’s alleged guilt. In the 1970s, however, the organization that established its influence by praising government leaders endorsed a campaign that criticized government misconduct. Exposing how Toguri was victimized during the war, the campaign also encouraged former internees to contemplate the injustice of the wartime incarceration. Toguri was one of hundreds of Nisei stranded in Japan after the outbreak of hostilities. Born and raised in Los Angeles, Toguri was sent to Japan by her family to care for her sick aunt. She attempted to return to the United States in October 1941, before war broke out between the United States and Japan, but given her lack of an American passport, her application was denied. Enduring harassment by the Japanese Security Police, Toguri refused to renounce her American citizenship. Desperate for employment, however, Toguri began working as a typist for the Overseas Bureau of Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai (NHK), the Japan Broadcasting Corporation. In November 1943 the Japanese government ordered her to participate in English-language broadcasts that promoted Japanese propaganda and attempted to undermine the morale of American troops by making them homesick. She was assured by allied POWs, who were also forced to broadcast over Radio Tokyo, that she would play only entertaining music and might be permitted to soften the anti-American propaganda. Although Toguri was one of fourteen English-speaking broadcasters at Radio Tokyo, she alone was charged with a crime and dubbed “Tokyo Rose.” She became the focus of public attention after giving Hearst reporters Clark Lee and Harry Brundidge an interview on September 1, 1945, which was published in Cosmopolitan. Walter Winchell then demanded that the Department of Justice prosecute Toguri for treason. Consequently, she was arrested and forced to stand trial in San Francisco on eight counts

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of treason for broadcasts made between 1943 and 1945. Stanley Kutler has demonstrated that during the trial in the summer of 1949, the prosecution knowingly used false testimony. Toguri was convicted on one count, sentenced to ten years in jail, and fined $10,000. In 1974 Edison Uno introduced a resolution that was adopted by the JACL’s National Council. It offered Toguri a “belated apology for long silence and inaction” and offered “resources to correct the miscarriage of justice.”  Uno’s Pacific Citizen column declared Toguri could not have been prosecuted if she had yielded to pressure from Japanese authorities to renounce her citizenship. Her determination to preserve her citizenship made her, according to Uno, a “true American patriot” in the tradition of Patrick Henry. In 1949, however, the “patriots” the JACL wanted to protect were those who risked their lives on the battlefield. The organization refused to support Toguri because it feared any taint of “treachery” might tarnish the image of loyalty established by Nisei soldiers. When Toguri was released after serving six and one-half years in prison, the government announced plans to commence deportation proceedings. In March 1956 JACL leaders discussed the possibility of protesting these proceedings. In a memo to Mas Satow, Mike Masaoka said that he personally felt “native-born Americans should not be subject to deportation, regardless of their crime, especially after they have served whatever penalty the law prescribed.” Nevertheless, Masaoka worried that “the question of Nisei loyalty may again be raised,” and “the very fact that Tokyo Rose is also Nisei will cause some to wonder just why we are attempting to protect a disloyal person.” Satow agreed, saying “The bad public relations which may result by certain groups deliberately misunderstanding our position in opposing deportation, may actually harm the welfare of the majority of persons of Japanese ancestry.” Instead of supporting Toguri, the organization decided “to stand prepared and ready to deal with the press, radio, and TV in protecting the good names of the Japanese Americans.”  The Immigration and Naturalization Service, however, decided in 1958 to cancel the deportation order after a Supreme Court decision was interpreted to mean that Toguri had not lost her citizenship before her conviction. She was not deported but she was still a stateless person. Ashamed of the way the JACL and the ethnic community turned its back on Toguri, Chicago activist William Hohri termed the forgiveness campaign “Pardon me, Iva.”  The impetus for the campaign came from

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outside the JACL. In 1973 Clifford Uyeda, a Nisei pediatrician and community activist from San Francisco, learned of Toguri’s unjust conviction from John Hada, a retired army lieutenant colonel who completed a master’s thesis on the topic. Uyeda had a long history of criticizing JACL views and policies. In 1939 he attacked the organization’s philosophy in a letter to the Japanese-American Courier, the JACL paper in Seattle. The letter described his shock at seeing members of the American Legion, a group known for fomenting anti-Japanese sentiment, accorded places of honor at a JACL oratorical contest in Tacoma. He also was appalled at the “nationalistic flag-waving” content of the speeches. All you had to do, Uyeda warned, was substitute “Japan” for “US,” and you’d hear the same ultra-nationalistic speeches given in Japan. After the JACL refused to print his letter, Uyeda forgot about the organization and enrolled in medical school at Tulane University in New Orleans. He was at Tulane when the war broke out and his family was interned. Hearing stories of how the JACL cooperated with the government and promoted military service further alienated Uyeda. At one point, an FBI agent attempted to convince him he had a “duty to serve his country” in the armed forces. When Uyeda asked the agent why he alone, of all the medical students, was being sought for recruitment, the agent gave no answer. Uyeda believed the FBI played a role in the loss of his deferred status and the order for him to appear for a physical. Uyeda was lucky. He never got called for duty, though he had resolved to refuse induction had the order come. Serving as a doctor during the Korean War made Uyeda even more contemptuous of military bureaucracies. Disturbed by JACL celebrations of battlefield sacrifices, he refused to join the organization until the 1970s. Even the JACL’s battle to repeal Title II didn’t persuade him that the organization had changed. In fact, Uyeda became disgusted with the way the JACL leaders who opposed the campaign later “took all the credit.”  But by the mid-1970s, Uyeda’s attitude toward the JACL changed. As he found himself practically alone in launching a campaign to obtain a presidential pardon for Iva Toguri, he decided to seek the support of the JACL and its thirty thousand members. Uyeda recognized that JACL resources and contacts could help him unravel the lies and distortions surrounding Toguri’s case. Using the JACL’s machinery, he could distribute a single memorandum to more than one hundred chapters. He now felt that fewer Nisei might be “reluctant to look into and point out mistakes made

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by their own government” because of “economic security, improved social acceptance into the mainstream,” the civil rights movement, “and especially the Vietnam War and Watergate scandal.”  Uyeda’s pardon committee spent more than two years attacking the legend surrounding “Tokyo Rose.” In 1975 the committee distributed ten thousand copies of the booklet Iva Toguri (D’Aquino): Victim of a Legend, in which evidence of the unfairness of Toguri’s trial was presented. Two key witnesses admitted they were coerced by the U.S. government to give false testimony during her trial. “Once the true story behind the legend of Tokyo Rose was revealed,” recalled Uyeda, “the media support was phenomenal; and this triggered grass roots support from Americans all across the nation.”  The committee obtained editorial endorsements from major papers in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, Washington, D.C., Honolulu, and Denver. The American Civil Liberties Union, Americans for Democratic Action, the National Council of the Churches of Christ, and Veterans of Foreign Wars, Post 2471, passed petitions and resolutions favoring a pardon. In addition, the committee publicized statements of support from city, state, and federal politicians. Then on June 20, 1976, Toguri appeared on the CBS television news program 60 Minutes. The segment included a statement by John Mann, foreman of the jury that convicted Toguri, admitting, “There have been very few months since the trial that I did not think of her and think that she was not guilty.” Mann was certain the “anti-Japanese prejudice existing throughout the country” . . . “had some effect on the jury.” Uyeda recalled that after the broadcast, “editorials across the nation came to her support,” and “letters poured in.”  As one of the pardon committee members, Raymond Okamura helped prepare the 1975 Victim of a Legend booklet on Toguri, but he also wrote a separate account in 1976. His essay on Toguri’s experiences appeared in Counterpoint, the Asian American anthology. The piece provided a much more critical assessment of America, racism, and the Japanese American community. Whereas the pardon committee booklet designated Toguri the “victim of a legend,” Okamura declared she was the “victim of an American fantasy.”  The pardon committee had focused on the specifics of the case. Okamura used Toguri as an “example of how an individual can be victimized by international affairs and domestic racial fantasies.” Her trial

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was unfair, he declared, because the “cumulative effect of over 100 years of anti-Asian prejudices and stereotypes was so pervasive.” Okamura also included much more detail on the racism in America during and after the war. Toguri’s family had been “incarcerated at the Gila River, Arizona Concentration Camp,” and “public distrust of Japanese Americans did not subside after the war.” Okamura claimed, “The well-published sacrifices of Japanese American soldiers on the European Front (442nd Regimental Combat Team) did little to ameliorate prejudices.” More violence, Okamura noted “was committed against Japanese Americans returning to California in 1945–46 than during the aftermath of Pearl Harbor in 1941–1942.” The pardon committee had described how Toguri refused to renounce her citizenship despite enormous pressure from the Japanese security police. Okamura, on the other hand, recounted how “5,766 Japanese Americans renounced their American citizenship” because they were “bitter over being locked up in a concentration camp.”  Finally, there was a major difference in the way the two accounts portrayed the response of the JACL. According to the pardon committee, “While Japanese Americans may have sympathized with her predicament, there was very little they could effectively do to help while their own position in American society was under attack.”  Okamura, however, also pointedly noted that the “National Japanese American Citizens League refused to help” Toguri. He presented a statement made by Larry Tajiri, editor of the JACL newspaper, on the eve of Toguri’s trial in 1948. The editor charged her with directly contradicting “the stories of Nisei loyalty which have come out of World War II,” and with playing “fast and loose with the well-being of Americans of Japanese ancestry.”  Okamura did not mention, however, that Tajiri’s views changed during Toguri’s trial and that he and the Pacific Citizen had denounced the verdict, as it amounted to “punishing a legend.”  Okamura emphasized a history of intense racism that caused internees to renounce their citizenship, but other activists in the campaign focused on the importance of citizenship and how much Toguri cherished hers. This was especially true of the Japanese Americans who appealed for support from government officials. As in the Title II and historic-landmark campaigns, this political insider support was critical. Attempts to cultivate this support often portrayed Toguri as a great American patriot. David Ushio, JACL national executive director, told a committee of the Califor-

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nia legislature that while talking with Toguri, “Tears will run down her cheeks and she says the only thing she wants is to be an American citizen again.” The legislature passed a resolution supporting a pardon. Senator Spark Matsunaga, a decorated veteran who urged support for the pardon in House speeches and in letters to veterans organizations, declared that Toguri “always prized above all else—her U.S. citizenship.” Matsunaga also praised democracy and proclaimed that the granting of a presidential pardon and the restoration of U.S. citizenship to Toguri would “demonstrate that our system’s greatness lies in part in its flexibility to rectify its own errors.”  Yet the political insider who may have had the biggest impact on the pardon campaign was a politician whom grassroots activists like Okamura deplored. S. I. Hayakawa, the former acting president of San Francisco State, who was famous for denouncing activists, had been an old friend of Toguri’s family. When the newly elected senator from California arrived in Washington, he took along a packet of information about the pardon campaign and gave it to the White House. Clifford Uyeda, who had publicly condemned Hayakawa’s views and actions, acknowledged “the political reality of the Washington scene” and the junior senator’s impact: The White House was occupied by a Republican administration, and to get attention it helps to have a member of that party on your side. Senator S. I. Hayakawa, one of the most talked-about new Republicans in Washington, played a crucial role in the pardoning of Iva Toguri.

Hayakawa’s discussions with Ford about Toguri’s case undoubtedly influenced the president’s decision to sign a full and unconditional pardon for her on January 19, 1977, his last full day in office. Afterward, Japanese Americans gave different interpretations of the lessons of the pardon campaign. Bill Hosokawa proclaimed, “One of the delicious ironies of the Iva Toguri pardon is that the balance was tipped in her favor at the last moment by a man whose political philosophy is abhorrent to many of her most dedicated supporters.” He noted that many of the student protesters who fought against Hayakawa when he tried to quash the 1969 Third World Strike at San Francisco State “were among the first to join the battle to awaken the collective Nisei conscience to the injustice done Iva Toguri.” Dismissing the importance of this grassroots campaign, Hosokawa called the activists “mighty effective cogs.” Hayakawa’s influence with

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President Ford, Hosokawa concluded, provided a “lesson here on the nature of partisan politics as it is practiced in this country” that “should not be forgotten the next time it is necessary to carry a cause to the highest levels of government.”  The JACL’s Washington representative Wayne Horiuchi, on the other hand, recognized that “as in any successful campaign, both an effective ‘inside and outside’ operation must be executed.” Horiuchi praised Spark Matsunaga and S. I. Hayakawa for influencing people in Washington. But he also commended Uyeda’s grassroots campaign on behalf of Toguri: he had done “an effective job in educating the membership of the issues of her case.”  Further, Horiuchi credited the outside activists with obtaining “the ‘Sixty Minutes’ program on CBS-TV, dozens of editorial and public official endorsements, and thousands of signatures and letters from concerned and thoughtful JACLers.”  The same mixture of community activism and political lobbying also led to the official revocation of Executive Order 9066, which authorized the mass removal and exclusion process. At the beginning of 1975, Henry Miyatake and members of the JACL Seattle chapter formulated a plan to pursue the revocation. They first contacted Washington governor Daniel Evans, who brought the issue to the attention of the White House. Wayne Horiuchi drummed up support from members of Congress and kept in constant contact with White House staff. George Wakiji, a VISTA public information officer, convinced Dr. Myron B. Kuropas, an acquaintance from Chicago and a member of the White House staff, to help the campaign. At the same time, the JACL started a letter-writing campaign urging the president to rescind the wartime measure. Citing this campaign as “an object lesson in the way things are accomplished in Washington,” Bill Hosokawa noted, “All this pressure from many directions began to have an effect.” On February 19, 1976, the thirty-fourth anniversary of the signing of Executive Order 9066, Ford formally rescinded the wartime order. In a proclamation entitled “An American Promise,” Ford stated the country needed to provide “an honest reckoning” of “our national mistakes as well as our national achievements” in “this Bicentennial Year.” After calling the internment a “setback to fundamental American principles,” Ford praised the patriotic response of Japanese American soldiers. What’s more, he affirmed an “American Promise” to learn “from the tragedy of that long-ago experience forever to treasure liberty and justice for each individual American, and to resolve that this kind of action shall never again be repeated.” 

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Japanese American activism throughout the late 1960s and 1970s illustrated how different groups presenting very different interpretations of history could complement one other in successful political campaigns. Radical activists who promoted revisionist interpretations of history launched grassroots campaigns that convinced moderate and even conservative leaders to support their struggles. These leaders then often emphasized a traditional history of loyalty and patriotism to win endorsements from influential politicians. Even Old Guard leaders like Mike Masaoka recognized the potential power of this dialectic between radicals and conservatives. In 1972 Masaoka announced plans to retire after thirty years as JACL’s Washington representative. Insisting that he was not being pushed out the door by “radicals and revolutionaries,” Masaoka explained “times have changed” and “new voices and new leaders” were “entitled to be heard.” Nevertheless, Masaoka defended the legacy of JACL’s “national public relations campaign” . . . “to persuade the public at large to ‘accept’ Japanese Americans as fellow partners in the workings of American democracy.” These tactics, Masaoka declared, made JACL “a tried-and-true organization, national in scope, with prestige, influence, and invaluable contacts.” Masaoka insisted the best way “to expose the prejudices and the excesses of both society and government” was to “emphasize the positive and the constructive,” and rely on “reason and fairness.” Although Masaoka thought the “more activist & more all-issues-action-oriented” types should form their own organization, he acknowledged that the two groups might be able to help each other: “And, if such an organization urges the ‘radical, revolutionary’ approach to the solution of problems with the JACL proposing the more moderate, more-within-the-system, establishment concept, it might well prove more productive of certain common objectives desired by both JACL and the ‘other’ group.”  When Masaoka made this recommendation, he was undoubtedly thinking of the dynamic between conservative and radical forces that had led to the repeal of Title II. He was also, however, foreshadowing the development of the redress movement.

seven

“Three Strands Woven into a Single Fabric” Japanese American History and the Struggle to Obtain Redress

In 1976, S. I. Hayakawa proclaimed, “The wartime relocation was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to the Japanese Americans of the West Coast.” The then senator-elect, from California, told the Japanese American readers of the Los Angeles newspaper Rafu Shimpo that “relocation forced them out of their segregated existence to discover the rest of America.” It “opened up possibilities for them that they never would have known had they remained on a farm in Livingston or a fishing boat in San Pedro.” He acknowledged, “A few remain bitter,” but “most have been too busy taking advantage of their new opportunities and pursuing careers to nurse their grievances.” The ultimate lesson of this experience, Hayakawa concluded, was that “racism in American is neither as implacable nor as enduring as some would have us believe.”  Hayakawa, a Canadian-born semanticist, repeated these views of internment in articles and speeches throughout the mid-1970s. Consequently, JACL redress activist John Tateishi was hardly surprised when two years later a Salt Lake City Tribune headline announced, “Hayakawa Calls Japanese American Redress Absurd.” Newspapers across the country picked up the story, and the Wall Street Journal endorsed Hayakawa’s criticism of redress. “The Japanese American Citizens League,” Hayakawa declared, “has no right to ask the U.S. government for reparations for Japanese American citizens placed in relocation camps during World War II.” Since “everybody lost out during the war,” he assailed as “ridiculous” any proposal to provide former internees with monetary compensation. 287

288 “Three Strands Woven into a Single Fabric”

But John Tateishi relished being denounced as a radical by Hayakawa. He knew that the publicity generated by the senator’s comments could help jump-start his campaign for redress. Attracted to controversy, the media also would publicize the JACL resolution to seek $25,000 for each former internee that inspired Hayakawa’s attacks. The campaign would be denounced by others, including many who would mention the attack on Pearl Harbor, atrocities at Iwo Jima, prisoner fatalities in the Bataan Death March, and the current trade war while attacking the concept of redress. Tateishi was confident Japanese Americans would feel compelled to answer redress opponents who equated Japanese Americans with Japan as had General DeWitt and the other wartime architects of internment. They would not remain silent as Hayakawa, a resident of Chicago during the war who never set foot in camp, was given a national forum to espouse the “benefits” of the incarceration. In fact, Tateishi would later thank Hayakawa for helping the redress movement. The senator’s defense of internment helped Tateishi revive the history of the camps at a time when many former internees still wanted to forget the past. Even activists who participated in the successful campaign to repeal Title II and prevent a re-creation of the camps had been pessimistic. To justify compensation, Japanese Americans could not just denounce the incarceration as unwarranted. Former internees would have to remember what they had lost during the war. Many had spent decades repressing these memories and had no wish to resurrect the camp experience. But when Hayakawa projected a positive image of the incarceration, more Japanese Americans began to see the JACL proposal for compensatory legislation as a needed corrective. Yet Tateishi could not translate this support for redress into a unified movement. Tateishi and the JACL ignited a firestorm when the organization took the advice of Japanese American politicians and decided to switch from lobbying for compensatory legislation to lobbying for a government commission to investigate the history of internment. Denouncing the JACL for asking Japanese Americans to prove to the government they were victims, radical Nisei and Sansei activists formed two separate redress organizations. They mobilized Japanese Americans long suspicious of the JACL’s cooperation with the government during internment and its refusal to support protesters during the 1960s. Fearing the JACL might sanitize camp history by limiting commission testimony to heroic veterans,

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the National Council for Japanese American Redress and the National Coalition for Redress/Reparations promoted histories of resistance, suffering, and anger. But ironically, whereas the commission hearings exposed and deepened divisions within the ethnic community, they also solidified Japanese American support for redress. The three groups encouraged more than five hundred Japanese Americans to share diverse memories and interpretations of internment. To this end, hearings were held before the government throughout the country in 1981. The commission hearings provided a forum for veterans, “No-No” protesters, and grandmothers to describe—many for the first time—the suffering in camp. Japanese Americans of all political persuasions listened to former internees tearfully recount how homes were sold for a pittance, proud businessmen became gardeners, volunteer soldiers spent leave behind barbed wire, and children left camp hating themselves and their heritage. Enraged and empowered by this heartbreaking testimony, Japanese Americans would mount a mass movement for redress. By mobilizing these different constituencies within the Japanese American community, the three groups would become, in the words of one activist, “three strands woven into a single fabric.” 

Resurrecting Edison Uno’s Campaign for Redress When activist Clifford Uyeda became JACL’s president in 1978, he never anticipated overseeing such a controversial campaign. Uyeda’s big fear was that the organization would be too afraid of conflict to support the concept of redress. With the JACL’s help, Uyeda and other grassroots activists had helped Iva Toguri win a pardon in 1976. Afterward, Uyeda believed he could help steer the organization toward playing a constructive role in the Japanese American community. The JACL membership, in turn, elected Uyeda president because Toguri’s pardon demonstrated he could achieve results against long odds. The members who elected Uyeda president in 1978 hoped he would breathe life into a moribund redress campaign. Officially, the JACL had endorsed redress since 1970, when Edison Uno authored a resolution calling on Congress to “compensate on an individual basis a daily per diem requital for each day spent in confinement and/or legal exclusion.”  A redress campaign, Uno emphasized, could “educate the

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public, provide economic reimbursement to Nisei communities, validate the admission of an official wrong, and pay individuals on an equitable basis a debt long overdue.” Only an official decree by the government, Uno maintained, would “cast off the stigma of the entire Evacuation episode.”  Year after year the JACL endorsed redress resolutions but took little action. Privately, Uno confided to another activist, “Our real ‘enemy’ is the JACL leadership, its lobbyist in D.C., and some old timers who don’t want to rock the boat . . . I frankly believe JACL will jump on the bandwagon once it is ‘safe’ and looks like it will be successful.”  Publicly, Uno criticized the “ample excuses” made for the lack of progress: It would cost millions of dollars, it would divert resources from current programs, it is not the right time to press for remedial legislation, especially which asks for money, it will be a long and expensive campaign, and it would be difficult to rally the necessary support from the larger segment of society.

Acknowledging “all these arguments are very true,” he noted the same “excuses” had been made against initiating a repeal of Title II. But Uno would not live to see the tide change in the JACL. The death of the league’s champion of lost causes on Christmas eve in 1976 led redress activists to turn to Uyeda, who agreed to take up the mantle for redress. He insisted, however, that the JACL support a different “outsider” as redress chair: John Tateishi. Like Uyeda, the long-haired and bearded San Francisco State University instructor did not fit the profile of the typical JACL leader. But in contrast to Uyeda, Tateishi could talk about being interned even though his camp experience bore little resemblance to that of most JACLers. For example, when Tateishi’s family was sent to camp, the three-year-old Tateishi wasn’t permitted to go with them. Spotting the tell-tale signs of measles, a nurse at a transfer checkpoint separated him from his distraught mother and sent him alone to a hospital for the following three weeks. He was reunited in camp with a father known for fiery speeches that denounced JACL acceptance of internment and military service. Accused of fomenting attacks on JACL leaders, Tateishi’s father spent eight months in an isolation center with other men branded as troublemakers by the WRA and JACL. Tateishi’s father remained adamant that the league had betrayed Japanese Americans during the war when his son joined the organization in the mid-1970s. Edison Uno had persuaded Tateishi that the time was ripe

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for the JACL to lead a charge for redress. Convinced he could help the organization fight for redress, Tateishi still fretted for a period of two weeks before telling his father he was not only a member but a vice president of a JACL chapter. He was relieved and gratified when his father sanctioned his involvement by saying, “JACL put us in camp, JACL ought to make it right.”  Being the son of a famous “No-No” leader, however, certainly affected Tateishi’s tenure as JACL’s redress chair. He had to overcome the suspicion and hostility of influential veterans who still hated his father. Attacking Tateishi’s credibility, Old Guard leaders were joined by Karl Yoneda, a Communist Party member and activist outside the JACL, who also remembered fighting against Tateishi’s father in camp. Shadowing Tateishi as he attended forums on redress in the San Francisco Bay Area, Yoneda publicly mocked him as the son of a “traitor.” But Tateishi found evidence to neutralize Yoneda while conducting research for the campaign. He found a document in an archives certifying Yoneda’s role as an informant for the WRA against dissidents like his father. After threatening to distribute copies of the document throughout the Japanese American community, Tateishi extracted a public apology from Yoneda, and the heckling stopped. War wounds also affected Tateishi’s organization of the redress campaign. Still bitter at the way leaders like Mike Masaoka had treated camp protesters like his father, Tateishi made sure he was never given an official role in the campaign. Thus whereas most people assumed Masaoka was still “Mr. JACL” throughout the redress movement, he could never say he represented the organization when he appeared before the government. When Uyeda and Tateishi began to organize a campaign, they knew they faced an uphill battle. Outraged by Hayakawa’s defense of internment, more JACL members now endorsed redress, but Old Guard leaders still refused to provide support. For years, there had been fierce battles between opponents and advocates of reparations. Bill Hosokawa became the JACL’s most public spokesperson against monetary compensation. Writing several articles urging Nikkei not to dwell on the past or punish the United States, Hosokawa even praised the acceptance of internment as a “patriotic duty.”  He and other leaders worried reparations “would divide the organization” and “would not only cheapen the sacrifice Japanese Americans had made in response to their government’s wartime mandate, but well might provoke such a widespread backlash that the educational objective would

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be negated.”  A “few pieces of silver,” Hashime Saito insisted, “can never purchase soul development.” He concluded, “It would be folly and gross sacrilege to fight for reparations because the sole purpose of living is to further the growth of the soul.”  Many conservative leaders also denounced reparations for evoking “welfare” and affiliating Japanese Americans with other minorities. They refused to “lower ourselves to the same level as Blacks or Chicanos asking for relief and handouts.”  Those who campaigned for individual reparations, according to Toyo Shimizu, were “heeding a basic human trait of greed and selfinterest,” while “ignoring a much nobler human trait to forgive and forget something that took place a generation and half ago.”  The redress activists who preceded Uyeda and Tateishi had harshly condemned such arguments. Chuck Kato responded to Hashime Saito by saying, “I can’t see how ‘soul’ will help Issei who are barely surviving at the poverty level,” or “repay the losses suffered by these people who were affected by the unconstitutional act.”  Kato and other activists from Seattle had fought for redress since 1975. Frustrated by JACL recalcitrance, Shosuke Sasaki, Mike Nakata, and Henry Miyatake distributed “An Appeal for Action.” In this appeal they urged Japanese Americans to “repudiate the pseudo-American doctrine, promoted by white racists and apparently believed by some former Nisei leaders, that there is one kind of Americanism for whites and another kind for non-whites.” Also, the activists declared: The fact that, even after a lapse of thirty years, no real attempt has been made by Japanese Americans to obtain redress for the wrong, humiliations and loss of income suffered by them during their totally unwarranted imprisonment indicates that the older Nisei at least, have been so psychologically crippled by their pre-war and wartime experience that they have been unable to act as Americans should.

When Uyeda and Tateishi took up the reins of the campaign, they tried to avoid such acrimonious exchanges. Hoping to marshal a consensus, Uyeda wrote thirty-five articles for the Pacific Citizen to persuade the Old Guard to support redress and to mobilize redress advocates behind one proposal. “Restitution,” Uyeda argued, “does not put a price tag on freedom or justice.” According to Uyeda, “The issue is not to recover what cannot be recovered” but “to acknowledge the mistake by providing proper redress for the victims of the injustice, and thereby make such injustices less likely to

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recur.” But they also showed sensitivity to the concerns of the Old Guard. Realizing that many Nisei were offended by the term reparations and believed it suggested “payment extracted by victors in war from a defeated nation,” they changed the name of their campaign to the National Committee for Redress. John Dean had earlier advised using the term redress. In a speech before the JACL, the former White House counsel said he became interested in internment while working as an assistant attorney general in the Department of Justice during the campaign to repeal Title II. Changing the name, Dean suggested, would underscore the Constitution’s First Amendment guarantee of the right “to petition the government for redress of grievances.” It was also less likely to imply “monetary compensation.” Endorsing the campaign, Dean even announced plans to write a book on internment that would help the redress campaign gain support from the general public. Although he never actually published a book, he did give the JACL valuable advice: there must be unity if the campaign was to have any chance on Capitol Hill. He informed the organization that his congressional contacts were aware the JACL was “not together” on the issue and could not agree on what it wanted.

Diff erent Definitions of Redress Uyeda and Tateishi knew they had to mediate conflicting views of the form and meaning of redress. Throughout the years, several groups floated different proposals reflecting different views of who exactly deserved redress; that is, who the “victims” were according to the suffering they experienced and the needs of the Japanese American community. Should the JACL campaign include not only internees from the West Coast but also from Hawaii and Latin America? What about those who voluntarily evacuated and left the West Coast before the military forced people into camp? Should nonJapanese spouses and children who chose to accompany family members into camp be eligible? Should redress be given to Japanese Americans who were not incarcerated but were unfairly discharged from the military, had their travel restricted, and were in other ways denied due process or equal rights? Would the JACL include Japanese Americans stranded in Japan by the outbreak of World War II among those deserving redress? And

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did some Japanese Americans deserve more for their suffering than others? Were children as traumatized by the experience as adults? What about babies born in camp, or the children of former internees? Was there a stigma associated with internment or a legacy from the experience that made them also worthy of redress? Seattle activists argued that the length of incarceration should determine the amount of redress. Their proposal cited a precedent established in 1971 when the courts awarded twelve hundred May Day protesters against the Vietnam War $5,000 for each day they were confined in a stadium. Each “former inmate of those prison camps” during World War II would thus receive $5,000 and “$10 a day for each day of confinement,” with payments first going to the oldest Issei. Distrusting the congressional appropriations process, the Seattle Plan allowed Japanese Americans to divert their taxes to an IRS trust fund “for a period of up to ten years until all claims are satisfied.” This “Bootstrap Concept” would thus spare Japanese Americans “from appearing to be pleading for Congressional handouts.”  But measuring redress by the time spent in camp bothered some JACL leaders. Mike Masaoka sent a letter to the Seattle group objecting to any proposal that “rewards those who stayed longest.” Volunteers for military service and Japanese Americans who left camp to attend college or take new jobs would receive less than “troublemakers” who were released later. Masaoka also argued that including internees from Hawaii and Central and South America would make it more “difficult to secure congressional passage.” Furthermore, Masaoka opposed “automatically entitling Japanese Americans stranded in Japan during the war” because “some voluntarily served in Japan’s armed forces against our own Japanese American troops.”  Masaoka thought “setting a price on the priceless sacrifice of freedom was distasteful.” He declared, “The whole idea of seeking individual monetary recompense for a sacrifice we had accepted in a time of war was disturbing.” Moreover, Masaoka was “concerned that redress might become a full-blown controversy into which U.S.–Japan relations might be drawn just at a time when trade and other problems were making them difficult.” He explained: I felt JACL’s insistence on individual monetary redress was futile, not only because most of the individuals who suffered financial loss would be dead and gone by the time Congress acted, but also because the demand might frustrate the movement’s other goals. I believed that the evacuation was

“Three Strands Woven into a Single Fabric” 295 a collective crime against a group, and that compensation should primarily benefit the group through community projects, homes for the elderly, and the like.

Consequently, Masaoka and other leaders who refused to be “paid” for internment, proposed seeking a community trust fund as an alternative to individual compensation. But what was considered a “worthy” cause for such a fund? Bill Hosokawa, disdainful of government handouts, could stomach the idea of a “foundation” that would fund scholarships, research projects, and assistance for impoverished Japanese Americans. But who would administer this fund? Another plan championed a “Nikkei corporation” that would spend half the funds on community services and half on public relations programs. Minoru Yasui, on the other hand, preferred a “quasi-governmental commission.”  But critics of these plans suspected Old Guard JACL leaders might end up controlling these trust funds. Many Sansei activists insisted that all trust fund administrators be selected from the entire Japanese American community. They argued that low-cost housing and health services for poor Japanese Americans would help the community more than academic projects or public relations programs. Moreover, they refused to choose between individual and communal compensation. Demanding both from the government, they deemed all victims of the war were eligible, including the heirs of internees who had died. As they struggled over who really represented the views of the community, advocates of the various proposals often cited survey evidence to support their versions of redress. Yet the surveys were hardly random or representative. For example, the Pacific Southwest JACL Reparations Committee wrote a lead story for the Pacific Citizen announcing that “93 Percent Responding to Survey on Reparations Check ‘Yes.’” The article proclaimed that direct payment to individuals was favored by 78 percent, to community services by 31 percent, to scholarships by 15 percent, to a legal defense fund by 15 percent, to a public relations program to strengthen U.S.–Japan relations by 10 percent, and to other proposals by 6 percent. But the poll was based on only six sources—an Amache Reunion, a Gardena JACL installation, a dinner for Wayne Collins (lawyer for Fred Korematsu, Iva Toguri, the Tule Lake renunciants, and Japanese Latin Americans), a South Fernando Valley installation, a Hawaii mail-in, and an Executive Order 9066 mail-in—that together elicited a grand total of 401 responses in four months.

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A contrasting headline declared, “East Coast Nikkei Less Inclined for Individual Reparation Pay.” A survey prepared by “two long-time experts in legislation,” Mike Masaoka and Kaz Oshiki, indicated that only 52 percent favored individual payment. But this was based on only fifty-six responses gathered from four meetings sponsored by the Eastern District Council in Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, New York City, and Seabrook, New Jersey. Moreover, the questionnaire that was presented made no pretense of the author’s recommendations for redress. Under the category of “Reparations Beneficiaries,” Masaoka and Oshiki wrote: Most knowledgeable Washingtonians agree that the Congress would more likely authorize reparations appropriations for a lump sum payment to a foundation, commission, organization, program, or project that would administer payment for the “good” of, and in the public services of those of Japanese ancestry, particularly those remaining victims who are in urgent “need” of financial and other aid, than for individual payment to thousands.

Recognizing that “all persons of Japanese ancestry in this country suffered to some extent in World War II,” Masaoka and Oshiki maintained “the degree of deprivation and hurt varied even among Evacuees.” Any “general automatic payment to individuals,” they concluded, “would be unfair to some and overly generous to others.”  Vehemently disagreeing, William Hohri challenged the questionnaire’s assumptions: First, can questions of justice be resolved by taking a vote? I think not. That’s how we got into camp in the first place. The Evacuation ignored the question of justice and responded to public opinion, pressure groups, and political power. In the questionnaire, the choice between citizens and aliens is an example. All persons are covered by the Constitution, citizens and aliens alike. You can’t change this by taking a poll. Reparations should apply to all persons who were denied their civil rights by the Evacuation. How can anyone be excluded?

Hoping to mobilize support from these different factions, Uyeda and Tateishi developed a redress plan that incorporated elements from the various proposals. Defining eligibility broadly, they called for individual compensation and a community trust fund. The resolution they presented to the JACL in 1978 asked Congress to provide $25,000 to each person who suffered exclusion and internment, regardless of their age or national origin;

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to give these funds to the heirs of internees who had passed on; and to establish a $100 million trust to be administered by a commission of Japanese Americans selected from the community. Ironically, the committee based the $25,000 figure on Mike Masaoka’s claim that the Federal Reserve determined Japanese Americans had lost $400 million in property because of internment. This statistic appeared in many histories and still pops up occasionally. However, Masaoka confided to Tateishi that he had simply invented this figure during government hearings for the 1948 Evacuation Claims Act. Like the activists in the prior struggles for Japanese American rights, Tateishi and the JACL’s National Committee for Redress (NCR) avoided denouncing the JACL’s Old Guard in its call for redress. In fact, the committee tried to appeal to different constituencies within the community by focusing its criticism on how “the system of democracy was tested under duress and it failed.” According to the NCR, internment “marked the failure of the government to carry out the democratic principles of this nation and demonstrated the failure of the system of checks and balances which are intended to insure the protection and rights of American citizens.”  Also, the committee challenged the JACL’s traditional representations of patriotism but in a way that didn’t denigrate the bravery of veterans. “Without detracting from the magnificent war record of Japanese Americans in World War II,” the committee suggested, “in the long-run, those who resisted may also have been the true American patriots because they took their constitutional rights seriously and fought to uphold the Constitution.”  Avoiding the controversial term concentration camp, NCR material drew parallels with the experiences of German Jews during World War II and suggested Japanese Americans emulate Holocaust survivors who insisted on keeping alive the memories of these camps: “Both were imprisoned in barbed wire compounds with armed guards. Both were prisoners of their own country. Both were there without criminal charges, and were completely innocent of any wrongdoing. Both were there for only one reason—ancestry.” Noting the West German government agreed to pay $45 billion in restitution, the committee maintained “acknowledging the mistake by providing proper redress . . . makes such injustices less likely to recur.”  Tateishi designed a survey that would mobilize support for redress within the JACL and present an image of unity to the government. Knowing he would never have to deliver the survey to redress critics, he deliberately framed questions

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in a way that made it difficult to disagree with the campaign. Twenty thousand surveys distributed to JACL members in northern California posed such questions as “Do you believe the injustice of internment affected your life?” He avoided the contentious questions of eligibility and simply asked whether people favored the concept of redress and some form of compensation. Moreover, Tateishi knew that asking respondents to mail back the surveys also skewed the sample. He anticipated that those who took the time to complete and return the survey would favor redress, and he was not disappointed. Even though he personally believed that “hardly 50 percent” of the JACL supported redress, Tateishi’s survey results showed 94 percent of the organization favored redress and 83 percent favored compensation. He could now project a redress mandate.

Controversy over the Proposal for a Federal Commission Tateishi knew that promoting an image of unity among the variety of Japanese American opinions and getting a bill through Congress were two very different things. At the end of January 1979, Tateishi and a small delegation from the JACL met with four Nikkei members of Congress— Senators Daniel Inouye and Spark Matsunaga, from Hawaii, and Congressmen Norman Mineta and Robert Matsui, from California—to discuss strategy for submitting legislation. Tateishi recalled that Senator Inouye suggested to us that before Congress would begin to consider any legislation to seek compensation, we needed first to establish an official determination of wrong in the government’s records because the Congress, and indeed the American public, was not convinced that an injustice had occurred.

The representatives described the obstacles redress would encounter from a Congress and public that knew little if anything of the history of internment, and was generally unsympathetic toward Japanese Americans. They feared monetary redress would be seen as a needless expenditure at a time when Congress was looking for ways to cut costs. Moreover, Congressmen Mineta and Matsui were both former internees who would personally benefit from redress legislation. Matsui, who had been in the House only a few weeks, was particularly vulnerable if redress opponents decided to accuse him of catering to special interests. Not only were Mineta and Mat-

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sui less established than Inouye and Matsunaga, they came from districts that lacked large Asian American constituencies. As he listened to the Japanese American members of Congress advise pursuing a proposal to establish a federal commission on internment, Tateishi’s heart sank: In my gut, what I really wanted to do was take this thing straight up. Go in with an appropriate bill . . . make an honest fight of it and see what we could do in a battle in the Congress. And if we lost, then we would lose it in an honest fight, and we would have it over with. I knew the commission route would be long and . . . difficult and that it wouldn’t be popular at all [with Japanese Americans].

Tateishi was not surprised when critics consequently accused the JACL of abandoning the pursuit of substantive redress and developed alternative redress organizations. These critics expressed shock and dismay when JACL switched from supporting compensatory legislation to backing a bill to appoint a commission “to determine whether a wrong was committed” and “to recommend appropriate remedies” for the government’s wartime actions. They were outraged at the idea Japanese Americans had to prove that internment was unjust and that they had suffered during the war. Many JACL critics suspected the commission proposal was a “stalling tactic” that would defuse redress activism and impede demands for monetary compensation. However, Tateishi changed his mind about the commission and was convinced by JACL president Clifford Uyeda that a commission might help educate the public about the history of internment and establish a new official record that would help obtain reparations. Uyeda defended the commission approach as a “carefully planned strategy to seek redress.” According to Uyeda, research by the National Committee for Redress indicated that passing a huge appropriations bill for former internees in 1979 was “unrealistic and doomed to failure.” Uyeda argued that a commission would allow Japanese Americans to effectively “make their case” for redress before a general American public, which was still unaware of the significance and injustice of internment. Believing that Congress was more likely to pass redress legislation that was recommended by a commission, Uyeda concluded that there was “no change in the overall purpose of the redress campaign.”  The relative ease with which Public Law 96-317, creating the Commis-

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sion on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, passed through Congress testified to the clout of the Japanese American congressional representatives and the framing of the legislation as a historical study. The House bill was introduced by Majority Leader Jim Wright and cosponsored by Representatives Mineta and Matsui, along with 114 other members of Congress. Senator Inouye convinced Senate Majority Whip Ted Stevens, a Republican from Alaska, to cosponsor the bill. Stevens was encouraged to include an examination of “Aleut civilians, and permanent resident aliens of the Aleutian and Pribilof Islands” evacuated under the provisions of Executive Order 9066. The motive for this removal was benign, but conditions in the Alaskan camps were even harsher than in the Japanese American internment camps. The Aleutian and Pribilof Islands, a chain of small islands strategically located between Alaska and the former Soviet Union, were invaded by Japan in June 1942. American military authorities, who had expected an invasion since Pearl Harbor, evacuated the islanders to southeast Alaska. No one disputed the decision to remove the islanders from their homes. But the evacuees suffered tremendously because of the hasty and poorly managed removal process. Most Aleuts lost all of their personal possessions. They were sent to camps that were abandoned gold mines or fish canneries, and that had virtually no medical care. They lacked adequate housing and had to live in broken-down buildings or abandoned shacks. What’s more, the camps didn’t provide sufficient supplies of food or water, and disease was rampant. Consequently, approximately 10 percent of the evacuees died, mainly from influenza, pneumonia, and tuberculosis, during the two to three years they were kept in the camps. In addition, government indifference prevented many from returning to their villages even after the United States regained control of the islands in 1944 and 1945. The Pribilovians waited nine months, and most of the Aleutians couldn’t return for a full year. In fact, some Aleutians were never permitted to move back to their homes. Those who did found their communities were vandalized and looted. And few received any compensation from the government. Consequently, Aleuts wanted redress for the deplorable camps established by the military and for the government’s failure to compensate their material losses. Whereas the reasons for the relocation of the islanders and Japanese Americans differed, both groups held the government responsible for their wartime suffering.

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The National Council for Japanese American Redress and a History of Resistance Many members of Congress who opposed monetary redress endorsed the creation of a “fact-finding” commission. Even S. I. Hayakawa agreed to cosponsor legislation to review the history of internment. Of course, Hayakawa’s approval only convinced Tateishi’s critics that the commission was a “sell out.” Refusing to rely on the “will of a commission,” JACL dissidents in Seattle and Chicago founded a separate organization. They formed the National Council for Japanese American Redress (NCJAR) to “carry forward a genuine redress bill.”  Congressman Mike Lowry, from the state of Washington, a young first-term Democrat with little clout among his colleagues, sponsored the bill. The legislation provided all Japanese Americans who had been “interned, detained, or forcibly relocated,” or their heirs, with a base payment of $15,000, plus $15 per day of incarceration. Supporters of this legislation declared that asking Japanese Americans to prove to a federal commission that incarceration was unjust was both insulting and unnecessary. Criticizing JACL accommodation, Seattle activist Shosuke Sasaki described the commission proposal as an “attempt to delay, de-rail, and confuse the redress issue.” He argued that passage of the commission bill would “deny redress to those hundreds of Issei [first-generation Japanese Americans] and Nisei [second-generation] who, as a result of the 18 month delay,” will “die before a genuine redress bill can be enacted into law.” After denouncing self-serving politicians and “Old Time JACLers” as paralyzed by fear of an anti–Japanese American backlash, Sasaki characterized the commission proposal as a “political maneuver to avoid a direct facing of constitutional issues.”  Of course, this is what made the commission proposal appeal to members of Congress uncomfortable with the idea of monetary compensation. Lacking support from the Japanese American members of Congress, Lowry’s bill died in committee. However, a group of activists within the NCJAR decided to continue challenging JACL leadership by filing in 1983 a class action lawsuit against the government. Believing the courts “might hear and decide our case on its merits,” this group hoped “historical fact, rather than popular opinion, would affect the scales of informed legal justice.” Waging a battle within the courts, these activists happily avoided negotiating with the JACL, the commission, and members of Congress. Within this legal context, they

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were permitted to conduct an independent and confidential investigation of government documents before disclosing the “full record of the federal government’s action” in a court of law. Citing twenty-two causes of action, the group demanded $220,000 for each victim of exclusion and incarceration. This “unambiguously adversarial” sum would thus compensate Japanese Americans for “constitutional violations, loss of property and earnings, personal injury, and pain and suffering.”  Directed by a small group of Nisei in Chicago, this legal campaign persuaded twenty-five Japanese American men and women to appear as plaintiffs. Lawsuit supporters raised more than $300,000 and distributed a monthly newsletter that eventually reached almost fifteen hundred subscribers. The idea of a lawsuit appealed to “No-No’s,” draft resisters, and other protesters against internment during the war. It also attracted Nisei “radicalized” by the social movements of the 1960s. William Hohri, who became the driving force and spokesperson for the legal struggle, had been transformed by the civil rights, antiwar, and ethnic pride movements. When he was interned at Manzanar at the age of fifteen, Hohri had simply accepted the racist attacks on Japanese Americans by government officials: For me, democracy was listening to President Roosevelt and believing every damn word he said. Democracy was buying war stamps, democracy was never forgetting the words to a Hit Parade song—“You’re a sap Mr. Jap . . .”—Democracy was being a Jap—buck-toothed, evil, sexcrazed, sneaky, devious, yellow-bellied, yellow-livered; yellow—the Ultimate Bogeyman.

Instead of challenging wartime policies, Hohri subscribed to the ideology that “being a good citizen” required being a “good Jap and knowing your place.” Hoping to “dissociate” himself from “all things Japanese,” Hohri avoided “contact with other Japanese Americans” and “ethnic Japanese culture.”  Ashamed of his “Jap” heritage, Hohri tried to imitate whites so that he could be as “American as possible in speech, behavior, and everything else.”  After participating in the civil rights and antiwar movements, Hohri reevaluated his tendency to apologize for being the victim of racial discrimination. In 1966 he volunteered to represent the United Methodist Church in James Meredith’s march to Jackson, Mississippi. Impressed by the courage of black marchers who chanted “black power” with anger

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and pride, Hohri began to realize that Japanese Americans also needed “to understand the past and affirm ourselves as a people.” During the Vietnam War, Hohri presented resolutions calling on the Northern Illinois Conference of the United Methodist Church to oppose American involvement. As the antiwar movement heated up, Hohri became increasingly angry at the anti-Asian sentiment displayed by war supporters. These protest movements and the Watergate revelations further undermined Hohri’s trust in the government. By the late 1970s Hohri became convinced that Japanese Americans had been “brainwashed” by the government and by JACL leaders into thinking that being a “good American” required blind obedience to government officials and conformity to mainstream values. Inspired by other minority leaders who denounced government policies, Hohri called for an end to JACL accommodation. Instead of continuing JACL policies that were devoted to “gaining public acceptance or enhancing our image,” Hohri believed Japanese Americans should “assert ourselves as free citizens” and demand redress from the government. Hohri’s emphasis on resistance and confrontation revealed more than just a disagreement with JACL strategies. Hohri believed JACL redress tactics reflected a continuation of the organization’s wartime accommodation to racism. He testified against the commission proposal because he saw it as evidence that the JACL was “bowing to political reality in 1979 much in the way it bowed to military necessity in 1942” when it decided to cooperate with government officials. Hohri believed, however, that the redress movement provided Japanese Americans with a “second chance” to be the “movers and shapers of our own history.”  Instead of following the example of past and present JACL leaders who deferred to Washington, redress activists could get “involved in our own national destiny” and force the government to “represent our interests—the interests of the people.”  Anticipating the JACL would dominate the commission hearings, Hohri testified before the commission in Washington, D.C., to challenge any attempt to trumpet the glorious military record of the Nisei as a justification for redress. Since the war, the JACL had stressed how courageous veterans proved their loyalty through combat and thus forced the American public to recognize the citizenship rights of the Nisei. Hohri told the commission, however, that Japanese Americans should not have to continually refer to the bravery of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, “as though it

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were necessary for our being accepted as full citizens.” He insisted, “We are all citizens by reason of birth and law, not by the blood sacrificed by our brothers on the battlefield.”  Before, during, and after the hearings, Hohri repeatedly attacked the JACL in the NCJAR Newsletter, for “inaccurately portraying” the history of Japanese American responses to internment. Denouncing the JACL for “submitting” to the government both during and after the war, Hohri called on Japanese Americans to reclaim a more confrontational style of politics that was rooted within the camps. He believed redress activists needed to revive a tradition of Japanese American resistance, which had been denied or minimized in JACL accounts of the camps. Urging Japanese Americans to confront the “dark side of their heritage,” Hohri waged a crusade to expose a history of the wartime JACL’s betrayal of the ethnic community. Hohri’s newsletters accused JACL leaders of collaborating with the government during the war by serving as informers against traditional Issei leaders and dissidents within the camps. Hohri’s fiercest criticism, however, was directed at Mike Masaoka, the wartime JACL executive secretary, who exhorted Nisei in his “Japanese American Creed” to “prove” themselves “worthy of equal treatment and consideration.” He denounced Masaoka’s creed as an “apologetic self-declaration of imagined racial or ethnic inferiority and a promise of complete submission to and utter trust in the white majority.”  Hohri could not understand why the leader of a “racially oppressed minority” would “obsequiously yield everything to the government.”  The wartime JACL, Hohri insisted, turned its back on the ethnic community when it “bowed to the inevitability of exclusion and detention, sought desperately for public acceptance, and vigorously fought any action that challenged their own course of action—even when such action included the affirmation of constitutional rights.”  Displaying no sympathy for the constraints JACL leaders faced, Hohri disparaged past and present leaders who cooperated with the government. At the same time, Hohri reclaimed a history of resistance within the camps. He celebrated Joseph Kurihara, the famous “No-No” protester who renounced his citizenship during the war, and Kiyoshi Okamoto, leader of the 1944 draft resistance at Heart Mountain, as “kindred spirits” who “demonstrated a heroism that can energize our contemporary redress movement.”  By attempting to affirm the constitutional rights of Japanese Americans and all minorities, Hohri declared, the lawsuit was a continu-

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ation of wartime resistance. Protesters who had been excluded from JACL histories were now portrayed as heroes of the community. Ignoring allegations that Kurihara had threatened or beaten Japanese Americans who disagreed with him, Hohri lauded Kurihara’s outrage against the government and against JACL leaders. Hohri’s depictions of a history of “righteous protest” during the war provided a stark contrast to the accounts of wartime valor presented at the commission hearings by several JACL panels of veterans. Many of these former soldiers echoed Tad Masaoka when he explained at the commission hearings in San Francisco why he volunteered for the 442nd Regimental Combat Team despite being interned at Manzanar: My focus is on this because I feel there is a compelling relationship between my evacuation experience and volunteering into the army. That relationship reflects our faith in democracy, not by me alone, not by hundreds of others, but by the thousands of us Nisei who made that same decision.

After telling how his brother Ben “fell in a hail of German bullets while attacking a German machine gun nest” and his brother Ike “is still one hundred percent disabled from a German 88 shell,” Masaoka declared, “But for the United States, our volunteering was utilized as a national and international banner that Americanism is a matter of the mind and heart and not one of race or creed or color. And I think that our actions gave substance and meaning to that concept.”  Masaoka ended his testimony by asking the commission to “accept that torch for our fallen brothers,” and “make known to America the tragedy of our incarceration and proclaim the magnificence of the 442nd and its volunteers from the concentration camps.” His brother, the famous Mike Masaoka, earlier had also urged the commission in Washington, D.C., to record “that under the most extreme demands of our government, we demonstrated a courage, a loyalty, and if you please, a faith that today ought to inspire men of good will throughout the world that these United States remain the last best hope of mankind.”  Conservative leaders like Mike Masaoka sincerely believed accounts of the 442nd best represented the Japanese American response to internment. More progressive leaders within the organization, such as John Tateishi, complied with this course because they recognized the pragmatic benefits of utilizing a historical image that could elicit widespread public support

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for redress legislation. A few local JACL chapters encouraged Japanese Americans from other backgrounds to participate in the hearings; therefore, some veterans agreed to contribute, recounting feelings of disillusionment and anger from the war. But many JACL leaders who testified were like Ken Hayashi, who declared at a hearing arranged in Los Angeles that all of the sons in his family were proud to serve in the army during the war because they maintained a “deep, abiding faith in our country that these wrongs would some day be rectified.”  Stating that he was “proud to be an American,” veteran Phil Shigekuni affirmed “part of what makes this country great is that not only can it admit its mistake, but more importantly, it can provide justice to those who suffered as a result of its mistake.” 

NCJAR’s Lawsuit and a History of Government Misconduct The lawsuit brought by the NCJAR appealed to Japanese Americans who did not share Shigekuni’s faith in democracy. Merry Omori became a plaintiff in the class action lawsuit because she believed Japanese Americans were mistreated at the commission hearings and were cut off before they could finish their presentations. Although the commission did not provide official limits on individual testimony, the JACL’s Pacific Citizen advised witnesses to limit their testimony to a maximum of ten minutes. At a hearing held in Chicago in 1981, Omori said she felt that it was unjust that actual internee witnesses were allowed only half the time of hakujin, or “whites.” She threw down her paper and walked out of the room. As she left, other former internees shook her hand and told her that they had wanted to do the same thing but hadn’t had the nerve. Other plaintiffs were resisters during the war. In 1941 John Omori had been a high school student aspiring for a sports scholarship. After the war broke out, he volunteered to serve in the navy, marines, and coast guard but was rejected because of his Japanese ancestry. Refusing to be drafted into the army “because the Army was imprisoning his family solely because of their race,” Omori was “arrested, jailed, and convicted for his resistance.” Demonstrating that he was not afraid of military service per se, Omori “served his country in the U.S. Army” in the Korean War. The lawsuit provided Omori with another chance to protest the government’s incarceration of his family.

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Plaintiff Harry Ueno wanted to “go after the government so they can’t repeat the same thing, the same mistake.”  The lawsuit also gave Ueno a vehicle to protest government reprisals against resisters in the camps. Ueno, a friend of Kurihara’s at Manzanar, was labeled a camp “troublemaker when he organized a kitchen workers’ union and publicly investigated shortages of essential foods in the camp’s diet.” According to Ueno, the camp administration retaliated against him with a program of harassment that culminated in his arrest, in December 1942, on the false charge of attacking a suspected informer. A mass protest against his arrest was crushed when the government “fired into the defenseless crowd with guns and tear gas, wounding and killing several innocent residents.” Subsequently imprisoned in local jails and special high security camps, Ueno charged that he was “subjected to constant threats and brutality by U.S. officials, denied basic food, hygiene, and other human needs, and prohibited from communicating with his family.” In the suit, Ueno asserted that each of his protests resulted in “increased punishment, inhumane treatment, and threats to his life. The U.S. promised him a fair hearing but never provided him a trial or any semblance of a hearing, never informed him of any charges against him, and never provided him full or fair compensation according to law.”  The NCJAR lawsuit specified more than sixty allegations of government wrongdoing as constitutional grounds for adjudication, which included “the suddenness of the notice to pack and leave; barbed wire confines in desolate areas, tar-papered barracks; placement of an entire family in a single cubicle, or with strangers; loss of property, dignity and self-esteem; abuse of the aged and infirm, their suffering and even death.”  Citing documents found by NCJAR researchers Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga and Jack Herzig, the legal complaint charged that the government had “engaged in a long-standing conspiracy to deprive” the plaintiffs of judicial redress by intentionally misrepresenting and suppressing information in defendant’s possession which attested to plaintiffs’ loyalty to the United States; by making false and patently racist claims concerning alleged disloyal acts and propensities of plaintiffs; by attempting to revoke plaintiffs’ rights of citizenship and habeas corpus; by maliciously interfering with plaintiffs’ access to the courts; and by punishing and threatening plaintiffs for challenging the legality of defendant’s actions against them.

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The lawsuit also utilized research by scholars such as historian Roger Daniels to demonstrate that prewar government intelligence reports affirmed the general loyalty of Japanese Americans and recommended against mass exclusion in case of war. The suit charged government officials with deliberately suppressing these reports and “conspiring” to conceal and misrepresent the “illegal nature of its actions by fabricating claims of ‘military necessity.’” The suit explicitly accused Assistant Secretary of War John J. McCloy, Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt, and Colonel Karl R. Bendetsen of plotting to “keep us locked up illegally, to prevent our access to the courts, and to keep us from exercising our constitutionally guaranteed freedoms.”  Citing evidence discovered by scholar Peter Irons, the NCJAR accused government officials of withholding vital information from the Supreme Court: “Defendant unethically subjected key attorneys in the Department of Justice to duress and coercion in a concerted effort to have them misrepresent, suppress, and cover up evidence in the Department of Justice’s possession demonstrating plaintiffs’ loyalty.”  War Department pressure caused the attorneys to delete a footnote to the solicitor general’s brief that would have expressed the Department of Justice’s unwillingness to confirm General DeWitt’s allegations of widespread Japanese American espionage and sabotage in his Final Report. Quoting these misrepresentations in DeWitt’s “Final Report,” the Supreme Court upheld the criminal convictions of Japanese Americans who challenged the mass curfew and exclusion orders. The plaintiffs also charged the government with denying the right to petition for redress by threatening and punishing any Japanese Americans who attempted to resist, challenge, or disagree with government policies. In the camps, mail was censored and group discussions “were restricted to permissible topics, conducted in English, and required advance notice to the camp administration so an official could record all statements.” According to the plaintiffs in the case, those in camp “who made statements critical of the United States or of their losses of liberty were subjected to harsh punitive measures by defendant, including beatings and indefinite solitary confinement.”  In sharp contrast to the JACL, which had advocated the segregation of dissidents during the war, the NCJAR protested government persecution of the “No-No’s.” The NCJAR charged that while confined at the Tule Lake

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segregation center, the “No-No’s” suffered “particularly harsh treatment, and prolonged incarceration, were stigmatized as disloyal, were classified as ‘undesirable aliens’ by the Selective Service System, and were subjected to threats and actual losses of citizenship, and deportation.”  The NCJAR thus argued that the lawsuit could not have been filed earlier because the government’s “intimidation, racism, and threats against us” affected the “diligence with which we could reasonably act.” The NCJAR went on to explain: We speak here of the vast psychological impact of exclusion and detention coupled with racial hostility and hatred. We speak of the sense of finality in the Supreme Court decisions. We speak of the struggle for survival in the period following our release and our effort to overcome racial discrimination in housing, jobs, education, and so forth.

Judicial Redress and the American Court System It took five years for the NCJAR’s lawsuit to wend its way through the judicial process. The government filed a motion to dismiss the case on May 16, 1983, on grounds of sovereign immunity and the statute of limitations. The Department of Justice declared that the government had neither consented to be sued nor waived its immunity. There was a six-year statute of limitations for civil action against the United States. The government claimed that 1942, when Japanese Americans were incarcerated, marked the start of the statute time frame. The government also asserted that the 1948 Evacuation Claims Act, which required Japanese Americans to file claims prior to January 1950, had provided an “exclusive remedy” for any damages suffered during the war. The NCJAR responded by noting that the Evacuation Claims Act “imposed arbitrary exclusions, severe delays and administrative burdens” and “failed to compensate plaintiffs adequately for their losses.” Failing “to comport with even minimal constitutional standards of due process,” the act “relegated plaintiffs’ claims to agency determination and settlement without opportunity for judicial review.” As a result, the act unjustly “ratified summary seizures by the government” and denied relief altogether for permanent residents “wrongfully arrested by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Most important, the act “denied redress for plaintiffs’ egregious

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losses of constitutional rights and personal injuries.” The NCJAR attacked the defense of sovereign immunity by invoking the Fifth Amendment Takings Clause, which “mandates compensation for governmental takings of private property” and the organization urged extension of this mandate to the “deprivation of constitutional rights.” The NCJAR insisted that failure to hear and determine the plaintiffs’ claims for compensation “would totally compromise the important principles of judicial review, the system of checks and balances, and deterrence, as well as the basic protection of constitutional rights.”  The government declared that Japanese Americans should and must have “known the facts at the time of the events” and should have sought legal redress in 1942. But NCJAR argued that the statute of limitations should be tolled; that is to say “postponed,” until 1983, when a federal commission disclosed that the government had engaged in “affirmative acts of concealment and fraud . . . which concealed the nature of the defendant’s actions.”  Acknowledging that reports by the Office of Naval Intelligence, FCC, and FBI that undermined the government’s justification for internment were accessible during the late 1940s, NCJAR claimed that this published information “merely tended to support the same arguments advanced against the government and rejected in the wartime cases—that the plaintiff class was loyal to the United States and there was no military necessity for the wartime actions.”  The NCJAR argued that the failure of the more than forty lawsuits filed during and immediately after the war reflected the effectiveness of the government’s “conspiracy, misrepresentations, fraud, and concealment of evidence.” Furthermore, the 1948 Japanese American Evacuation Claims Act unjustly limited and restricted claims for monetary compensation and declared that such compensation constituted “exclusive remedies” for internment. In light of the wartime judicial decisions and postwar congressional actions, the NCJAR argued that the government could not expect plaintiffs to file a suit before the commission’s research provided plaintiffs with “evidence obviously different from that earlier ruled on by the Supreme Court.”  In 1984 Judge Louis F. Oberdorfer, of the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia, rejected the NCJAR’s arguments, eliminating all but one of the causes of action, and dismissing the suit on statute of limitations grounds. Refusing to accept the NCJAR’s claim that deprivation of constitutional rights was analogous to deprivation of property rights, the

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judge ruled that only “governmental taking of private property” under the Fifth Amendment provided a possible basis for monetary claims. Discounting the significance of the NCJAR’s new evidence of government fraud and conspiracy, Oberdorfer concluded that Japanese Americans should have prepared a case in 1949, or shortly thereafter, and utilized the documents refuting the army’s “military necessity” claim referred to by scholars and historians in the late 1940s. But the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia provided the NCJAR with a glimmer of hope when on January 21, 1986, it overruled Oberdorfer and remanded the lawsuit to trial. The court upheld the dismissal of all but one of the suit’s claims and declared all recipients of the Evacuation Claims Act ineligible, but it postponed the statute of limitations until 1980 and rejected the defense of sovereign immunity. Judges J. Skelly Wright and Ruth Bader Ginsburg agreed with the NCJAR that no “reasonably diligent” plaintiff could have been expected to file a claim against the government until the creation of the commission in 1980 reversed the “presumption of deference” to the Supreme Court decisions. The judges decided the government could no longer avoid the issue of whether the Department of Justice misled the Supreme Court when it argued that “military necessity” justified internment. Noting that “extraordinary injustice can provoke extraordinary acts of concealment,” the District Court concluded, “it ill behooves the government of a free people to evade an honest accounting.”  Both the government and the NCJAR asked the Supreme Court to review the appeal. On November 17, 1986, the Supreme Court granted the government’s petition. In his brief to the Court, Solicitor General Charles Fried argued that the case had been improperly heard in the District of Columbia. According to Fried, the case should have been decided by the Federal Circuit Court of Appeals, a recently created court with special functions. Also, Fried introduced a new argument against tolling, or deferring, the statute of limitations. Admitting that the government concealed from the Supreme Court evidence that undermined the “military necessity” argument, Fried insisted that this fact was irrelevant. This was because racism, not military necessity, had caused relocation. Yet Fried’s acknowledgment that internment had been motivated by “ancestral, cultural, and ethnic considerations” conveniently ignored the arguments presented by the government and accepted by the Supreme Court during the war. To demonstrate that the government’s case and the Supreme Court’s rulings had hinged on

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the issue of military necessity, Peter Irons as well as Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga and Jack Herzig cited a transcript of the oral argument in the Korematsu case. This text verified that Fried’s wartime predecessor, Solicitor General Charles Fahy, had declared that military necessity, and only military necessity, was the proper basis for the government’s action. On April 20, 1987, the Supreme Court heard Hohri et al. v. United States. William Hohri, the other plaintiffs, and more than seventy well-wishers attended this historic event. While the Court spent most of the time listening to Fried speak on the jurisdictional issue, Justice Thurgood Marshall injected an element of drama into the proceedings when he questioned Fried about the “difference between exclusion and killing.” After Fried answered that “killing is much, much worse,” Marshall responded by asking, “When you pick up people and throw them out of their homes and where they live, what is anything between that and murder?”  Marshall’s obvious anger at the way Japanese Americans had been treated during the war brought tears to the eyes of many of the listeners. Benjamin Zelenko, lawyer for the NCJAR, then proceeded to explain to the justices that Japanese Americans deserved their day in court, because the “Executive Branch should find no repose when it systematically conceals the facts from this Court.” For William Hohri, this hour before the Court represented the “consummation of a lifetime of hope,” and the “achievement of years of organizing, learning, sustaining, encouraging, and enduring.”  However, the NCJAR would be disappointed when in June 1987 the Supreme Court vacated, for jurisdictional reasons, the decision made by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia. The High Court ordered that the case be heard by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit. In May 1988 the Federal Circuit Appeals Court voted two to one to affirm the 1984 dismissal of the suit. The NCJAR’s legal campaign finally ended when in November 1988, three months after President Reagan signed redress legislation passed by Congress, the Supreme Court declined to hear the case. Although the legal campaign was ultimately unsuccessful, the NCJAR helped the redress movement gain momentum and contributed to the passage of redress legislation. The extensive research conducted to prepare the lawsuit documented numerous constitutional and civil rights violations that strengthened claims for compensation. Media coverage of the lawsuit and the much larger monetary claims helped make legislative demands for compensation of $20,000 per internee seem moderate, even reasonable, in comparison.

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The lawsuit also served to rally Japanese Americans in the redress movement. Plaintiff Chizuko Omori characterized the NCJAR’s crusade as a “journey of discovery, of consciousness-raising about ourselves and our country.” Proud that “seemingly ordinary people” of limited resources could “challenge the U.S. government in search of justice,” Omori felt it was gratifying to know that the democratic impulse beats on strongly in persons like Hohri and others who willingly devoted a large part of their lives to setting the record straight, overcoming the roadblocks, and in the process mastering the intricacies of the judicial and legislative systems, lobbying bills in Congress, and—miracle of miracles—getting our case before the Supreme Court.

The NCJAR plaintiffs said that throughout the campaign, they felt a sense of pride in “asserting” their “will” and “exercising” their “rights as Americans.” They provided an “official court document” that demanded the government admit to “conspiracy, misrepresentations, fraud, and concealment of evidence” and compensate all victims of exclusion and incarceration. These plaintiffs believed they helped to replace the JACL image of the Nisei as Quiet Americans, who submitted to government officials, with the image of Nisei angrily protesting the incarceration during the war and during the redress movement. Advocates of the NCJAR felt the very act of initiating a lawsuit and naming the United States of America as the defendant provided the victims of internment with a sense of “enlightenment and liberation.” William Hohri declared that the lawsuit helped to lift “the cloak of self-doubt that caused us to be forever prepared to defend our loyalty to America.” Delineating government officials’ disloyalty to the Constitution during the war, the NCJAR’s legal campaign thus helped to sustain an American tradition of protesting government tyranny and defending individual rights from government abuse.

The National Coalition for Redress/Reparations: Grassroots Activism and a History of Racism The NCJAR was not the only organization to challenge JACL leadership during the redress movement. Another group of JACL critics formed a third organization. The National Coalition for Redress/Reparations (NCRR) was

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created to enhance community participation in the commission hearings. Leaders of the JACL like Mike Masaoka hoped that Japanese American scholars, officials, veterans, and community leaders would predominate before the commission’s assemblage of “distinguished citizens.” But the NCRR encouraged ordinary Japanese Americans to participate in the proceedings. This coalition of Sansei along with a few Nisei activists sponsored workshops emphasizing a history of racism in the United States and the need for militant action against the government to counter JACL “guidelines” advising restrained testimony. The JACL had urged speakers not to “draw comparisons” between Japanese Americans and groups like the Sioux Nation, black slaves, and Jews in the Holocaust. “Don’t get verbose in condemning the government’s actions in 1942,” the JACL warned, “because this type of statement, like the legal argument, is too vulnerable to a challenge by the Commissioners.”  In stark contrast, the NCRR exhorted Japanese Americans to demonstrate “Third World solidarity” with other victims of racism and to denounce a long history of government oppression. Located on the West Coast, the NCRR consisted of approximately one thousand members during the hearings and grew to eight thousand during the struggle for legislation. Most of these activists were Sansei who came of age during the social movements of the 1960s and 1970s. Rejecting the JACL’s emphasis on assimilation and accommodation, these activists celebrated their ethnic heritage and participated in political demonstrations. Many had marched against the Vietnam War and protested for ethnic studies at universities. Jim Matsuoka and Alan Nishio were two of the Young Turks who tried to displace the Old Guard leaders in the JACL during the late 1960s and early 1970s. In 1969 Matsuoka created an uproar within the community when he proclaimed at the first Manzanar Pilgrimage that the silent Nisei were “buried” at Manzanar. Because so few Nisei were willing to talk about the camps during the 1960s, most Sansei activists first learned about internment in college courses and in progressive student organizations, such as the Asian American Political Alliance. Activists like Alan Nishio had participated in the grassroots campaign to repeal Title II. Matsuoka, Nishio, June Hibino, and many other NCRR activists protested the redevelopment plans of the 1970s. These plans threatened a second “forced relocation” of elderly and poor Japanese Americans from ethnic enclaves in cities like Los Angeles and San Francisco. Outraged by the injustice of internment, many NCRR activists had denounced capitalism as the source of racial oppres-

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sion in America, condemned American imperialism in Vietnam, and joined Marxist organizations. Richard Katsuda was one of many NCRR activists who knew little about internment while growing up. His parents and his older sister had been interned, but none of them were willing to talk about the experience. While attending Stanford University in the early 1970s, Katsuda became an activist and helped organize a boycott for the antiwar movement. Living in a Chicano theme house on campus, Katsuda was impressed by the sense of ethnic pride displayed by many of the residents. He wanted to learn more about the history of the Japanese American community. Then Katsuda took a course at Stanford on internment. It was part of a student workshop on political and social issues led by Edison Uno. Uno transformed the way Katsuda viewed history, racism, and Japanese American identity. He joined the Tule Lake Committee to help organize pilgrimages to the former internment site. These pilgrimages gave Katsuda greater insight into the “burden of guilt” many former internees still carried. He also, learned, however, that as internees talked about their experiences and discussed the injustices they had endured, many no longer felt ashamed. They became angry, and some became political activists. As an NCRR activist, Katsuda hoped to help other former internees experience this sense of empowerment. Beth Shironaka, an activist with the NCRR, later told the commission during hearings in Los Angeles that many Sansei wanted to learn about their parents’ internment because they suspected they had inherited their parents’ feelings of inferiority. Shironaka noted that most Sansei and Yonsei (fourth generation) “had grown up without speaking the Japanese language and without knowing the history of Japanese Americans.” Shironaka felt this “denial of our language, history, and culture” had “led directly to many of the problems facing Sansei and Yonsei youth.” In the 1960s and 1970s, “hundreds of Japanese American youth got involved with drugs,” whereas others, like Shironaka herself, avoided drugs but nevertheless experienced their own set of psychological problems. Shironaka explained: By psychological, I mean peace of mind—a sense of myself. All this is directly related to the confusion we have had over our identity. Identity comes from an understanding of a people’s history, language and culture. We have lacked that in many ways—always feeling like an outsider—not American and not Japanese.

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Although Shironaka felt internment and her parents’ “forced self-denial” deprived her of a sense of her “roots,” the redress movement exposed her to “the proud history of struggle and achievement of our Issei pioneers.” As she became active within the NCRR, she gained an “understanding” and appreciation of “the sacrifices and courageous efforts of our Nisei parents to survive and make a better life for us.”  While most of the early NCRR activists were Sansei, the coalition chose Nisei Bert Nakano to be its first spokesperson. Nakano and his family were interned during the war at the Jerome internment camp in southeastern Arkansas. His father, a Honolulu businessman, was deemed an enemy alien and sent to a Department of Justice camp before joining the family in Jerome. The family was targeted as “No-No’s” during the loyalty review, and went to Tule Lake when it became a segregation center. At Tule Lake, the sixteen-year-old Nakano got kicked out of school for “cussing at the principal.” Nakano attributed his more “aggressive” attitude and his intolerance of racism to his upbringing in Hawaii. After leaving Tule Lake, he thought about studying engineering, “like every good Asian,” but then decided he was more interested in history. He obtained his GED, attended junior college, and then took courses in Asian history at the University of Chicago. Reading about Chinese civilization made him feel proud that he was “part of an Asian culture that has tremendous history.” Studying the Opium War with a Marxist professor opened his eyes to the history of colonialism. He admired Mao Tse-tung’s revolutionary politics, because “here was somebody that was sending the prostitutes to school” and “was giving the land to all these peasants.” When Joseph McCarthy came to Chicago, Nakano joined a demonstration that picketed the anti-Communist senator. After hearing Malcolm X and other activists speak about black pride, Nakano thought to himself, “We don’t even try to instill in our people pride in being Asian.” But then he got married and focused more on his career and family than on activism. Bert and his wife, Lillian, were satisfied being armchair liberals, until their son, Erich, went to college and became a political activist. In the late 1970s he convinced them, as members of the Little Tokyo People’s Rights Organization, to protest redevelopment in Los Angeles. Bert saw a parallel between redevelopment and the history of internment. He declared, “It was like in the concentration camps.” Internees who couldn’t recover after the war, Bert explained, “were living in these small apartments, low-cost hous-

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ing and now they were told by the city government that they were gonna be relocated.”  Bert and Lillian were impressed by the commitment of Sansei activists. Lillian also admired the way Sansei women activists openly raised the issue of gender discrimination within the NCRR. Lillian explained, for example, “Bert . . . because he’s a Nisei whereas I’m a Sansei, at different times in the early days they would say, ‘You know, Bert, I think there’s an element of chauvinism.’ ”  They also found it inspiring to work with radical Sansei activists because they admired their principles and their dedication to the cause of redress. Both praised the strategies and “united front” of Sansei who were active in Marxist–Leninist groups like the League of Revolutionary Struggle. In fact, Bert, who openly declared himself a Communist, believed redress would not have happened without the activism of the League of Revolutionary Struggle. Of course, not all NCRR members were radical activists. George Iwao was a devoted Republican. A Kibei who spent eight months in Japan in 1940, Iwao was a “No-No” at the Gila River camp in Arizona. He had been outraged when the government changed the draft classification of all Nisei and Kibei to 4-C, or enemy alien, shortly after Pearl Harbor. When the loyalty questionnaire was administered in 1943, Iwao decided he had no obligation to fight for the same government that had earlier labeled him as an enemy alien. He then went to Tule Lake until he was released in October 1945. A year later, Iwao enlisted in the army to prove that he was never afraid of military service, and he eventually fought in the Korean War. Iwao was politicized when he read Michi Weglyn’s Years of Infamy and learned more about the creation and implementation of oppressive policies at Tule Lake. He joined the NCRR because it supported his “No-No” stance during the war, and because he liked the way the coalition tried to help former internees threatened by redevelopment. The NCRR fought to ensure that the hearings included the outraged voices of internment victims like George Iwao. Alan Nishio believed that “if the JACL was allowed to run its scenario,” there would have been few hearings outside Washington, D.C., only “researchers” would have testified, and the redress movement would have lacked the energy exhibited in the local community hearings. He also believed the JACL’s focus on “the elite and the influential” would have fundamentally changed depictions of internment:

318 “Three Strands Woven into a Single Fabric” The people that were generating the JACL policy were the Mike Masaoka’s and the relatively-well-to-do, well-established folks who were thinking in terms of, “Well, what can we get white people to accept?” . . . “And that’s what we want to push . . . something that will make us look good” . . . Clearly their view was never . . . what is the sentiments of the Japanese American community and how do we articulate that and carry that forward to Washington?

While local JACL activists developed some grassroots programs, many JACL leaders concentrated on obtaining influential supporters in Washington, D.C., and in local and state legislative endorsements. Activists with the NCRR, on the other hand, launched an intensive outreach campaign in the months preceding the hearings. They distributed leaflets and issued press releases that called on the community to come “out in full force.” During house meetings and community presentations, the Sansei activists made a special effort to convince working-class and elderly Nikkei to participate in the hearings. Lillian Nakano described how the NCRR helped ordinary working-class people realize that they didn’t have to be “experts” to testify at the hearings, and they didn’t have to fear their testimony would “get them in trouble” with the government. Many needed to be reassured during workshops that facing the government in the hearings was not like facing an FBI interrogation during the war. As Lillian explained, former internees needed to realize they had a right to testify: “There was no unnecessary intimidation or inhibition or anything that could come into play. Once we convinced them of that, they were all very anxious to do it.”  Encouraging Japanese Americans from a variety of backgrounds to testify at the commission hearings, Sansei activists lobbied for changes in the proceedings to facilitate community participation. The NCRR insisted on additional hearing sites, Japanese translators, evening sessions, and flexible time limits for witnesses. Persistent phone calls, telegrams, letters, and petitions ultimately resulted in the addition of a Los Angeles community hearing in the evening and the translation of Issei testimony at hearings in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In addition, the activists sponsored practice sessions to reassure self-effacing former internees that their histories were more “powerful” than accounts by “researchers,” because they could “talk from personal experience.”  One of the forty they persuaded to testify was Elizabeth Nishikawa, a seventy-one-year-old Nisei from Venice, Califor-

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nia. In a letter, Nishikawa thanked the NCRR for bringing “the injustice during World War II” to the “American public,” and for inspiring her to become “a voice crying in the wilderness, trying to right the injustice faced and lived by citizens because of race within the United States of America through information of facts.”  Also, these training sessions promoted “facts” about the history of internment that reflected the differences between JACL and NCRR political goals and strategies. Guidelines for a JACL mock hearing, in northern California, urged that individuals “not provide any remarks that may take you away from your personal experiences or delve into constitutional issues or mistreatment in camps unless you are well-versed in law or were actually mistreated or had observed such incidents.” The JACL further emphasized that “IT IS USELESS to expound with ‘rhetoric’ or meaningless words to waste time and energy cursing or verbally crucifying a past government in which most of the perpetrators are deceased.” Instead the JACL encouraged individuals to “use the time constructively and help [the] government direct the way for redressing the Nikkei and others affected by wartime exclusion and detention orders.”  The NCRR’s activists encouraged participants to assume a more confrontational posture with the commissioners. The coalition urged participants in the hearings to demand financial redress for all internees or their heirs, whereas many JACL leaders declared it was premature to discuss monetary compensation until after the commission released its report. Acknowledging that “no sum of money can approach complete compensation for the tremendous social, economic, and psychological trauma or the violation of constitutional rights,” the NCRR asserted that “meaningful restitution” must include “monetary compensation.” Far from advising restrained or limited testimony, Sansei activists encouraged participants to recognize the claims of all victims “forcibly removed from their homes by the US government,” including “persons evacuated from Central and South American countries, Hawaii, and Alaskan Aleuts.”  The lawsuit campaign and the JACL conceived of “redress” as compensation for internees. But Sansei activists defined the term more broadly to include all victims of racism. “Redress/reparations,” according to the NCRR, “means supporting others who have or are suffering from unjust actions taken by the US government.” Promoting the coalition among people of color, activists promised to assist “Native Americans, Native

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Hawaiians, Blacks, Chicanos, and others struggling for reparations and justice.” Whereas many JACL leaders portrayed internment as a past injustice, these activists consistently emphasized an ever-present threat to civil liberties. Further, they exhorted Nikkei to “educate” the “American public” so that “similar acts will not be taken in the future against an identifiable group.”  The history of internment provided by the NCRR and its supporters at the hearings presented a stark contrast to JACL accounts of patriotism and heroism. Testimony by the coalition’s Sansei emphasized the racist motivation for the internment, government betrayal, and the suffering internees experienced during the war. Urging former internees to focus their anger on the government rather than on one another, the NCRR “saluted” army volunteers, resisters, and all who “after decades of pain, finally shared their anguish and anger” at the hearings. According to the coalition, groups that attempted to control the history of the camps by excluding certain experiences simply fell prey to the government’s effort to “divide-and-conquer” the community. The NCRR called for a more inclusive history of internment, and this ideology clearly influenced activists’ testimony before the commission. Sansei activists consistently justified demands that the government provide monetary compensation and a community fund by promoting a distinctive interpretation of the legacy of the camps. At the San Francisco hearings, June Hibino was one of many who declared that a community fund would help Nikkei combat the “crimes” of “assimilation and dispersion” instituted by the government to “confuse, divide and weaken” the community. Whereas JACL accounts of the postwar period often praised Japanese American acceptance into the “mainstream,” Hibino denounced the “mainstream” as part of a “racist system” that “refuses to let minority peoples exist and develop in our own right on our own terms.” The JACL embraced an American heritage of freedom and democracy. Hibino didn’t see America in quite the same light, declaring, “Despite forty years of assimilation pounded into our heads, our pride in being Japanese is still strong” and “we are fighting together for reparations and justice.” Leaders of the JACL characterized redress as an affirmation of American justice, but Hibino demanded “reparations” as a “right” and proclaimed “anything less will be nothing but a token and a whitewash.”  A community hearing organized by the NCRR provides further evidence

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of the particular themes Sansei activists emphasized when recounting the history of internment. After numerous petitions and letters, the NCRR convinced the commission to hold a “community hearing,” at night, in the Little Tokyo section of Los Angeles. This enabled Nikkei who could not leave their jobs during the day or were intimidated by the formal hearings in state office buildings to speak before the commission in a familiar setting. Witnesses at this hearing did not have to submit advance testimony and were not restricted to a ten-minute time limit. The participants in these hearings presented a history of internment that reinforced the NCRR’s principles. A common thread running through this testimony emphasized the coalition’s goal of understanding the wartime incarceration within the broader context of American racism. Many witnesses at the hearings in Los Angeles drew explicit parallels between the history of the “concentration camps” and the history of American oppression against other minority groups. For many of these witnesses, the lesson of internment was that people of color could never trust the American government. “If you look back in American history,” declared witness George Wada, “how many times has the US Government gone back on its words to the Indians, for example.”  Internee Tom Yutani said the WRA’s promise to help resettlers was “just typical white man’s promise.”  Like many internees, Mo Nishida recounted feeling ashamed after leaving camp: And all I could do was personalize it. And this feeling of inferiority, of guilt kind of stuff, right. I mean always fearing the police—or should I say feeling guilty. Whenever something happened, you know, you say, aw, shit, they are going to—you know, they are going to blame me, kind of stuff, that kind of thing, passing through life on that.

Nishida said his subsequent alcohol and drug abuse problems were “directly related to all this.” Nevertheless, unlike most internees, he went on to attribute his problems and his sense of self-hatred to what “Malcolm X said” . . . “was the slave mentality.”  Invoking images of slavery and genocidal campaigns against American Indians, this testimony helped fulfill NCRR activists’ mission of exposing the racism endemic in American history and of supporting coalitions between people of color. By describing internment as part of a long history of the subjugation of racial groups in America, Sansei activists tried to foster political alliances between people of color.

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Redress Becomes a Mass Movement The very different kinds of testimony presented by the JACL, NCJAR, and NCRR demonstrate that these three groups were able to appeal to different constituencies within the Japanese American community. Thus, even as they exposed divisions within the community over interpretations of the past and present, they helped the community rally behind the demand for redress from the government. For although supporters of the three organizations may have disagreed about the meaning of internment and specific redress goals and strategies, all agreed the incarceration was unjust and internees deserved monetary compensation. Moreover, all reinforced the right of Japanese Americans to define their own history of internment as well as their right to challenge depictions by the architects of the decision, by the administrators of the camps, and even by sympathetic academics. During the hearings, Japanese Americans displayed a sense of pride in asserting control over the history of internment. The hearing rooms were filled to capacity, and many Japanese Americans stood in the halls to catch a glimpse of the proceedings. Internees who had never told anyone about their camp experiences suddenly found themselves being applauded by hundreds of people, most of whom were other Japanese Americans. Witnesses and the audience were energized by the emotional testimony and the palpable support within the hearing rooms. As Sansei learned more about the camp experience, many gained a new sense of respect for their parents’ courage and perseverance. Dennis Nakamura told the commission in San Francisco that studying the history of internment during the 1970s dramatically altered his views of his parents’ decision to comply with the internment orders. When Nakamura was a child, his parents said very little about the incarceration. Consequently, he “didn’t learn anything about the camps in detail” until he went to the University of California, Berkeley, and took an Asian studies class. Before then, he had been troubled by his parents’ reaction to internment. Having “never faced the kind of discrimination and racism that they had in their time,” he couldn’t understand “why they went so peacefully.” Moreover, he couldn’t fathom “why my father would volunteer to go into the Army to fight for a country which put him and his family behind barbed wire.” As a result, he “secretly lost respect for my parents” until he learned about the history

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of internment and understood why they behaved as they did. Ultimately, Nakamura respected his father for having “gone through such adversity” to fight “for his country.”  Many Sansei who had denounced their parents for “going like sheep” into the camps learned about the history of prewar racism that discouraged resistance against the government. Some Sansei who learned this history stopped judging Nisei by the standards of the post–civil rights era, when ethnic pride and political protest were celebrated. In fact, some Sansei testified about their appreciation for the fortitude of Issei and Nisei who endured this period of racial oppression. In San Francisco, Donna Kotake learned about her parents’ history during the “turbulent 1960s and 1970s.” Before then, Kotake, like Beth Shironaka, was “brought up to assimilate, integrate . . . to become truly American.” She spoke only English and knew little about Japanese culture. Whereas her parents stressed the need to be American, those outside her family treated her as if she was Japanese. Confused, Kotake began to wish she “wasn’t Japanese American.” Denying her “own identity,” she felt “inferior and second class.” The social movements of the 1960s, however, led Kotake to reexamine “the question of identity.” Becoming involved in the community, she learned of the “hardships, the struggles, and contributions of the pioneering Issei and Nisei.” This sense of history enabled Kotake to redefine “what it means to be Japanese American.” Honoring the tenacity of her parents and grandparents, Kotake proclaimed that she was teaching her children to respect their Japanese heritage. In addition, she vowed to make sure they reclaimed the “history of Japanese people who have always organized and fought for justice.”  Kotake, like many Sansei activists and the children of Holocaust survivors, has committed herself to making sure the public never forgets the suffering of their parents. Many Sansei who participated in the redress movement dedicated themselves to informing the public of the trauma they and their families experienced because of the war. Michael Yoshii appeared before the commission to channel his “anger at the government and at society.” He testified that the legacy of the camps was the “psychological wounding” of the Sansei. His parents’ unwillingness to “speak honestly about the camp experience” left him with a “void” in his “personal history.” To fill this missing piece of his history, Yoshii read whatever he could find about the camps. At

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the hearings, however, he declared, “I could read all the books in the world but it is only now that I am able to hear and feel the emotions behind the experiences as people tell their stories.” The power of living memory shared by Nisei at the hearings helped Yoshii “start to piece things together” for himself. Sansei such as Michael Yoshii joined the redress movement to regain a sense of their past. Then there were those such as Jon Kawamoto who found that exposure to the movement forced them to recognize a gap in their history. Kawamoto never contemplated the internment until he started writing articles on redress for the San Francisco Examiner. He interviewed more than two hundred people, read numerous books, and went to conferences on internment and redress. When Kawamoto discovered he had an uncle who was repatriated to Japan, he experienced a “delayed response,” and “a lot of anger and frustration” rose to the surface. For the first time, he confronted the pain his parents experienced during the war: “Why did this happen to people like my parents? You have to reconcile yourself to the racism in society that branded them and victimized them. So, I went through a lot of changes on my own in that time and I ended up actually seeking a counselor about my identity crisis.”  However, interviewing Nikkei of all different generations helped Kawamoto “connect back to the community.” Kawamoto declared, “The hearings made people feel proud about finally being able to deal with that silence, the past,” and the formerly “taboo” topic of the camps. Diane Tomoda declared the redress movement “was really an extension of learning our history.” Tomoda first read about the camps in her college Asian American studies classes. During the 1970s, she helped organize pilgrimages to Tule Lake, Day of Remembrance commemoration programs, and other educational events to mobilize support for redress. At first, Tomoda said she and other activists felt “a lot of anger and a lot of militancy,” because they wanted “to write a new chapter in our history”. . . “in correcting this injustice.” As the movement progressed, however, “Nisei and Sansei learned from each other.” Activists like Tomoda admired how the Nisei “came out in a very public way, baring their souls” and “boldly demanding restitution” at the hearings: We combined our strengths. The Sansei provided a spirit and push and wanted to fight back against what happened to our parents. But the Nisei

“Three Strands Woven into a Single Fabric” 325 and Issei provided the most inspiring example of standing up and speaking out.

Yet even as Japanese Americans presented a new and diverse history of the camp experience, some questioned their own qualifications as historians. Playwright and journalist Frank Chin declared that the hearings should have emphasized the expert testimony of penologists, anthropologists, and sociologists. Chin asserted that academics could provide a better history of the effects of internment than the victims, who “did not understand much beyond the immediate orbit of their family.” He proclaimed: They are neither technically nor temperamentally equipped to speak knowledgeably, factually and candidly about the depth, degree and kinds of damage they absorbed because of camp. They are victims still inhabiting the shock and horror of the unspeakable . . . no more experts than the victims of the Nazi’s “Final Solution.” The victims’ testimony on damage done them by camp is as expert as the testimony of the mentally ill on retardation.

Further, Chin denounced the continuous stream of “sob stories full of property loss, financial ruin and woeful career development, the story of the father returning to the family in camp, two years later told again and again.” According to Chin, these emotional accounts of individual and family suffering that dominated the Los Angeles hearings simply made former internees look like a “Circus of Freaks.”  Dwight Chuman, editor of the Rafu Shimpo, published Chin’s critique of the “raving mob” at the Los Angeles hearings because he thought his analysis of “Japanese America and the recent hearings ring painfully true.” The sessions in Los Angeles were full of outbursts and audience interruptions. As Chin noted, participants cheered, applauded, booed, and jeered. When Jim Kawaminami, president of the 100th/442nd Veterans Association, denied Lillian Baker’s claim that his organization supported the display of a Japanese flag taken as a war trophy, a fight broke out. As Baker stood up and attacked Kawaminami’s testimony, members of the audience called her a Nazi. Baker’s companion shouted back that the crowd was racist. Then Baker leaped onto a table and tried to grab the notes out of Kawaminami’s hand. Next, as Chin recounted, the jeering crowd was treated to a “strange wrestling match between uniformed police, a Nisei vet in his 70s,” and “Lillian Baker in her white pantsuit and hanging onto her four-legged cane,

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towering over him.” According to Chin, this spectacle was followed by round after round of more “sob stories,” calls for pity, and wild applause from the audience. Many redress activists denounced Chin’s criticisms of the hearings in Los Angeles. They defended the right of Japanese Americans to display their emotions and define the history of the camp experience in their own way. Mike Murase wondered why Chin thought his research on the camps made him more of an expert than those who actually had lived in camp. Activist Sue Kunitomi Embrey felt that letting “our pain, our anger, and our bitterness show for all the world to see” was a “great triumph” for the community. Internees, Embrey maintained, were tired of “the sociologists and anthropologists who have been studying us and wondering why we haven’t bared our souls.” Agreeing with Chin that the hearings were “rowdy, rude, and emotional,” but, putting a different spin on the proceedings, Embrey was proud that Japanese Americans “stood up as a community” in righteous anger against racism. In a letter to the Rafu Shimpo, the NCRR accused Frank Chin of sitting high up in the clouds and “looking down on us ordinary people, criticizing and insulting us from above.” It took courage, not “self-pity,” the NCRR proclaimed, for Japanese Americans to confront the very government that imprisoned them behind barbed wire. Providing new interpretations of the pain and suffering caused by internment, participants at the hearings inspired other Nikkei to reflect on the camp experience. As Japanese Americans listened to or read about these stories of anguish, many began to feel a need to discuss their memories of the internment with other people. Kana Ochiai remembers sharing her wartime experiences with her “close friends and relatives for the first time” after the hearings. She recalled that “it became very emotional. Everyone had different experiences, but they were all of the hurting kind.”  “Venting” these “painful feelings” caused many former internees, such as JACL activist Phil Shigekuni, to experience a “great catharsis.” This “anger provided a source of energy” for Shigekuni, “empowering” him “to carry on the fight” for redress. Michael Yoshii was struck by the fact that there were between four hundred and five hundred Nikkei at each hearing. It was the “first time” he’d “ever been any place where there were Japanese Americans gathered in any large numbers talking about the camps.” He “saw people crying, yelling, and getting angry,” and the “depth and the level of people talking about their real experiences”. . . “blew [him] away.” 

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The commission hearings helped many Japanese Americans finally come to terms with their memories of the incarceration. After forty years of repressing any feeling about the camp experience, many former internees who attended the sessions loudly cheered redress supporters and booed redress opponents. Praising these public displays of emotion, NCRR activist Lillian Nakano proclaimed, “The burden of guilt has finally shifted onto the government, where it rightly belongs.” She further declared, “Bitter tears intermingled with pride and determination as we reaffirmed our resolve to continue our quest for justice. At every hearing city the united demand for monetary reparations was virtually unanimous, and irresistible.”  Noting a new “sense of common bond and destiny,” Nakano believed the lesson of the hearings was that “only with continued organizing and unity of all groups and individuals” can the community influence the commission and the public to support redress. Miya Iwataki thanked all who testified for providing her with one of the most significant moments in her life and making her “proud to be a part of the Japanese people.” As she listened to the testimony, Iwataki felt strength, anger, love, sadness, and hatred. She remembers, “I cried when they cried while telling their stories, unleashing 40 years of hidden pain and anger.”  Iwataki argued, however, that these tears “flowed freely and naturally into a wave of unity so powerful, that nothing could stop us.” She declared a sense of pride and unity “surged through the hearing room, and spilled out into the overflow halls and rooms” containing Japanese Americans. She concluded that a community “once destroyed, dispersed, disbanded” had become one: Together we relived the common bond of our life experience, the reemergence of our fighting spirit, and with the power and justness of our cause, we demanded direct monetary compensation for all the injustices, for all the years of pain and loss, for all the years we struggled to rebuild the community. (emphasis in the original)

Initially dividing the Japanese American community, the commission hearings ultimately brought it together in support of redress. By developing different redress strategies and promoting different memories of internment, the three redress organizations appealed to diverse elements within the community. The JACL’s campaign highlighted accounts of wartime heroism; the lawsuit group, the NCJAR, stressed a history of camp protest; and the NCRR’s Sansei underscored a history of racism against people of

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color in the United States. Although these activists disagreed about the way internment should be remembered, all agreed the incarceration was unjust and that former internees deserved compensation for the violation of their civil and constitutional rights. These multiple campaigns for redress encouraged Japanese American men and women of different generations, class backgrounds, and political ideologies to testify before the commission. Many of these participants were former internees who resurrected buried memories of the camps and recounted the suffering caused by internment for the first time. After sharing or listening to this history of pain and anger, thousands of Japanese Americans would continue the struggle for redress— writing letters, petitioning, and lobbying politicians—until Ronald Reagan finally signed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988. The transformative impact of the redress movement on individual Japanese Americans and the ethnic community was perhaps best exemplified by the coram nobis campaign to overturn the wartime convictions of Fred Korematsu, Minoru Yasui, and Gordon Hirabayashi. In law, coram nobis, translated contextually as “the error before us,” endeavors to correct a judicial mistake. It wasn’t until 1982 that Peter Irons showed Fred Korematsu Department of Justice records from the war. The records revealed that fraudulent evidence was used to convict him and to justify internment. Korematsu ended forty years of silence about the decision, saying simply, “They did me a great wrong.”  In 1942 Fred Korematsu had been an unlikely candidate to champion Japanese American resistance to internment. The former welder from Oakland had stayed on the West Coast to earn money so he could marry his Italian American fiancée and move to the Midwest. To hide his racial identity, he had plastic surgery on his nose and eyes and assumed a Mexican name. Unlike Yasui and Hirabayashi, Korematsu never intended to mount a court challenge before he was arrested. He just wanted to be left alone with his girlfriend. But three weeks after his family left to comply with internment orders, Korematsu was captured in San Leandro and charged with violating the exclusion order. While awaiting trial, Korematsu was sent to an internment camp. His brother arranged a meeting in hopes of garnering support for his challenge. However, an FBI informant reported that few Japanese Americans at the meeting offered to support Korematsu as “most of them desired to be cooperative with the United States government.”  The JACL had earlier issued a bulletin announcing that it was “unalterably opposed to test cases

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to determine the constitutionality of military regulations.”  Nevertheless, Korematsu decided to pursue a court challenge, even if he had to stand alone. In a letter to his lawyer, Ernest Besig of the ACLU, Korematsu explained why he wouldn’t back down: These camps have been definitely an imprisonment under armed guard with orders shoot to kill. In order to be imprisoned, these people should have been given a fair trial in order that they may defend their loyalty at court in a democratic way, but they were placed in imprisonment without any fair trial! Many disloyal Germans and Italians were caught, but they were not all corralled under armed guard like the Japanese—is this a racial issue? If not, the Loyal Citizens want fair trial to prove their loyalty! Also there are many loyal aliens who can prove their loyalty to America, and they must be given fair trial and treatment! Fred Korematsu’s Test Case may help.

But the Fred Korematsu who had waged a lonely battle in 1942 was a community hero on November 10, 1983, when he had his second day in court. Irons had organized a group of Sansei lawyers from San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle who enthusiastically offered their services to the cause. Many, including lead attorney Dale Minami, had been active in Bay Area Attorneys for Redress. These lawyers had helped prepare a legal brief, presented to the commission, that indicted internment as immoral and unconstitutional. Donald Tamaki skillfully handled the media to ensure that the campaign remained in the public spotlight and that it educated the public not only about the three cases but about the injustice of internment and the need for more general redress. When the government raised the possibility of a formal pardon that would avoid publicizing the history of government misconduct during the wartime cases, Fred Korematsu adamantly refused. “We should be the ones pardoning the government,” he explained to Dale Minami. In 1983, in San Francisco’s federal courthouse, Minami recounted the significance of the case for the entire ethnic community. Korematsu, Minami explained, lived forty years with the conviction while carrying the burden of losing the case which sanctioned the mass imprisonment of his people. For him to fight as a representative of all Japanese Americans virtually alone, when his community was either too young, too tired, too old, or too frightened to fight and risk imprisonment and a criminal record entitles him to some

330 “Three Strands Woven into a Single Fabric” consideration. Surely after forty years of fighting, Fred Korematsu’s interest is part of the public interest. For the Japanese American community, Fred’s fight was their fight.

Before a courtroom packed with Japanese Americans, Judge Marilyn Hall Patel granted Korematsu’s petition to vacate his conviction. She declared that the “military necessity justification for the executive order” was “based upon and relied upon by the government in its arguments to the court and to the Supreme Court on unsubstantiated facts, distortions, and representations of at least one military commander, whose views were seriously infected by racism.” In her written opinion, Patel also found that “the government knowingly withheld information from the courts when they were considering the critical question of military necessity in this case.”  Once shunned as a “troublemaker” and jailbird, Fred Korematsu was recognized as a hero within and outside the Japanese American community, and in 1998 President Bill Clinton presented him with the Medal of Freedom, the nation’s highest civilian honor. As Japanese Americans throughout the country celebrated Korematsu’s historic victory, former internee Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga was particularly pleased. In 1942, while John J. McCloy and Karl R. Bendetsen were being hailed by the press for saving the West Coast from the “Jap” threat, she was an interned young Nisei mother struggling to care for her newborn. She had neither the time nor the energy to contemplate how these officials had violated her constitutional rights. After leaving camp, Herzig-Yoshinaga, like most former internees, was too busy struggling to rebuild her life to engage in discussions of history. Preoccupied with finding homes and jobs, most Japanese Americans were so traumatized by the incarceration that they suppressed memories of the experience. Herzig-Yoshinaga also tried to forget the war. But when she reached her fifties, she joined Asian Americans for Action and became an activist against the Vietnam War and institutionalized racism. “Out of curiosity,” Herzig-Yoshinaga began to explore in the early 1980s the records on internment at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. At first she planned to spend only a day or two looking at the material. But as she found more and more documents revealing the blatant racism of officials, she became outraged. The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months. Soon Herzig-Yoshinaga became an acknowledged expert on the materials and was hired by the Commission on the Wartime Relocation

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f i g u r e 1 7 . Fred Korematsu wears his Medal of Freedom at the University of California, Santa Cruz. Courtesy of Steven C. Murray.

and Internment of Civilians. In 1982 she discovered evidence that proved government officials deliberately misled the public and the Supreme Court about the “military necessity” of internment. Herzig-Yoshinaga found a document dated May 3, 1943, in which the assistant secretary of war acknowledged, “There no longer existed any military necessity for the continued exclusion of all Japanese [Americans] from the evacuated zone,” and admitted “there was never any military necessity [to] justify the existence of [the] military coincident with each relocation center.”  Herzig-Yoshinaga made another major research discovery when in 1982 she found the only known copy of the original version of General DeWitt’s Final Report. She happened to notice the copy on the desk of an archivist in the Modern Military Section of the National Archives. She could see that it differed from the published version. Declaring that there was “no way to distinguish loyal Japanese Americans from the disloyal,” this original report revealed that time was not a factor in DeWitt’s claim that “military

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necessity” required the removal of Japanese Americans. Herzig-Yoshinaga also found documents verifying the recall of other copies and the “burning of the galley proofs, galley pages, drafts and memorandums” pertaining to the original report. Recognizing that this report might undermine DeWitt’s credibility, War Department officials had attempted to “hide the existence of the original version.” This was done in order to justify evacuation to the Supreme Court by claiming the army lacked the time to conduct individual loyalty hearings. Judge Donald S. Voorhees explicitly referred to this evidence of government misconduct when in 1986 he invalidated Gordon Hirabayashi’s wartime conviction for violating military orders. Herzig-Yoshinaga’s research helped expose McCloy and Bendetsen’s conspiracy to deceive the Supreme Court during the war and the lies in their testimony before the commission in 1981. No longer a “silent victim” of history, Herzig-Yoshinaga illustrated how individuals could literally rewrite history and establish a powerful claim for redress.

eight

Multiple Histories of Internment and the Passage of Redress Legislation

During the Los Angeles hearings held in 1981 by the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (CWRIC), historian Yuji Ichioka paid tribute to all the former internees who recounted their experiences to the government and the Japanese American community. “They, unlike us, at the university,” Ichioka testified, “are the real teachers of history,” because “they present the point of view of the victim rather than the warden.” Many Japanese Americans were surprised that more than five hundred of these “victims” had shared their stories with the public. Since the late 1960s, Japanese American activists had been calling for community discussion of the camp experience. A small but committed group of former internees had responded to these calls. They had become successful political activists during the 1970s, and they supported the redress campaign that led to the creation of the commission. But even these seasoned activists were shocked by the hundreds of former internees who ended decades of silence to speak before the commission in 1981. Many of these former internees had never described their experiences to anyone, not even their own children, before they testified at the hearings. The hearings transformed the history of internment by encouraging a wide variety of Japanese Americans to discuss their wartime experiences. Individuals who testified before the commission, members of the audience, and Japanese Americans who read about the hearings in the press would recount their personal stories in the days, weeks, and years that followed. The commission had constructed an arena for former internees to tell their stories of the war. But Japanese Americans would take over this arena and 333

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produce a remarkable number of new articles, oral histories, and memoirs. The ethnic press, academic journals, and even mainstream publishers publicized these new accounts of the war throughout the 1980s. Many of these depictions explicitly challenged the generalizations—which characterized internees as cooperative evacuees, patriots, and tragic victims—made by wartime officials, academics, and leaders of the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL). However, these new representations raised questions about attempts to categorize internment responses. Former internees provided diverse, and at times conflicting, views of the camps. These new portrayals both enriched and complicated the process of historical interpretation by revealing multiple perspectives of events and numerous definitions of loyalty, patriotism, resistance, and ethnic community. Mainstream newspapers and television also noted some of these new stories of the war but promoted a particular set of experiences. As Japanese Americans established a whole new arena filled with a wide variety of internment recollections, the mainstream media tended to publicize a single type of narrative. Former internees, as portrayed by most of the mainstream news media, were loyal and patriotic Americans who suffered heart-wrenching losses but endured internment with quiet dignity and perseverance. These accounts, although emotionally appealing, oversimplified the history of internment while ignoring the types of evidence that documented the complexity of Japanese American responses during the war. Ultimately, this depiction of loyal and patriotic internees would help Japanese Americans obtain redress legislation, but it would take many years. Even as Japanese American memories of the war proliferated and the mainstream media provided sympathetic reports of wartime suffering, the congressional arena proved indifferent to redress for several years. In fact, many of the participants in congressional subcommittee hearings held in the early 1980s rejected the history of internment provided by scholars, former internees, and the CWRIC. In this arena, redress advocates faced opponents who insisted that internment had been justified, or that the camps had protected Japanese Americans. But in 1987 legislative redress advocates found a more receptive climate in Congress. Changes in the leadership of congressional committees and subcommittees made it possible for the redress bill to gain an audience before the full House of Representatives and Senate. In this new arena, lobbying tactics by the JACL and the Japanese American members of Con-

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gress mobilized congressional support for the bill that would become the Civil Liberties Act in 1988. Recognizing that redress could not be attained without the support of conservative as well as liberal politicians, lobbyists had developed new depictions of the history of internment and the significance of redress. Leaders of the JACL and the Japanese American members of Congress most often portrayed redress as a vindication of Japanese American loyalty and patriotism, whereas some lobbyists also portrayed redress as an attack on “big government” or a reward for a “model minority.” These more conservative interpretations of the history of internment and redress played a critical role in helping Japanese Americans finally obtain from the government a national apology and monetary compensation of $20,000 for each surviving internee. Many of the government officials who supported redress legislation in 1987 and 1988 would emphasize a history of internee loyalty and patriotism that bore a striking resemblance to the accounts promoted by Dillon S. Myer, director of the War Relocation Authority (WRA), and JACL leader Mike Masaoka in the 1940s and 1950s. This was somewhat ironic given that Myer opposed redress and Masaoka had resisted calls to pursue monetary compensation in the 1970s. Grassroots campaigns by critics of Myer and Masaoka had sparked and sustained the drive for redress legislation in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Community activism resurrected Japanese American memories of internment and generated diverse interpretations of the camp experience. But as the campaign shifted to the halls of Congress, JACL lobbyists and Japanese American members of Congress revived Myer’s depiction of loyal internees who loved America and Masaoka’s portrayals of patriotic sacrifice to help redress become a reality. Given the conservative political and cultural climate of the 1980s, the separation of the ethnic community arena from the congressional one proved politically expedient for legislative redress advocates.

Ethnic Community Histories of Internment At the same time that members of Congress celebrated Japanese American loyalty and patriotism, a growing number of Japanese Americans criticized WRA and JACL depictions of cooperation, assimilation, and military service. Ethnic newspapers like the Rafu Shimpo in Los Angeles, the Hokubei

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Mainichi in the San Francisco Bay Area, the New York Nichibei, and even the JACL’s Pacific Citizen published articles and letters denouncing WRA policies and questioning JACL leadership decisions during the war. In 1982 E. T. Seguro urged readers of the Rafu Shimpo to refute these earlier accounts of the camps because “we know better and we no longer have to accept those ideas that the WRA spoon-fed us.” According to Seguro, Myer “was working to accommodate the West Coast racists by trying to get us to move elsewhere . . . he never really knew or understood us.” Seguro proclaimed, “Now that we have emerged from our ‘amnesia,’ we feel that there is an unfinished chapter . . . only redress can bring the sordid history of the concentration camps to a close.”  Longtime activists continued to challenge the government’s portrayal of the camps as benevolent relocation centers. They defended against this depiction in the ethnic press and academic journals devoted to the burgeoning field of ethnic studies. For example, in 1982 Raymond Okamura published an article in the Journal of Ethnic Studies with the self-explanatory title “The American Concentration Camps: A Cover-up through Euphemistic Terminology.”  The leader of the successful campaign to repeal the Emergency Detention Act also promoted research by non-Japanese American scholars that condemned the WRA. In an Amerasia Journal review essay entitled “‘The Great White Father’: Dillon Myer and Internal Colonialism,” Okamura discussed Richard Drinnon’s Keeper of Concentration Camps. Specifically, he praised Drinnon for indicting Myer as a racist who attempted to destroy Japanese American and Native American cultures while serving as the director of both the WRA and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Some of the harshest attacks by ethnic academia, however, were directed at the social scientists within the camps. During the commission hearings, Peter Suzuki, an anthropologist at the University of Nebraska and a former internee, accused members of the Community Analysis Section (CAS) of spying on internees and providing intelligence for camp officials. Describing this “bombshell” in the New York Nichibei, William Hohri recounted how Suzuki “named names of those scientists who provided the administration with lists of dissidents, draft evaders, persons who complained to the Spanish Consulate, and such.” Hohri also noted that Professor Rachel Sady of Pace University, who had worked as a community analyst, “stared with incredulity at Suzuki as he testified.” Arguing against Suzuki’s claims, Sady defended the analysts as “cross cultural interpreters and intermediaries for

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[the] inmates” and maintained that the analysts “did not transmit covert information about individuals to any one at all.” Declaring the exchange a “stand-off,” Hohri informed his readers that an expanded article by Suzuki would soon appear in Dialectical Anthropology. A few years later, the same journal published another article by Suzuki, charging that researchers in the Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study (JERS) had also informed against internees in the camps. Former social scientists defended their roles as researchers. Edward Spicer submitted written testimony to the commission that criticized Suzuki for not interviewing participants in the CAS program to gain “some perspective for interpreting the bits of information that he dug out of the National Archives.” Accusing Suzuki of lacking “any understanding of the nature of applied work in anthropology in general or the purpose for which the CAS was set up in particular,” Spicer characterized his criticism as “an intemperate and unbalanced outburst of personal emotion.” Former JERS staff members, including several internees who had served as participant observers, also responded to Suzuki’s allegations in a 1987 conference and subsequent publication that reassessed JERS goals, methods, and research from a wide range of perspectives. By raising questions about these controversial social science projects, Suzuki helped stimulate new academic studies on the ethics of the scientists within the camps. His strident accusations reverberated within the Japanese American community. In the process, the ethnic press recounted a campaign mounted against JERS researcher Rosalie Hankey Wax. In 1988 Frank Abe told readers of the Pacific Citizen that seventy-one-yearold Violet Kazue de Cristoforo “felt betrayed when she opened two old books on the Tule Lake Segregation Centers and found that an anthropologist in whom she’d confided 44 years ago had falsely branded her a traitor and a troublemaker.” After reading The Spoilage, the JERS study on Tule Lake, and Doing Fieldwork, Hankey’s advice guide for anthropologists, de Cristoforo concluded that Hankey had lied about her to government officials. As Abe noted, de Cristoforo prepared a sixty-six page affidavit entitled “A Victim of a Tule Lake Anthropologist” and presented her case against Hankey at a 1988 conference of the Association for Asian American Studies. The affidavit portrayed Hankey as a ruthless researcher who preyed on the twenty-seven-year-old, “distraught by personal and family problems,” by promising confidentiality and then helping to assemble a dossier black-

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listing de Cristoforo as a “resegregationist leader.”  Ironically, de Cristoforo used quotes from Hankey’s own book to explain why Hankey might have betrayed her. In an attempt to warn anthropologists against becoming too involved with the subjects of their research, Hankey had confessed that at Tule Lake she had “despised anyone who deviated” from her “model of ‘true Japanese’ behavior.”  De Cristoforo’s affidavit claimed that Hankey’s “lies and distortions” caused her to be barred from returning to the United States from Japan for nearly ten years after she had renounced her citizenship. Denied permission to accompany her two children back to the United States, de Cristoforo blamed Hankey for causing her children to feel abandoned by their mother. “We cannot remake history,” de Cristoforo proclaimed, “but, having helped to bring about the disintegration of three generations of my family, I feel Rosalie Hankey Wax is morally and legally obligated to recognize her unprincipled conduct and publicly apologize to me, my three children, the Matsuda family and the other former Tule Lake internees.”  Rosalie Hankey Wax’s response, according to Abe’s article, was “I don’t give a darn anymore.” After calling de Cristoforo’s charges “vicious,” the retired researcher said, “I can understand how angry she feels because of what the Japanese went through, but I think this attack on my work is not in good taste and often very incorrect.” Abe reported that Wax “would not elaborate” further and ended his article by quoting an appeal by de Cristoforo. She asked that others speak out in the hope of providing “a record of the tragedy that was brought upon as a result of an unethical researcher.”  The sympathetic coverage of the accusations of Suzuki and de Cristoforo reflected a growing support for internees who were challenging traditional accounts of internment. Exhorting former internees to share their own remembrances of the camps, the ethnic press encouraged Japanese Americans to rewrite the history of internment from the viewpoint of the outraged victims. But as more and more victims recounted their experiences, these accounts shed new light on conflicts within the community during and after the war. Former internees who might agree about the injustice of mass incarceration and the hardships created by conditions in camp often disagreed about the meaning and legacy of Japanese American responses to internment. The issue that caused the most controversy among former internees was the decision by JACL leaders to cooperate with government policies during

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the war. Sansei activists had been criticizing the wartime actions of JACL leaders since the 1960s. But in the 1980s an outpouring of detailed personal testimony by JACL supporters and critics intensified the debates about what went on during the evacuation. Even Bill Hosokawa, one of the staunchest defenders of JACL wartime policies, recognized the problems inherent in trying to present a true history of the organization, given the diverse and emotional remembrances of former internees. Hosokawa may have selected JACL: In Quest of Justice as the title for his 1982 history of the organization, but he also acknowledged multiple views of the “real JACL” by choosing “Like Rashomon” as the title for his first chapter. Akira Kurosawa’s movie Rashomon, Hosokawa explained, had “an indirect but peculiar relevance” to the history of the JACL, because the film presented several characters’ versions of an event without validating any one account. Hosokawa goes on to say: The other principals all told the story the way they believed it to be, or perhaps wanted it to be. Kurosawa’s point is that man cannot always tell the whole truth because he is incapable of judging reality. Man’s views are colored by his need to deceive himself to conform to his evaluation of circumstances and of himself. The world is an illusion and each person makes his own reality; what is truth for one is not necessarily truth for another.

Hosokawa explained, “Depending on one’s perceptions, which may be colored by fulfillment or frustration, baseness or idealism, bias, common rumor, or honest disagreement, the Japanese American Citizens League is many things.” It might be an “organization that wisely charted a course of cooperation with the federal government in the tragic Evacuation of World War II, or a group that betrayed American principles and its own constituents by abjectly urging them to cooperate in their own incarceration.” Although Hosokawa’s narrative of wartime events in his book clearly favored the first assessment, his admission that the JACL “may have had a bit of all the characteristics attributed to it by friends and foes” is still quite striking. This was a remarkable admission from the author of Nisei: The Quiet Americans. In the late 1960s Hosokawa had refused to change his title after activists criticized it for unfairly portraying all members of the second generation as quiet non-protesters. At the time, he had no reservations calling a book dominated by the experiences of veterans and JACL leaders “the story of a people.” By 1982, however, Hosokawa was legitimating the

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perspectives of JACL’s critics. Two years after that, Hosokawa would be interviewed as just one of a collection of oral histories that included many JACL critics. But this collection, And Justice for All: An Oral History of the Japanese American Detention Camps, did more than simply signify a change in the gatekeepers of Japanese American history. John Tateishi, who served as interviewer and editor for the collection, was the son of a well-known JACL opponent during the war and a leader of JACL’s redress campaign. Consequently, one might have expected either a collection dominated by the views of protesters like Tateishi’s father or a collection that promoted a history of loyalty and patriotism likely to win support for redress. But Tateishi’s book included the diverse views of men and women on such divisive issues as the JACL, military service, and the loyalty questionnaire. Of course, the book was not the first collection of oral histories to be published. Arthur A. Hansen and Betty E. Mitson had edited a collection published in 1974, and Eileen Sunada Sarasohn’s oral histories of the Issei had been published in 1983. However, Tateishi’s book was notable both because it was published by Random House, a mainstream publisher, and because it incorporated changing and conflicting views of internment history. Several of the individuals interviewed in And Justice for All discussed how perceptions of internment had changed after the war. For example, Tom Kawaguchi’s description of his decision to volunteer for the armed forces in camp at first seemed to echo accounts presented earlier by Mike Masaoka and Bill Hosokawa. But after stating, “I was a loyal American and I wanted to prove that the Japanese Americans were real Americans, just like anybody else,” Kawaguchi declared that his views of the loyalty questionnaire had changed. At first “disappointed in some of them who went no-no,” after “a number of years,” Kawaguchi “suddenly realized that a no-no answer was all part of the democratic process, that somebody else had his choice and I had my choice.” Yet even as he seemed to extend an olive branch to certain “NoNo’s,” Kawaguchi described how some “wanted to go as a block and say no-no,” which caused lots of discussion, making us realize that “we have our own individual rights” and “can express ourselves any way we want to.”  Acknowledging that his views of the loyalty questionnaire had changed, Kawaguchi also wanted people to know the difficulties volunteer soldiers had faced in camp. Fellow veteran Shig Doi clearly felt that not enough

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people knew of the harassment volunteers had endured. Declaring the “people who gave everybody a hard time at Tule Lake today act as though nothing happened,” he recounted how a friend who volunteered was told, “inu ga koko de taberu” (meaning “dogs eat here”), and a bone was placed on a separate table for him. Doi seemed to be responding to the attempts by some redress activists to celebrate resisters as the “true heroes” of the camps when he proclaimed: I’m glad I served. I did what I had to do. And I have no regrets. I don’t mind people calling me names as long as they don’t do me bodily harm . . . The 442nd wrote the history for the Japanese. It was a good stepping-stone for the Buddha-heads, and we paid dearly for it. It’s something we left that the future generations can be proud of.

Jack Tono’s oral history, on the other hand, clearly tried to convey a track record of JACL repression against himself and other draft resisters. When the “JACL was going around telling the people that we have to go prove our loyalty,” Tono remembers becoming angry: And then I said to myself, for Christ sake, what the hell do we have to prove it for? We haven’t done nothing. That was a farce. I couldn’t believe this kind of thing was going on. We have to prove our loyalty. I said, good God, and I told them where the hell to go. And then one of them got the goddamn gall to call us fascists and everything in the Wyoming paper. And I thought to myself, I could have shot him.

The anger Doi and Tono still felt almost forty years after the war ended was apparent in their oral histories. Both saw themselves as victims, not just of the government, but of opposing groups within camp. Most important, their oral histories, à la Rashomon, provided compelling but very different interpretations of loyalty and patriotism. In many ways, the oral history of Morgan Yamanaka was an unusual selection for a book published during the struggle for redress by the JACL’s national redress director. Yamanaka was a Tule Lake “No-No” who had been imprisoned in the stockade as a “troublemaker” after the camp became a segregation center. His views of JACL cooperation, with its emphasis on loyalty, took on a different slant after the war. He ultimately decided, “It would have been stupid to go against the military” as “all of us would have ended up with gunshot wounds.” But the element of Yamanaka’s oral history

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that was most likely to surprise readers was his explanation of why he became a “No-No.” Redress activists had consistently presented the “No-No’s” as protesters angry about the injustice of internment, or relatives of protesters who didn’t want to be separated from loved ones. Yamanaka, however, explained that the “questionnaire came up while my brother was in Japan and very likely in the Japanese military.” He became a “No-No” simply because he didn’t want to fight his brother. Yamanaka’s brother was hardly the only Nisei in Japan during the war. Yuji Ichioka has estimated that between two thousand and twenty-five hundred Nisei resided in Japan on the eve of Pearl Harbor. In 1997 Ichioka would call for the inclusion of this group within Japanese American history and recount the case of Kazumaro Buddy Uno. He was a Nisei who had worked for the Japanese Army during the war and was accused of mistreating allied POWs. Buddy Uno’s three brothers served in the U.S. Army during the war, and a fourth, Edison Uno, was deemed by many to be the father of the redress movement. Ichioka questioned whether the “category of a disloyal Nisei” could have “any meaning in a society which overwhelmingly rejected the Nisei on racial grounds,” and he declared “there is no justification for treating him [Buddy Uno] as a disloyal Nisei and keeping him beyond the pale of Japanese-American history.”  Ichioka, however, delayed publishing this article until 1997 because he feared it might damage the redress movement. Given the overwhelming emphasis on Japanese American loyalty and patriotism in explanations of support for redress, Ichioka’s fear was founded. Members of Congress seemed incapable of understanding the complexity and diversity of the Japanese American community before, during, and after internment.

A History of Loyalty and Patriotism References to Japanese American resisters and protesters in Tateishi’s And Justice for All did not hurt the redress movement. In fact, throughout the struggle for redress, both the mainstream media and members of Congress seemed oblivious to the rapid proliferation of new and often conflicting accounts of internment that appeared in the ethnic press, oral history interviews, and published memoirs. Thus, even as evidence accumulated of internees’ diverse views of cooperation during the war, military service,

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the loyalty questionnaire, and renunciation of citizenship, depictions by the mainstream media and politicians backing redress emphasized a simple and uniform response of loyalty and patriotism. Yet if some of these accounts of Nisei soldiers and flag-waving families could have been lifted straight from depictions by Dillon Myer and Mike Masaoka in the 1940s and 1950s, there was a new element in the way the media and pro-redress politicians described internment in the 1980s. Myer and Masaoka had emphasized Japanese American recovery and success in the postwar period. Accounts by Japanese American activists in the 1970s, on the other hand, highlighted the agonies of incarceration, the emotional and financial losses people endured, and the sense of shame and guilt that prevented many from discussing the experience for decades after the war. In the 1980s lobbyists combined all of these elements into an appealing argument for redress. The media and politicians could then portray redress as a tribute to a group of Americans that suffered tremendously under egregious conditions, remained loyal even behind barbed wire, and rushed to prove its patriotism on the battlefield. The main goal of redress activists, in these depictions, was a desire to lift the stigma of shame and disloyalty that still haunted former internees and thereby vindicate their faith in American Democracy. Not all Japanese Americans endorsed this presentation of internment history in newspapers and on television. Dwight Chuman, the editor of the Rafu Shimpo, noted in 1984 that “one of the hallmarks of the current Japanese American movement to win redress for the internment ordeal of World War II has been the use of a strategy of sympathy—an effort to convince mainstream America that Japanese Americans are entitled to a lion’s share of sympathy because of their wartime travails behind barbed wire.” Chuman described how this sympathy manifested itself: Scenes of helpless and innocent Nikkei being led at bayonet point on to buses and trains bound for desolate desert and swampland prison camps, accounts of how heroic Nisei came out from behind barbed wire to fight for the Red, White and Blue in the 442nd, 100th and MIS and tales of the psychological scars left on our mothers and fathers and us by the camp experience are all now part of the Video Gospel.

Chuman had promoted a history of resistance within the pages of the Rafu Shimpo for several years. Now he urged Japanese Americans to educate mainstream Americans about histories that “dare to delve past the sympa-

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thy ploy and the image of the crying and damaged Japanese American.” He proclaimed, “I’m still waiting to see, hear and read about those other courageous Nisei who spent years in federal prisons like Fort Leavenworth and McNeil Island instead of accepting conscription into the armed forces of a nation that was unjustly imprisoning their parents, brothers and sisters.” Chuman noted, “It’s become okay recently to hold curfew and evacuation order violators Korematsu, Hirabayashi and Yasui as heroes, but how about the ‘Heart Mountain 64’ and the Manzanar and Poston draft resisters who were made pariah even by the Japanese American press?”  But few Japanese Americans seemed willing to expose mainstream America to a history that was controversial even within the ethnic community. For example, former internee and activist Karl Yoneda had campaigned for decades within the ethnic press against any attempts to praise “No-No” protesters in the camps. He had repeatedly denounced the Manzanar Black Dragons as a “handful of ready-to-die-for-Emperor fanatics” who “continually harassed and physically attacked camouflage net workers as well as those who advocated enlistment to defeat the fascist Axis.”  Yoneda, who volunteered for the military, and his wife, Elaine, a white woman who accompanied her husband to Manzanar and sewed camouflage nets while there, recalled being threatened by these Black Dragons within the pages of the ethnic press. But when Yoneda was interviewed for a Newsweek article in 1981, he either said nothing about these issues or the reporter simply ignored them. In any case, there was no mention of protest or harassment within Manzanar or that Yoneda had a long history of Communist activism. The article, entitled “America’s Day of Infamy,” simply described Yoneda as “a young American patriot working the docks of San Francisco in 1941” who “refused to load ships bound for his native Japan.” When the war broke out, Yoneda “volunteered to do whatever he could for the American cause and was assigned to help build Manzanar, a camp in the California desert.” Then “eight months into his stay in a squalid 20-by-25 foot tar-paper shack, he was recruited as a translator for U.S. military intelligence.” The article went on to say: But his wife and son had to stay behind: Tommy, by then nearly 4 years old, was still regarded by the U.S. Government as a possible threat to national security. For the Yonedas, now both retired, Manzanar is a reminder of the unjust mass incarceration suffered by 120,000 Japanese Americans,

Multiple Histories of Internment 345 a flagrant case of a group being stripped of its civil rights solely for reasons of race and national ancestry.

One could well argue that trying to explain the Black Dragons or Yoneda’s Communist activism would have distracted readers from focusing on the issue of the injustice all internees endured. Yet media depictions of Japanese American redress activists almost always emphasized the same themes of loyalty, suffering, patriotism, and shame. Time’s 1981 article “Burden of Shame” exemplified these accounts. The article began by quoting the commission testimony of Mabel Ota. “When I heard rumors that all Japanese would be interned, I couldn’t believe it,” Ota recalled. “I kept saying that I was a loyal American citizen and that it just couldn’t happen in a democracy.” Time noted that after leaving Poston, Arizona, Ota would “become the first Asian school principal in Los Angeles, but would spend her life believing that the camp’s poor diet and worse medical care caused her father’s death and her daughter to be brain-damaged at birth.” The magazine then eloquently celebrated Japanese American patriotism: Terrible ironies haunt the history. Fourth of July celebrations were bravely held behind barbed wire, in the shadow of sentry towers. Parents wasting away in tar-paper camp shacks proudly displayed starred banners indicating that their sons were American soldiers. Nisei (second-generation Japanese Americans) members of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, which fought gloriously in Europe, were sometimes required to have Caucasian escorts when they visited their interned families.

Finally, the article described why Japanese Americans had not spoken of their pain earlier by quoting the commission testimony of Dr. Mary Oda, who was “torn away from her first year at medical school” when she was interned at Manzanar. “I did not want my children to feel the burden of shame and feelings of rejection by their fellow Americans,” Oda explained. “I wanted them to feel that in spite of what was done to us, this was still the best place in the world to live.”  However, some Japanese Americans expressed concern about the way the media and redress activists depicted loyalty as a rationale for redress. In 1984 Teru Kanazawa, English editor for the New York Nichibei questioned why so many Japanese Americans still felt the need to insist the community was “100 percent loyal” to the United States. Kanazawa felt that many of

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the protests against the filming of the series Sanga Moyu (“The Mountain and Rivers Burn”) had oversimplified the “question of loyalty.” The television drama, produced for the Japan Broadcasting Corporation (Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai), was based on Toyoko Yamazaki’s book Futatsu no Sokoku (“Two Fatherlands”). The story line revolved around a Nisei journalist from Los Angeles. He was interned with his family during the war but then left camp to serve as a language teacher in the U.S. Army. He arrived at the Pacific front where he met two brothers who had joined the Japanese Army. He then served in the American occupation forces, viewed the devastation in Hiroshima, and helped to translate at the Tokyo Tribunal. At the end of the series, the Nisei wrote a letter to his parents apologizing for “being unable to find my own country,” and shot himself. Some Japanese Americans, including Clifford Uyeda, protested the series because they worried it would mislead the public into thinking all Nisei suffered a loyalty conflict and would thereby negate the history of Nisei demonstrations of loyalty. A New York JACL leader criticized the film, arguing, “It would hurt the redress drive if we did not present ourselves as one homogeneous mass with the same attitude toward our individual experiences.” Kanazawa felt that to insist that everyone was “loyal” would deny a part of camp history. What’s more, it would “implicate us in the government’s action” during the war, in which the entire group was judged on the basis of some presumed feeling of loyalty or disloyalty. The real basis for redress, according to Kanazawa, should be the “wrong the government did to us” by “incarcerating us for the color of our skin.” Japanese Americans shouldn’t have to prove they remained loyal under duress to deserve redress any more than they should have had to prove their loyalty to avoid internment.

The Report of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians: A History of Justice Denied Ironically, the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (CWRIC) had recognized the problem of judging Japanese Americans on the basis of group loyalty. It admitted as much in its report, Personal Justice Denied, which represented the culmination of the 1981 commission hearings. As a “nation of immigrants,” the CWRIC noted, “virtually every

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immigrant ethnic group carries some affection for and loyalty to the language, culture and religion of its homeland.” Indeed, the commission understood that “ethnic ties to an enemy people are not equivalent to political loyalty to an enemy state.” Moreover, the report affirmed that individual acts of “disloyalty” should not be used to evaluate an entire ethnic group. In a chapter entitled “Germans and German Americans,” the report noted that pro-Nazi activity by the Bund, the sinking of American ships along the Atlantic Coast by German U-boats, and the landing of two groups of German saboteurs in New York and Florida in the Fall of 1942 had provided “reasonable grounds for anxiety about German-directed sabotage or fifth column activity.” General DeWitt had called for the exclusion of German and Italian nationals from certain areas and the War Department had considered applying Executive Order 9066 to these groups. But German and Italian Americans never experienced mass exclusion or incarceration. Instead the government investigated and provided loyalty hearings to individual aliens arrested because of their activities, usually membership in a “suspect” organization. Thus whereas the government’s determination of what did or did not constitute “suspicious” activity may not always have been valid, at least the criteria for detention emphasized behavior rather than ethnic membership. Also, the commission report expressed understanding and sympathy for draft resisters, “No-No’s,” and renunciants. In the chapter labeled “Protest and Disaffection,” evacuees were described as having “reacted with predictable outrage” when the draft was restored: They would reject decisively the country that had rejected them. Even those whose character forbade angry outbursts could vent their anger in a quiet way—by asking to go to Japan. Draft resistance and renunciation illuminated the darkest shadows of exclusion and detention, showing losses as painful as losing a home or business: the loss of confidence in American society and its moral values. Resistance and renunciation were all the more poignant because they often seemed the only way to maintain one’s dignity and self-respect.

This chapter acknowledged a history of turmoil at Tule Lake that included pro-Japanese activities, the beating of suspected collaborators, and the murder of a “moderate evacuee.” The CWRIC also took note of the fact that more than twenty thousand Japanese Americans filed to leave

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the United States for Japan, even though most later tried to rescind these requests. But the commission attributed this action to the “disaffection caused by evacuation and prolonged detention,” the alienation generated by the loyalty questionnaire, and the coercive tactics of some groups at Tule Lake. In this context, applying to go to Japan was “one of the few nonviolent ways to protest degrading treatment.” The fact that twenty thousand people “chose this means to express their pain, outrage, and alienation,” the report concluded, was “one of the saddest testaments to the injustice of exclusion and detention.”  Of course, the commission’s report could address the complexity of internment history in a manner unavailable to most redress activists. The CWRIC made its case using 467 pages of material, whereas most redress activists had only a few minutes of testimony before Congress or a newsmedia sound bite. Moreover, the series of attacks against the commission’s report and recommendations presented during congressional hearings in 1983 and 1984 demonstrated that influential politicians could ignore or disregard the commission’s historical scholarship and archival research. Many seemed unaware of the extensive evidence provided by the commission report that racism and not military necessity caused the internment. There was little incentive to promoting an understanding of internees’ diverse experiences after members of Congress proved to be so sympathetic to redress opponents who justified internment. In fact, hearings on redress legislation during the mid-1980s provided a clear lesson of how easily the history of internment could be distorted and misrepresented within the congressional arena. This was a disheartening message for Japanese American activists who had been encouraged to believe redress might be obtainable because of the conduct of the commission. Even before the CWRIC began deliberating and preparing its final report, several of its commissioners expressed support for the many witnesses who described the trauma of internment and demanded redress. During the San Francisco hearings, Arthur Flemming, who had been the chair of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights and secretary of Health, Education and Welfare under President Eisenhower, thanked the participants and said he felt “deeply in debt to all who have contributed to these hearings.” He indicated he would “draw on the information, the point of view, that has been expressed at these hearings time and time again.” In addition, Flemming declared the testimony would provide “tremendous help to me as an advocate

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once our report has been filed.” Agreeing with Flemming, Hugh Mitchell felt “the testimony and the long smoldering feelings which have come to light, the words of all the people who have been in the front row here are going to have tremendous meaning to a nation as a whole.” The comments by Mitchell, a former Democratic senator from Washington State, were especially reassuring to redress activists. Little was known about his feelings concerning internment when he was first appointed. As a former internee, Judge William Marutani, of the Philadelphia court of common pleas, said the hearings in San Francisco evoked the same feelings he had experienced during the Los Angeles hearings: For me it’s a mixture of anger and grief, of rage and frustration, choking back a lump in my throat, fighting back tears constantly. And I could not help but think throughout these hearings that, I’m sure, that if the members of the Senate and the members of Congress, no matter how cynical, how hard-hearted they might be, if they heard this testimony as we have, I have absolutely no doubt that they would do the right thing.

Many of the other six appointed commissioners were viewed as likely supporters of Japanese Americans because of their liberal political affiliations. Joan Bernstein, commission chair, had been the former counsel general of the Department of Health and Human Services; Father Robert Drinan, a Jesuit priest and former Democratic congressman from Massachusetts, had cosponsored the bill to establish the commission and had declared he was “sympathetic” to the issue shortly after he was appointed; and Father Ishmael Vincent Gromoff, a Russian Orthodox priest, had been an Aleut evacuee. Perhaps the most important affiliation among the commissioners was that of former Supreme Court justice Arthur Goldberg, who had earlier given advice to the JACL on strategies for achieving redress. In fact, in 1976 Goldberg had suggested to the JACL that reparations might be patterned after the Alaskan Native Claims Act. Although Congressman Dan Lungren, from California, and former Massachusetts senator Edward Brooke were Republicans, many thought Brooke might be more sensitive to the racial issues because he was black. Even though the backgrounds of the commissioners gave redress activists cause for optimism, the report and subsequent recommendations were never preordained. Angus Macbeth, the special counsel to the CWRIC, oversaw the commission staff ’s extensive research of government and uni-

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versity archives. The CWRIC held twenty days of hearings with more than 750 witnesses and spent a year and a half reviewing archival sources, memoirs, and historical scholarship. Macbeth not only reviewed government and military documents surrounding the evacuation but also personally interviewed surviving government officials, specifically John J. McCloy and Karl Bendetsen. The interviews with these two elderly officials, according to Macbeth, were not very useful simply because their memories often contradicted the written record. Macbeth attributed this not to an intention to deceive but to the ravages of time and to the fact that neither saw internment as a momentous element of his life. McCloy forgot DeWitt’s name, and Bendetsen mixed up the dates of well-documented events. To analyze the causes of internment, the staff relied on the extensive written documentation from the period, including memoranda and transcribed phone conversations, as well as previously published academic studies. To recount the experiences of Japanese Americans and Aleuts, the CWRIC used government sources but relied heavily on the personal testimony given during the hearings. Acknowledging that these recollections might also “suffer from the fading of memories over forty years,” the commission decided the testimony was more trustworthy than the reports available from the WRA and the social scientists in the camps. It was difficult, Macbeth explained, “to give greater weight to accounts by a captive population which may well have believed that fully candid statements accessible to a hostile public or government were not in its best interest.”  Personal Justice Denied, the well-documented report publicized by the CWRIC at a press conference on February 24, 1983, provided a new and “official” history of the causes and consequences of internment. Dismissing the rationale of military necessity presented during the war in DeWitt’s Final Report, the CWRIC’s Personal Justice Denied declared: The promulgation of Executive Order 9066 was not justified by military necessity, and the decisions which followed from it—detention, ending detention and ending exclusion—were not driven by analysis of military conditions. The broad historical causes which shaped these decisions were race prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political leadership.

The report concluded that a “grave injustice was done to Americans and resident aliens of Japanese ancestry who, without individual review or any probative evidence against them, were excluded, removed, and detained.” 

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Four months later, in June of 1983, the commission issued five recommendations to Congress. First it called for an apology for the injustice in the form of a joint resolution from Congress and the president. Second it advocated presidential pardons for Japanese Americans convicted of violating laws associated with internment. Third it recommended that Congress direct executive agencies to recognize Japanese American claims for “the restitution of positions, status or entitlements lost” during the war. Fourth it advised Congress to “establish a special foundation” for “educational and humanitarian purposes” so that the nation would not “forget its lapses.” Finally, the CWRIC, with the exception of Dan Lungren, urged Congress to appropriate $1.5 billion to “provide personal redress to those who were excluded,” in the form of a “one-time per capita compensatory payment of $20,000” to each surviving internee. The commission took steps to try to increase the credibility and impact of its findings. It deliberately separated the release of the report and the release of the recommendations, because it recognized that few would pay much attention to the report if the two were combined. The public, the media, and government officials would have focused on the recommendation for monetary compensation. By issuing the report first, the CWRIC hoped the evidence it had accumulated on the history of internment would receive serious consideration. Arthur Goldberg suggested that the commission’s recommendations should be endorsed by all of the members. The only recommendation that did not have unanimous support was the one calling for the “compensatory payment of $20,000,” which Dan Lungren rejected. Several meetings were held to try to achieve a consensus among the commissioners. There were disagreements over how to describe the “broad historical causes” in the report. Some members worried about tarnishing the image of beloved icons like Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Others insisted that his accountability could not be minimized. Consequently, the CWRIC indicted Roosevelt, albeit indirectly, by citing a “failure of political leadership” as third among the historical causes. There was some discussion about the order of the first two causes. The sheer amount of evidence led the commission to decide that “race prejudice” should precede “war hysteria” in the list of causes. The commissioners disagreed about the language that should be used in the report to describe mass removal and detention. William Marutani objected to the use of euphemisms like evacuation and

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relocation, while Joan Bernstein adamantly opposed the use of the term concentration camp. Ultimately, the CWRIC decided to use the euphemisms, declaring that it was reluctant to “change the words and phrases commonly used to describe these events at the time they happened.” Critics, of course, could note that members of the press, the government, and the public had used the term concentration camp during the war. Further, the report acknowledged that the commission could be accused of “shielding unpleasant truths behind euphemisms,” and that “‘excludee’ might be a better term than ‘evacuee.’” The report went on to explain: The Commission has largely left the words and phrases as they were, however, in an effort to mirror accurately the history of the time and to avoid the confusion and controversy a new terminology might provoke. We leave it for each reader to decide for himself how far the language of the period confirms an observation of George Orwell: “In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defense of the indefensible . . . Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism, question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness.” 

The commission’s desire to avoid alienating public support also affected its assessment of redress eligibility. It was concerned that including the heirs of deceased internees might lead to attacks on the CWRIC for establishing a precedent for other victims of government discrimination. Limiting redress to surviving internees made the commission less vulnerable to this charge. It also served to cut the number of expected recipients in half and, it was hoped, would make redress more acceptable to a cost-conscious Congress. However, the CWRIC miscalculated in its estimation of the total number of surviving internees. The commission used actuarial tables based on life expectancies of white males to arrive at its estimate of 60,000. Ultimately, the government would provide payments to 82,077 individuals. But Japanese Latin Americans would not be included in this group. More than twenty-three hundred Latin American residents of Japanese ancestry were deported to the United States for internment to supply exchanges for American citizens held by Japan. More than 80 percent came from Peru, which had a history of anti-Japanese sentiment fueled by racism and economic competition. Their passports were confiscated before they landed in the United States and they were interned at an INS camp in Crystal City, Texas. Even though they had been involuntarily deported and interned,

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they were classified by the U.S. government as illegal aliens and subjected to deportation proceedings at the end of the war. Since Peru refused to accept all but a few internees, many were deported to Japan, even if they were Peruvian citizens who had never been to Japan. Others, with the help of ACLU attorney Wayne Collins, waged a court battle until the United States finally relented and suspended deportation proceedings in 1953. Although Goldberg was outraged by U.S. government mistreatment of these people, the other commissioners felt their situation was outside the scope of the CWRIC’s mandate as defined by Congress. The decision to recommend payments of $20,000 was the result of negotiation among the eight who supported the concept of compensation. The JACL and most of the former internees who testified before the commission requested $25,000. Three of the commissioners—namely Goldberg, Flemming, and Drinan— supported higher payments. There was concern that too low a figure would “tokenize” the issue and too high a figure would make redress unrealistic. According to Joan Bernstein, the CWRIC ultimately decided on $20,000 to avoid the appearance that it was “in the JACL’s pocket,” while still providing an amount close to the figure requested by former internees.

Congressional Histories of Internment The commission’s endorsement of individual redress payments surprised many Japanese Americans. Many assumed that the CWRIC would acknowledge the wartime incarceration was a mistake but reject the idea of compensatory redress. After the commission issued its recommendations, the JACL immediately urged the Japanese American congressional representatives to sponsor legislation to implement them. On October 6, 1983, H.R. 4110, a bill calling for $1.5 billion to provide $20,000 to each surviving internee, and to establish a public education fund, was introduced in the House. Even with the backing of the commission, many activists recognized that it would be difficult to mobilize the necessary support in Congress. In 1980 Japanese Americans constituted less than 0.5 percent of the total U.S. population. Of the 716,331 Nikkei in America, 37.5 percent lived in California and 33 percent in Hawaii. The percentage of Japanese Americans was virtually negligible in congressional districts outside these two states. Lacking electoral clout, Japanese Americans faced formidable external

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obstacles against redress. The federal deficit had swelled from $59.6 billion in 1980 to $195.4 billion in 1983. To reduce the deficit, Congress passed the Gramm-Rudman-Hollings bill, requiring across-the-board cuts if the deficit exceeded targeted amounts. Many wondered how members of Congress could justify a $1.5 billion expenditure when other programs faced heavy cuts and the public clamored for balanced budgets. Moreover, the large trade imbalance with Japan made support of anything associated with Japan politically risky. Protectionist politicians attributed America’s rising inflation and unemployment to Japan’s unfair trading practices. Many in the public still could not differentiate between Japanese Americans and Japan, or between Japanese Americans and other Asian Americans. In 1982, in Detroit, Chinese American Vincent Chin fell victim to “Japan bashing” when he was beaten to death by two disgruntled autoworkers. Also, many activists worried that Japanese Americans’ economic status would make redress seem unnecessary. According to the 1980 census, the average Japanese American household earned $22,517, compared with the national average of $16,841. Even though these statistics disguised differentials in return-to-education rates and per-capita income, redress proponents feared this data would be cited as evidence of postwar recovery and “success.”  Finally, the ascension of anti–affirmative action Republicans advocating fiscal restraint during the Reagan administration made passage of redress seem unlikely. How could Congress support an apparent minority bill that might encourage reparations claims from other victims of discrimination in this increasingly conservative climate? It took five years before changes in the makeup of the House and Senate and “behind-the-scenes” politicking made it possible to get the bill through Congress. For four years, redress languished in congressional committees. The committee chair in the Senate and the subcommittee chair in the House made sure the bills never came to the floor for a vote. In the Senate’s Governmental Affairs Committee, chair William Roth, from Delaware, bottled up the bill out of a desire to restrain fiscal spending. Although Judiciary Committee chair Peter Rodino, a Democrat from New Jersey, supported redress, the bill never emerged from the House Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations, chaired by Sam Hall, a conservative Democrat from rural Texas who had a poor voting record on civil rights issues. Hall was willing to hold hearings on redress, but he was not willing to let the bill reach the full Judiciary Committee. In addition,

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Thomas Kindness, from Ohio, the ranking Republican of the same subcommittee, informed Congressman Norman Mineta, from California, that Karl Bendetsen, who had overseen the military’s role in internment and was a determined opponent of redress, advised Kindness on the issue. During House subcommittee hearings held in 1984, Hall and Kindness oversaw a wholesale assault not just on redress but on the history of internment. The selection and treatment of witnesses reflected an assumption that Japanese Americans were disloyal and that internment was justified. In this “arena,” evidence offered by the commission, scholars, and former internees was discounted, whereas allegations and innuendo were accepted at face value. Consequently, the hearings provided an example of how redress opponents could misrepresent and even lie with impunity about the history of internment. Throughout the subcommittee hearings, Hall and Kindness betrayed an ignorance of Japanese American history and responded with hostility to the CWRIC’s findings. Commission chair Joan Bernstein declared that the CWRIC recommended redress because “our Nation’s ability to honor democratic values, even in times of stress, depends largely on our collective memory of lapses from our constitutional commitment to liberty and due process.” She maintained, “A free act of apology to those who were unjustly excluded and detained during the war” would provide an “important act of national healing.” She recounted the “economic loss of farms and homes sold in distressed circumstances, of elderly people having to start from scratch a second time after the war, of families detained in camps without employment and unable to meet tax and mortgage and insurance payments, of education and careers disrupted.” Estimates of property and income losses, adjusted for inflation alone, totaled in 1983 between $810 million and $2 billion. These figures, Bernstein noted, did not include the effects upon human capital, lost education, or job training, and didn’t address the “hidden scars” caused by “the stigma of having been branded potentially disloyal, the deprivation of liberty and the loss of common decency of daily life.”  After her presentation, Hall began his attack. He asked the representatives of the CWRIC questions indicating that he either hadn’t read or understood the commission’s report. He declared, “Is it not a fact that, of the 120,000 people that were affected by this order, that probably 40,000, or about 35 or 36 percent were aliens born in Japan, and had never become

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citizens of the United States?” Angus Macbeth had to explain that Japanese immigrants were “barred by American law from becoming American citizens.” Noting that the Issei had to have lived in this country for at least seventeen years because emigration from Japan had been prohibited since 1924, Macbeth described them as “people who under very adverse conditions, had chosen to remain in this country, to make their life in this country, despite the fact that they could not become citizens.” After describing the differential treatment of German and Italian “resident aliens,” Macbeth concluded by stating that the Issei “were not in a position where they could directly express loyalty to the United States through citizenship.”  Sam Hall then proceeded to raise the specter of renunciation, claiming that a great number of redress recipients would be people who had renounced their citizenship. Macbeth explained that renunciation “has to be looked at in the context of what happened in the course of the war.” He referred to the chapters in the report that detailed how “people not only lost faith in America in light of what happened to them, but were also exposed to very debilitating conditions, not only physically but often emotionally and psychologically.” Hall then stated that he noticed “in reading the report that some 20 or 25 percent of the people who were relocated refused to take the loyalty oath and never did take the loyalty oath.” He asked why the commission thought they were entitled to $20,000. Of course, if Hall had actually read the chapter on the loyalty questionnaire carefully, it wouldn’t have been necessary for Macbeth to explain the unfairness of the loyalty review process. Although Hall allowed redress advocates like Norman Mineta, Robert Matsui, and leaders from the JACL and the National Coalition for Redress/ Reparations (NCRR) to give presentations, it soon became clear that the real goal of the hearing was to undermine the CWRIC’s conclusions. The last witness on the first day was David F. Trask, chief historian for the U.S. Army Center of Military History. He called the commission’s report “a legal brief rather than history” that excluded or rejected “facts and arguments” supporting the government’s claims of “military necessity.” Admitting that most historians considered relocation “one of the most tragic and unjust events in our national experience,” Trask insisted “a case can be made that the decision of 1942 stemmed, in part at least, from a sincere belief that it was a requirement of military necessity, even if prejudice also played a significant role.” Trask seemed to have forgotten that “race prejudice” was

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one of three causes cited by the CWRIC and that the report showed how DeWitt’s “sincere” paranoia had rested on racial assumptions. But instead of asking Trask for actual evidence of military necessity, Hall asked him to comment on the commission’s inattention to “the existence of a long history of rising concern about the growth of Japanese expansionism and its adverse consequences for national security.”  The rest of the hearings focused on whether the CWRIC had neglected evidence of the threat Japanese Americans posed to national security. The subcommittee showed great deference to David Lowman, a retired official in the National Security Agency, who claimed the commission “misrepresented the prevailing intelligence opinion at that time.” The decision to remove Japanese Americans was “understandable,” Lowman declared, because Magic cables (decoded Japanese diplomatic messages) “presented to the U.S. Government the frightening specter of massive espionage nets, utilizing large numbers of ethnic Japanese living on the west coast of the United States, established and controlled by the Japanese government.” Lowman described Japanese consulate reports to Tokyo that claimed “first and second generation Japanese had been successfully recruited and were now spying on shipments of airplanes and war material in the San Diego and San Pedro areas.”  Lowman’s dramatic testimony seemed to breathe new life into the argument that internment was required by military necessity. John J. McCloy and Karl Bendetsen testified that the Magic cables influenced the decision to remove Japanese Americans, and Dan Lungren criticized the commission’s lack of attention to this evidence. However, the subcommittee also was presented with abundant evidence debunking any claims of the existence of a “massive espionage network,” or that the cables had any impact on the decision to intern Japanese Americans. Legal scholar Peter Irons submitted a written statement declaring that Lowman’s testimony contained “much illusion and little reality.” Irons acknowledged that there had been a Japanese espionage network on the West Coast until June 1941, and that the Magic cables established that “the Japanese government hoped to enlist Japanese Americans as agents of this network.” But Lowman failed to provide evidence that these recruitment efforts were successful. According to Irons, Lowman even confessed in a telephone conversation that he had no way of identifying the sources of the intelligence sent to Tokyo in the cables. Jack Herzig, a former army counterintelligence officer and supporter

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of the National Council for Japanese American Redress (NCJAR), provided similar criticisms of Lowman’s charges in testimony before the subcommittee. Herzig noted that of the more than two thousand Magic cables that appeared in the published history of the Department of Defense, only six even mentioned the second generation, and “these are either from Tokyo—some with suggestions to recruit the second generation, among other groups—or they originate from Japanese consulates reporting plans and hopes to use Nisei for intelligence purposes.” None specified Japanese Americans as the source of intelligence information. In fact, much of the so-called intelligence in the cables Lowman cited did not even require an espionage network. Herzig detailed how one of Lowman’s supposed “espionage nuggets” described information on aircraft production that had been published by the Los Angeles Times before the cables were sent. Herzig then refuted claims that the commission had overlooked the Magic cables and that it had ignored claims by McCloy and Bendetsen that the cables had influenced the decision to intern Japanese Americans. Verbatim transcripts of the CWRIC hearings demonstrated that Magic was discussed and that McCloy was questioned about espionage on the West Coast. “At that time,” Herzig noted, “Mr. McCloy mentioned Magic only in connection with the war in the Pacific, and not in relation to the Japanese-Americans,” and he “even specified in his testimony that the Japanese-Americans were only a ‘potential threat.’” Herzig declared, “General DeWitt’s own Chief of Counterintelligence” specifically told the commission that “he had no information concerning espionage by Japanese Americans.” Finally, Herzig mercilessly dissected Bendetsen’s testimony given earlier in the day. Bendetsen had told the subcommittee that the cables had revealed hundreds of “espionage nets” among Japanese Americans and provided “the basis finally of General DeWitt’s recommendation.” He said he didn’t testify about the Magic cables before the commission “because I knew it would be fruitless.” He declared that every commissioner, with the exception of Lungren, “had made up his mind before he was appointed.”  Herzig pointed out that even Lowman never claimed there were “hundreds” of espionage nets. Further, Herzig insisted that Bendetsen supplied absolutely no evidence that any existed. The transcript of the CWRIC hearings showed that Bendetsen had specifically told the commission he had no information on espionage or sabotage by Japanese Americans. In addition

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to supplying these verbatim extracts of the testimony, Herzig provided a series of photographs disproving Bendetsen’s assertion that there were no towers or military guards inside the camps. Herzig’s evidence demonstrated inconsistencies in Bendetsen’s testimony that committee members never explored. After the hearings, Donna Rise Omata sent a letter to Congressman Sam Hall and the subcommittee members, noting how “meek” they had been when “questioning Mr. Bendetsen’s queer statements about the treatment of internees and their properties.”  Subcommittee members who said they had read the CWRIC report had remarkably few questions for Bendetsen, even after he claimed that the camps had no guards, families were not separated, farmers received compensation for crops harvested by the Department of Agriculture, and “all of the household goods of those who were evacuated or who left voluntarily were indexed, stored, and warehouse receipts were given.” Hall noted that the subcommittee had letters that “counteract what you are saying now completely,” but then he suggested Bendetsen might simply not be aware of these experiences and that there were “possibly two sides to this thing.”  But even the most cursory reading of the commission’s report would have indicated that government documents, as well as personal testimony, directly contradicted Bendetsen’s testimony. The reluctance to question, much less challenge, Bendetsen showed the subcommittee’s predisposition to his defense of internment. Herzig, on the other hand, was interrogated in a manner designed to discredit his evidence. Hall read Herzig selections from a 1945 report by the House Committee on Un-American Activities. The report claimed the Issei “would do everything in their power to further the war aims of Japan,” the Kibei “are definitely in the ‘suspect’ class as far as loyalty to the United States is concerned,” and the Nisei were “to a great extent, engaged in pro-Japanese activities before Pearl Harbor.” Hall didn’t need actual evidence that these descriptions were warranted and declared that he could not “disregard” the “findings” of this “authoritative committee.” Moreover, Hall and Bendetsen insisted that Herzig had not disproved the importance of the Magic cables. Both tried to get Herzig to admit that the Japanese code had been broken and that Roosevelt had seen Magic cables. Herzig, as he himself pointed out, had never disputed this. Kindness asked him if he “would take issue” with Lowman’s testimony that the Japanese had “spies and agents and ambassadors in all parts of the world.” Herzig agreed but explained that the issue was whether

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there were “any Japanese-Americans who were providing this information, not Imperial Japanese consulates, attachés, anybody like that.” The distinction was lost on both Hall and Kindness, however. After noting that not one of the ninety-one individuals convicted of spying in the United States between 1938 and 1945 had been a Japanese American, Herzig had asked the subcommittee: “Suppose one case of espionage by a Japanese-American had been found, or 10 cases, or 100 cases, would that have provided a reason to incarcerate 1,000 times that number of innocent persons? That is the theory of retaliation practiced by the Nazis.”  But the subcommittee didn’t even need the conviction of one Japanese American spy. The very fact that Japan had spies was enough to justify internment. Apparently, DeWitt’s wartime view that “a Jap was a Jap” was still very much alive. Ironically, the same subcommittee members who believed that Japanese Americans participated in espionage nets also believed that the government wanted to “protect” them from violence on the West Coast. They seemed to find it plausible that the government would care about the well-being of all these spies and saboteurs. Hall suggested to the commission “the evacuees were removed, in part, for their own safety due to reported beatings and vandalism on the west coast.” He persisted in this line of questioning even after Angus Macbeth explained that this argument appeared only after Japanese Americans were interned. The response by Thomas Kindness to the testimony of former internee Kiku Hori Funabiki illustrated his assumption that Japanese Americans were spies and that the government had sheltered them from racism during the war. Funabiki appeared before the subcommittee determined to refute officials like McCloy and Bendetsen, who tried to excuse away the incarceration. Her testimony assailed the idea that it was simply “honest hysteria following Pearl Harbor” that led to internment. Funabiki made her case by describing the history of racial discrimination that had long preceded Pearl Harbor and had victimized her and her parents. She told of how her sick infant brother died after a hospital refused to admit him because “no Japanese were served there.” She then recounted how watching her father “being led away in shackles by three Federal agents” after Pearl Harbor, simply because he ran an employment agency, left a wound that “has never healed.” Funabiki’s description of the “deplorable conditions” in the camps included “families crowded into horse stalls, heavy with the stench of manure,” food

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poisoning, epidemics of communicable diseases, and “even some deaths of internees gunned down by overzealous guards.”  Funabiki’s anguished account fell on deaf ears. Hall seemed triumphant when he got Funabiki to acknowledge that she had not actually witnessed guards killing internees but had read about it in Michi Weglyn’s Years of Infamy. He told her that the subcommittee heard “other people testifying that the camps were not as you portray them to be,” and that the subcommittee had to be “in the position of a jury.” Hall’s questions made it clear that he did not find her to be a “credible” witness. Kindness tried to convince her that “the evacuation” might have “provided you, and your mother, and your brothers with protection from the elements and from physical needs,” as well as from “physical threats and abuse on the west coast.” Funabiki responded that Japanese Americans “would not have wanted to be separated from the mainstream” and “should have been protected by the same laws” as were the Italian Americans and German Americans. This led Kindness to declare that her father “presumably” had received fair treatment, and that he “might have been targeted because of the business he was in, which would be ideal for intelligence gathering, even espionage.”  In other words, Funabiki should have been grateful that the government took care of her family even though her father was a probable spy. After the hearings, Funabiki sent a protest letter to the subcommittee because “we have a right to stand toe to toe with these guys that are looking down on us trying to tell us what our rights are.”  In her letter, she documented her description of camp conditions with citations from several scholarly works and exhorted the subcommittee to put more emphasis on the constitutionality of internment: Forty-two years later when the facts confirming our indisputable loyalty are all recorded we sit before you and must still prove our innocence by having to refute false charges over and over again. None of this has to do with our civil rights as guaranteed by our Constitution, our most sacred protection.

However, historical evidence would not help Japanese Americans obtain redress while Sam Hall was chair of the Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations. Demonstrations of suffering and patriotism made little difference to politicians who were inclined to see internees as disloyal and dangerous. Subcommittee hearings in the Senate, chaired

f i g u r e 1 8 . Kiku Hori Funabiki displays her father’s jacket at the commission hearings in San Francisco. Courtesy of Kiku Hori Funabiki and the National Japanese American Historical Society.

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by Senator Charles E. Grassley, a conservative Republican from Iowa, also gave credence to the arguments of redress opponents. Lillian Baker repeated the defense of the evacuation she had been making since the 1970s. Baker proclaimed the camps were constitutional because the Supreme Court had ruled they were constitutional. Japanese Americans were disloyal because Japan “insisted that there be no one of Japanese descent born anywhere in the world who was not considered Japanese.” The “uprisings and the riots in the war relocation authority’s centers by pro-Japanese” verified the wisdom of removing Japanese Americans from the West Coast. Grassley could have asked Baker to justify her contention that Japanese Americans were controlled by the emperor, and that protest within camp reflected pro-Japanese fanaticism. Instead he simply asked her to recount the “evidence” she had that contradicted the commission’s report. Like Hall, Grassley questioned whether the government might have had a “military reason for believing a military danger existed” and worried about the “precedent which could be set if individual compensation is approved.”  Similar attacks on internees and redress were repeated throughout congressional hearings held between 1983 and 1986. As redress advocates described a history of loyalty and patriotism, redress opponents repeatedly cited a history of disloyalty within the camps. In the hands of redress opponents like Lillian Baker, any evidence of resistance to the government automatically signified pro-Japanese sentiment that justified the incarceration. Ironically, Baker would refer to Grassley’s subcommittee articles from the ethnic press, which recounted this history of protest, to bolster her claims of internee disloyalty. She cited a letter to the Rafu Shimpo from Karl Yoneda in which he denounced the Manzanar Black Dragons as proof that all Kibei were “disloyal” and “pro-Japan.” Of course, she failed to mention that Yoneda was a Kibei who volunteered for military service, that he consistently described the “fanatics” as only a “handful” of individuals, and that he supported redress. In this climate even Mike Masaoka felt compelled to defend camp protesters from charges of disloyalty. After listening to S. I. Hayakawa and Lillian Baker attack the “No-No’s” in 1986, Masaoka declared “that the loyalty questions were such that I would have answered no to some of them.” Remarkably, the same Masaoka who had supported segregating the “No-No’s” during the war, now defended their stance by criticizing the question that had asked internees to “forswear any allegiance to the Emperor of Japan.”

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Never having had “any allegiance to the Japanese Emperor or to the Japanese nation,” Masaoka proclaimed, “I would have been one of those on that list who said no.”  Masaoka’s testimony did not manifest a change in his views of protest, however. Within the ethnic press and his own memoir, he remained highly critical of the “No-No’s.” But by 1986 he knew that the charges of disloyalty lodged by Hayakawa and Baker had to be countered for redress to have any chance of success. Congress seemed all too receptive to the idea that camp resistance validated internment. Even though Masaoka defended the “No-No’s” in 1986, he and other Japanese American leaders recognized that it was best to forget this resistance when lobbying Congress. Several years of subcommittee hearings in both the House and the Senate indicated that the members could not empathize with the resisters. After years of listening to redress opponents present unsubstantiated allegations of disloyalty, redress advocates understandably limited their accounts of internment to stories of loyalty and patriotism.

The Passage of Redress Legislation As luck would have it, changes in congressional leadership gave redress activists a new forum in 1987. They could now promote this history of loyalty and patriotism without constantly defending internees against opponents like Lillian Baker. Ironically, the redress campaign got help from a politician who opposed redress but also wanted Sam Hall out of Congress. Senator Phil Gramm, from Texas, wanted the Republicans to take over Hall’s seat. He convinced President Reagan to appoint the congressman as a federal district judge. The new chair of the subcommittee, Congressman Dan Glickman, from Kansas, would later vote for redress but was unwilling to use his position to help the bill reach the House floor. Then in 1987 Glickman moved to the Agriculture Committee, and Barney Frank, from Massachusetts, succeeded him as chair of Administrative Law and Governmental Relations. This was a critical development for redress advocates. Supporting the bill from its introduction, Frank had condemned internment ever since he took a college constitutional law course at Harvard. After studying the Korematsu case, he decided “both internment and the Supreme Court decision were fundamentally wrong.” An ideological

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liberal, Frank also had a consistent record of fighting for civil rights legislation. At his first staff meeting, Frank announced that moving the bill out of committee was a major priority. He held hearings in April 1987 that pitted the testimony of numerous redress proponents against a single opponent. During these hearings, Frank focused discussion not on the rationale for internment but on the proper form of redress. Needless to say, David Lowman, S. I. Hayakawa, Lillian Baker, and the other redress opponents given prominent roles in earlier hearings, were not invited to testify. Taking the injustice of internment for granted, Barney asked participants to comment on the relative merits of a national apology, monetary compensation, and an educational fund. By focusing the discussion on redress, Frank helped the redress bill emerge from the subcommittee to gain a hearing on the House floor. Also, the House floor was more receptive to redress by 1987. Redress supporters in the Democratic Party acquired new positions of power after Speaker Tip O’Neill retired in 1986. Jim Wright, from Texas, became Speaker; Thomas Foley, from Washington, became majority leader; and Tony Coelho, from California, became majority whip. Wright had been an original author of the commission bill and a principal sponsor of the first redress bill. Coming from states with internee populations, Foley and Coelho were both well informed of the issues, but they were also liberal politically and therefore committed to passing the bill. Conditions had also improved in the Senate. In 1986 John Glenn defeated Thomas Kindness in Ohio’s Senate race. Glenn then replaced William Roth, a redress opponent, as chair of the Governmental Affairs Committee. Glenn was one of three important supporters of redress to assume a leadership position when the Democrats regained control of the Senate in 1986, marking the end of six years of Republican rule. Alan Cranston, from California, became majority whip, the second most powerful position in the Senate, and Daniel Inouye assumed the third-ranked position of secretary of the majority. Cranston, an avowed liberal from the state with the second-largest percentage of Nikkei and the greatest number of internees, had been a critic of internment since World War II. As a member of the Office of Facts and Figures for the government, Cranston had urged Roosevelt not to endorse the military’s internment plans. He visited several camps and gave firsthand descriptions of the harsh conditions when explaining his support for compensatory legislation. Although Daniel Inouye

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let Spark Matsunaga do most of the lobbying in the Senate, his presence as a cosponsor gave the bill more clout. Ted Stevens, from Alaska, the ranking Republican member of the Senate subcommittee, also supported the legislation once it was amended to include provisions for Aleutian Islanders as well. This reorganization in congressional leadership allowed the legislation to move through the committee process. As the congressional arena became more amenable to the legislation, redress lobbyists tailored depictions of the history of internment to appeal to those politicians who would vote on the measure when it finally appeared before the full House and Senate. Consequently, there was a clear difference in the histories of internment presented within the ethnic press and the chambers of Congress. Ethnic newspapers and newsletters published by the NCRR and NCJAR continued to emphasize a history of American racism before, during, and after the war. These publications often highlighted the history of draft resisters and “No-No’s” as forgotten victims of the war and as inspiring examples for contemporary activists. These accounts also invariably criticized the government for denying justice to the approximately two hundred former internees who died each month without receiving an apology or compensation from the government. Leaders of the JACL knew, however, that a history of protest and anger against the government would not mobilize the necessary support in Congress. As the JACL intensified its lobbying campaign, the organization relied on strategists, like Grant Ujifusa, who could cultivate endorsements from conservatives as well as liberals. Although Ujifusa, a Sansei from Wyoming, did not have family members who were interned, he said he “knew what the story was” and “understood it in my belly the way the Nisei who did go to camp as an adult understands it.”  As a coauthor of the Almanac of American Politics, Ujifusa brought to the debate considerable knowledge of Washington politics. Providing short profiles on each member of Congress, the almanac influenced staffers, lobbyists, and journalists. Dubbed “the bible of American politics” by George Will, the almanac gave Ujifusa access to the ears of most Congressional members. Ujifusa’s plan for winning redress emphasized lobbying key members of the House and Senate subcommittees, in addition to the White House to prevent a possible veto. Grayce Uyehara, a retired Nisei social worker from Philadelphia, coordinated the JACL’s lobbying effort. Well known through-

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out the Japanese American community, Uyehara’s willingness to use her own personal contacts and to operate outside the JACL’s formal channels helped her develop an effective outreach campaign. In 1987 Uyehara began a series of “action alerts,” which gave JACL members throughout the country updates on the progress of redress and scorecards on every member’s position on the bill. Providing sample form letters urging Congress to support redress, these alerts also exhorted members to write and visit their representatives. Also, Uyehara solicited support from civil rights, veteran, labor, and religious organizations. By 1987 the JACL secured almost two hundred organizational endorsements. The wide range of supporters—from the National Education Association, the AFL-CIO, and the American Bar Association to the National League of Cities, in addition to state and city legislatures and veterans groups—promoted the image of a bill that affected the whole country, not just a single minority group. Activists with the NCRR also contributed to the grassroots campaign for redress. The organization sent two delegations to lobby Congress in July 1984 and July 1987. These Nisei and Sansei activists provided moving personal accounts of the suffering caused by internment and obtained reassurances, especially from more progressive politicians, of support for redress. In 1987, 120 NCRR representatives made 101 visits to congressional offices. War veteran Rudy Tokiwa convinced conservative Congressman Charles Bennett, a Democrat from Florida, to support redress by recounting his combat experiences. Tokiwa described the Battle of the Lost Battalion and how of the 258 members of his company, he was one of only 17 who returned alive. In addition, by sending more than twenty thousand letters in support of redress compensation, NCRR activists like Sox Kitashima gave notice that the community would not give up the crusade until redress was achieved. Robert Matsui called NCRR’s “grassroots campaign for redress” . . . “an impressive testament to citizen activism to correct injustice.” He acknowledged NCRR’s importance in “keeping the community informed and in building local support.” Norman Mineta felt NCRR should have “tremendous pride” in how “its grassroots action and advocacy have energized Americans of Japanese ancestry and built a solid record of progress and success for our community.”  However, JACL strategist Grant Ujifusa knew that grassroots activism would not necessarily win the support of the conservative politicians vital

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to the passage of redress. Veteran Rudy Tokiwa’s meeting with the conservative Bennett constituted just one element of NCRR’s campaign for redress. Highlighting a history of loyalty and patriotism would provide the central focus of JACL’s lobbying strategy and win the conservative support that made redress a reality.

JACL Lobbyists and Patriotism Even before Ujifusa began directing the lobbying campaign in 1985, the JACL had promoted a history of Nisei soldiers volunteering from behind barbed wire. Commission testimony by JACL leaders in 1981 had recounted the heroism of Japanese American soldiers. In 1984 JACL’s Committee for Redress published a booklet entitled Redress . . . NOT a Trivial Pursuit, by Pete Hironaka, which was filled with cartoons emphasizing a history of loyalty. The front cover asked readers, “Despite being treated as enemy aliens, what American volunteers forged outstanding military records in Europe and Asia during World War II?” The next page presented drawings of the Constitution and the Statue of Liberty, along with a caption declaring, “We Americans of Japanese ancestry grew up pledging allegiance to the stars and stripes. We believed what we read and what we were taught.” Another cartoon showed Uncle Sam booting “loyal US citizens” behind barbed wire. Yasui, Hirabayashi, and Korematsu were praised as “outraged individuals” who “resolved to test their inalienable rights as American citizens.” Then two cartoons on the history of Nisei heroism were accompanied by the caption, “Thousands went into battle by volunteering to prove their loyalty . . . and many gave all they had.” The caption never made clear that most of these volunteers were from Hawaii rather than the internment camps. One of these two cartoons showed a field of crosses that commemorated the “final resting place” of the “brave soldiers of the 442nd.” The other presented a list of “Nisei congressional medal of honor recipients” and declared “valor favors no generation.” Of course, the list of medal winners didn’t reveal that only one of the four individuals on the list had received the award for service during World War II, or that many in the community felt other veterans also deserved the award but had been denied it because of racism in the military. The JACL campaign Ujifusa directed simply refined these earlier accounts of loyalty and patriotism. One publication, Redress! The American

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Promise, presented a detailed and moving depiction of redress as a reward for a community that never lost faith in democracy. The first page reprinted the proclamation Gerald Ford delivered in 1976 when he officially terminated Executive Order 9066. Conservative readers were reminded that a Republican president had recognized the injustice of interning loyal patriots, when he declared: We now know what we should have known then—not only was that evacuation wrong, but Japanese-Americans were and are loyal Americans. On the battlefield and at home, Japanese-Americans—names like Hamada, Mitsumori, Marimoto, Noguchi, Yamasaki, Kido, Munemori, and Miyamura—have been and continue to be written in our history for the sacrifices and the contributions they have made to the well-being and security of this, our common Nation.

The pamphlet then devoted two sections to describing internees’ reaction to the camps. The first was entitled “Response to Prejudice: Nisei in Camps Volunteer for Military Service by the Hundreds.” The second section celebrated “The Saga of the Nisei Soldier” and proclaimed, “Their Courage” and “Deeds Made All Evacuees Proud.” This section described the 442nd’s campaign in France and Italy but also praised the 3,700 Nisei members of the Military Intelligence Service. Frank Hachiya, who had appeared frequently in earlier JACL accounts of patriotism, was presented again as an exemplar of this little-known group of soldiers in the Pacific. Parachuted behind enemy lines in the Philippines, Hachiya was returning to the American lines with maps of Japanese defenses when he was mistaken for a Japanese soldier and shot. Nevertheless he continued on his mission and delivered the maps before he died. His hometown of Hood River, Oregon, at first refused to recognize Japanese American servicemen and removed their names from the town’s honor roll. After the army announced that Hachiya was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, the embarrassed town restored his name and the names of thirteen other Japanese Americans. This victory against prejudice seemed to vindicate the Japanese Americans who “went to war to fight for democracy, and at the same time, to prove that they were loyal Americans.”  While focusing on the history of Nisei soldiers, the pamphlet also provided a moving account of Issei loyalty and patriotism. Japanese immigrants were portrayed as model Americans who worked hard, educated their children, didn’t complain, and bore racism with quiet dignity. Under the head-

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ing, “Imported as laborers, they became farmers, shop owners,” their prewar history of proud self-sufficiency was described: Unable to become citizens, they worked to create exemplary communities up and down the coast, particularly as far as public records were concerned. They generally took care of their own problems so that the public records showed the Japanese had hardly a person on the public welfare list or police blotters. After enduring the hardships of life behind barbed wire and sending their sons off to war, they left camp “with characteristic determination, patience, and hard work” to “climb back to normalcy.” When they finally became eligible for naturalization in 1952, they rushed to take citizenship exams. These immigrants still prized citizenship after enduring “harassment and even violence from organized hate groups,” confinement in “detention camps,” and the loss of “everything they had worked for.” The pamphlet wondered, “Who else would, or even could, continue to have faith in a nation that had treated them so shabbily for so long?” 

Ironically, many of the Japanese Americans who launched the redress movement in the 1970s had hoped the struggle would undermine this image of Japanese Americans as a model minority. Edison Uno and other activists envisioned a campaign that would publicize a history of racism and demonstrate the Japanese American commitment to fighting government injustice. In the mid-1980s, however, the model minority image became a powerful tool for JACL redress lobbyists who needed support from conservative politicians. Whereas liberals and progressives might see redress as an indictment of racism, conservatives could support the legislation as a reward for demonstrations that racism could be overcome by patriotism. The JACL also portrayed redress as an “American issue” that would protect the Bill of Rights and the Constitution. Ujifusa later compared “selling” redress to selling a car. He recalled developing the “sales pitch” he would use on liberals like Barney Frank and conservatives like Ronald Reagan. The Constitution provided the “feature that might make both into buyers”: So you sell what the federal government shouldn’t do, or is never supposed to do, to people—which is where Barney and Ron come together. Also, the issue framed this way might keep Reagan and conservative members of Congress from thinking that redress is really just a big government payoff to a special interest constituency of the Democratic party—ethnic Japanese Americans . . . The message you want the sales pitch to leave

Multiple Histories of Internment 371 behind: very bad things often happen when the government doesn’t leave people alone. (emphasis in the original)

Depictions of loyalty, patriotism, model minority success, constitutional rights, and the danger of big government helped redress win votes from liberals and conservatives in Congress in 1987. Grant Ujifusa, Grayce Uyehara, Mike Masaoka, and a large contingent of JACL veterans lobbied individual members of Congress. Color of Honor, a documentary by Loni Ding about the Japanese Americans in the Military Intelligence Service, was shown in the Smithsonian and in Congress in 1987. Whereas these tactics persuaded many in Congress of the merits of compensatory legislation, the impassioned personal appeals of the Nikkei members of Congress aroused committed support for the bill. According to Glenn Roberts, aide to Norman Mineta, the Japanese American congressional representatives asked “virtually every one” of their colleagues to support redress. Their accounts of the internment also emphasized Japanese American patriotism and loyalty. In speeches and in meetings the four congressmen movingly recounted their wartime experiences to their peers. The two senators from Hawaii described their own combat experiences and the heroism of mainland comrades who came from behind barbed wire to risk their lives for America. The two congressmen from California, interned as children, provided emotional testimony of their families’ loyalty during the war. Their personal involvement in the struggle for redress made it more difficult for their peers to justify internment or minimize the suffering in the camps. In the Senate, Daniel Inouye led the campaign for the commission proposal. A member of the all-Nisei 100th Battalion and 442nd Regimental Combat Team, Inouye had lost part of his right arm on the battlefield. This visible reminder of his sacrifice during the war prevented challenges of Inouye’s patriotism when he supported redress. However, redress was not a major priority for Inouye until much later in the appropriations battle. Most of the lobbying in the Senate was conducted by Spark Matsunaga. Many credit Matsunaga, also a decorated veteran, with almost independently pushing redress through the Senate in 1987. Despite severe health problems, he discussed the legislation with all the members of the Senate at least once. He met with many senators several times to convince them to support the bill. Named “most popular,” along with Nancy Kassebaum, in a 1981 “Lawmakers” survey of all members of Congress, Matsunaga used his personal influence to enlist supporters. By the time Matsunaga rein-

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troduced S. 1009 in the Spring of 1987, he had rounded up seventy-five cosponsors, which not only guaranteed passage but prevented a possible filibuster. In the House, Norman Mineta and Bob Matsui also called in favors to gain support for redress. Mineta’s staff played a major role in formulating the legislation and coordinating the campaign. Mineta, who became deputy majority whip during the 100th Congress, testified at every House hearing on the redress bills. His description of his family’s loyalty, patriotism, and suffering during the war were especially poignant. Mineta asked his colleagues on the Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations how America could possibly justify imprisoning his family as potential “subversives”: My father was not a traitor. He came to this country in 1902 and he loved this country . . . My mother was not a secret agent. She kept house and raised her children to be what she was, a loyal American. Who amongst us was the security risk? Was it my sister Aya, or perhaps Etsu, or Helen? . . . Or maybe I was the one, a boy of 10 1/2 who this powerful nation felt was so dangerous I needed to be locked up without a trial, kept behind barbed wire, and guarded by troops in high guard towers armed with machine guns.

After he concluded by entreating the subcommittee “to give us back our honor” and the “dignity and the pride that this government so unnecessarily took from us in 1942,” the room erupted into applause. Mineta and Matsui helped shepherd the bill through the House subcommittee. E. Clay Shaw, from Florida, the ranking Republican member, voted for the bill in large part because of the presence of the two former internees during the bill’s final markup. The Republican counsel for the subcommittee, Roger Flemming, attributed Republican votes for the legislation to the campaign of the two Nikkei congressmen. Matsui and Mineta “held the House transfixed,” the Washington Post reported, when they urged the full House on September 17, 1987, to approve redress legislation, which was named H.R. 442 in honor of the Regimental Combat Team. Mineta and Speaker Jim Wright had arranged to have the legislation discussed on the bicentennial of the Constitution. Matsui, by this time an assistant majority whip at large, portrayed former internees as eager to demonstrate their love for the United States. He proclaimed, “Every one of us, if war were declared today, would volunteer to fight on behalf

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of our country and our democracy.” There was no room for conscientious objectors, much less draft resisters, in Matsui’s history of the community. In fact, he told his colleagues, “We have a responsibility to die for our country, but I tell you one thing that in a democracy . . . everyone of us does not have a responsibility to be incarcerated by our own government without charges, without trial, merely because of our race.”  Although Matsui’s account was hardly representative of all former internees, his celebration of Japanese American patriotism and sacrifice provided an appealing case for redress. Mineta echoed these themes during his speech on the House floor. As tears streamed down his face, Mineta read a letter from his father that described the family’s anguish at being uprooted from their home in Santa Clara County: “I looked at Santa Clara’s streets from the train over the subway. I thought this might be the last look at my loved home city. My heart almost broke, and suddenly hot tears just came pouring out, and the whole family cried out, could not stop, until we were out of our loved county.” Demonstrating that he was not bitter, Mineta affirmed that only “in this kind of country” could a “10 1/2 year-old” go from “being in a Cub Scout uniform to an armed-guarded train to being a Member of the House of Representatives of the greatest country in the world.”  No one could accuse Matsui or Mineta of being disloyal—obviously they were loyal to the core. In fact, many members cited similar evidence of “super patriotism” as a justification for redress. Some politicians on the left, like Ron Dellums, denounced the racism that led to the incarceration, but most redress supporters celebrated the history of the 442nd when explaining their vote. Numerous speeches by Democrats and Republicans recounted the valor of the Nisei soldiers, their high casualty rates, and the number of medals they’d earned on the battlefield. Many failed to distinguish between the service of Japanese Americans from Hawaii and from the internment camps. For example, Steny Hoyer praised the “33,000 Nisei” who “risked their lives for the same country that had basically imprisoned their families and friends.” Hoyer then asked his colleagues to “consider the Congressional Medal of Honor citation for Private First Class Sadao S. Munemori,” which was awarded posthumously: The citation reads: [Munemori] took over his squad after the squad leader was wounded. After some extremely heavy fighting, Munemori worked his way back toward his squad, followed by bursting grenades. As he neared

374 Multiple Histories of Internment the crater where his men were waiting, a grenade bounced off his helmet and rolled into the crater. Without hesitation, Munemori dove on the grenade and smothered the explosion. He was killed. His two squad members escaped with their lives.

Passage of H.R. 442, according to Hoyer, would help Congress remember Munemori and other Japanese Americans who demonstrated “their courage, their loyalty and their patriotism.”  Some redress opponents, despite the fact of Nisei heroism on the battlefield, held Japanese Americans responsible for Japan’s conduct during the war. In the House, Ron Packard described how his father was mistreated by the Japanese on Wake Island. Samuel Stratton insisted Roosevelt “did the right thing” and cited the “balloons that had been sent over from Japan with bombs on them” as evidence the decision was not based on hysteria even though these balloons appeared years after Japanese Americans had been interned. In the Senate, Jesse Helms proposed an amendment that would withhold monetary payments to Japanese Americans until the Japanese government compensated the families of U.S. citizens killed at Pearl Harbor. Senator Harry Reid, from Nevada, explained his opposition to Helms’s amendment by recounting the patriotism of his friend Wilson Makabe as a “magnificent” response to the “degradation and humiliation” of internment. After enlisting in the military, Makabe “was subjected to searches by fellow GI’s” whenever he visited his family in camp. Reid then described how Makabe was wounded, had his leg amputated, and was sent home: That is when he learned he had a welcome home present. The neighbors had set fire to his family’s home in California and burned it to the ground . . . I will vote against this amendment. I will vote for this legislation, as I hope the majority of my colleagues will. Before we vote on this legislation, though I want to say something to my friend Wilson. I want to say, “Thank you, Wilson, and I am sorry.” 

The Congressional Record is filled with similar tributes to Nisei soldiers battling the enemy abroad and prejudice at home. As the senators had done, a few pro-redress representatives of the House praised the loyalty of Japanese Americans in ways that evoked the classic model minority image. Sidney Yates explicitly commended internees as “model citizens of our community at the time when they were placed in the detention camps.” The “selfdiscipline and ability” of the Issei had “enabled them to turn California

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deserts into gardens.” Never “troublemakers,” they were the “most dignified and public spirited citizens in their community.” Throughout their travail, they “maintained their stoical faith in themselves, expecting that some day the great tradition of America” would provide “equal justice to all Americans.” They demonstrated their loyalty to the United States by sending their “children out from behind the wire fences into the American Forces.”  Back on the other side of the aisle, speeches by conservatives were surprising for their depiction of internment as an example of the dangers of intrusive government. When meeting with Republicans, JACL lobbyists like Grant Ujifusa had emphasized the need to protect the Constitution from government abuse. Ironically, legislation that called for a major act of government could be framed to appeal to politicians who wanted to limit the role of government. This argument mobilized support from strict constructionists, such as Henry Hyde from Illinois, Jack Kemp from New York, Dick Cheney from Wyoming, and Patrick Swindall from Georgia. In fact, Swindall compared support of internees with support of the “unborn,” declaring that both groups were deprived of rights guaranteed by the Constitution: Which says no person—notice, it does not say no person unless the color of their skin happens to be white, nor does it say a person who happens to have already been born, as is the case, of course, with the unborn—the point is, it says no person shall be deprived of their life, their liberty, nor their property without due process of law.

Although such diverse support helped redress legislation pass in both houses of Congress, many activists feared a presidential veto. During the summer of 1987, Assistant Attorney General Richard Willard testified against redress in subcommittee hearings in the House and Senate. Questioning the determinations of the commission, Willard argued that Congress had already compensated internees in 1948 and that redress would impose “heavy administrative burdens on the Attorney General,” who would have to locate and pay eligible individuals. Then one day after the bill passed the House, the Office of Management and Budget announced it too would “recommend a presidential veto because of objections to the $1.5 billion in payments.”  To prevent the Department of Justice from lobbying Reagan to veto the bill, Ujifusa again promoted the model minority image of Japanese Americans:

376 Multiple Histories of Internment I knew they [at Justice] were thinking, “Oh, yeah, the usual suspects are acting up. This is a minority bill. Bad stuff. The usual guys are up trying to get the government to correct every ill in the country” . . . So I made a political argument, saying that the Confucian tradition of family, hard work, and education, and, in this country, technology, are really quite consistent with the themes expounded by Ronald Reagan.

Contacting several Reagan supporters, Ujifusa convinced one prominent Republican, New Jersey governor Thomas Kean, to play an instrumental role in convincing Reagan to sign the redress bill. Ujifusa knew Kean because he had edited his book The Politics of Inclusion. In October 1987 Reagan came to New Jersey to stump for Republican candidates for the state legislature. Kean brought up the issue of redress during a thirty-five-minute limousine ride between campaign stops. Later Kean told Ujifusa the president seemed interested but apparently “had the idea that [the purpose of] it was protective custody.” Kean, however, planted an important seed in Reagan’s mind. He reminded the president that he had participated in a service honoring Kazuo Masuda, a Nisei soldier killed in Italy during World War II. When the town of Santa Ana, California, refused to permit Masuda’s body to be buried in the local cemetery, General Stillwell organized a ceremony to present Masuda’s family with the soldier’s posthumous Distinguished Service Cross. At the time, then army captain Ronald Reagan gave a speech praising Masuda’s heroism. The National Journal later wrote that Reagan “might have forgotten” this anecdote, “but Ujifusa realized that having Kean remind Reagan of that personal connection would carry more weight with the president than rational argument.” Kean, at Ujifusa’s behest, then sent Reagan a letter dismantling the claim of “protective custody” and enclosed a letter from June Masuda Goto, the sister of Kazuo Masuda. In her letter, Goto told Reagan that his speech “greatly affected the community and led to a better life for our family.” She said she often quoted his words when she spoke before students at the Kazuo Masuda Middle School. Imploring his support, Goto declared, “All of us in our family—I believe Kaz as well—would be greatly honored if you would” approve redress, and “America, through you, would honor itself.”  Crediting this letter for changing Reagan’s perceptions of redress, Ujifusa explained: The effect of the letter on Reagan was something like this: Japanese American redress is not about protective custody, not about an ethnic

Multiple Histories of Internment 377 Democratic constituency, but about the heroes of the 442 and about the ceremony in Santa Ana where I spoke years ago. And it’s about the federal government barging into people’s lives, when the federal government should just stay small and limited.

In February 1988, Ujifusa learned that the Office of Management and Budget no longer opposed redress, and the president had given redress his support. The impact of Goto’s appeal became evident when Reagan signed the redress legislation, the Civil Liberties Act, in an emotional ceremony on August 10, 1988. Addressing more than one hundred Japanese Americans in attendance, Reagan proclaimed that redress affirmed “our commitment as a nation to equal justice under the law.” Then Reagan pulled out a clipping sent by Goto and read the speech he had made in Santa Ana back in 1945: Blood that has soaked into the sands of a beach is all of one color. America stands unique in the world, the only country not founded on race, but on a way—an ideal. Not in spite of, but because of our polyglot background, we have had all the strength in the world. That is the American way.

However, many redress activists questioned Reagan’s commitment to equal justice when just five months later he proposed a budget that provided no redress funds for 1989 and only $20 million for 1990. Redress faced stiff competition from other programs vying for funds limited by the deficit-restraining Gramm-Rudman-Hollings law. Two hundred internees were dying each month, and many feared the government might postpone or eliminate appropriations until thousands were gone. Recognizing that Senator Daniel Inouye, the second-ranking Democrat on the Appropriations Committee, could influence appropriations for redress, the NCRR and JACL showered his office with letters. Members of the 442nd who had served with Inouye, in particular, sought his support. Although he had been relatively inactive during the campaign for legislation, Inouye now became a key player. He proposed that redress be made an entitlement program so that it would not have to confront an appropriations battle each year. Sending appropriation committee members a “Dear Colleague” letter, Inouye called his earlier reluctance to push for H.R. 442 “a grave disservice” to “those with whom I served” during the war. He asked his fellows representatives to “join me in remembering those men from the internment camps who proudly and courageously demonstrated their ‘last full measure of devotion’ in the defense of their country.” Because

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f i g u r e 1 9 . President Ronald Reagan signs the Civil Liberties Act on August 10, 1988. Courtesy of the National Japanese American Historical Society.

of Inouye’s efforts, redress became an entitlement program that dispensed payments of $500 million in 1991 and 1992, and $250 million in 1993.

Lessons of the Redress Movement On October 9, 1990, the nine oldest surviving internees received the first redress payments and a national apology during an official ceremony in Washington, D.C. Many of these survivors were over one hundred years old. “By finally admitting a wrong,” proclaimed Attorney General Richard Thornburgh, “a nation does not destroy its integrity but, rather, reinforces the sincerity of its commitment to the Constitution and hence to its people.” Thornburgh then handed each former internee a check for $20,000. In a two-paragraph statement that accompanied each payment, President George H. W. Bush declared, “We can never fully right the wrongs of the

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f i g u r e 2 0 . U.S. Attorney General Richard Thornburgh presents first redress check and apology to elderly former internee at a ceremony in Washington, D.C. Courtesy of Rick Rocamora and the National Japanese American Historical Society.

past, but we can take a clear stand for justice and recognize that serious injustices were done to Japanese Americans during World War II.”  Yet even as Japanese Americans celebrated this historic event, they also began debating the lessons of redress. Some recognized that the movement was the culmination of decades of activism that included radicals, moderates, and conservatives. Clifford Uyeda, one of the early leaders of JACL’s redress campaign, declared that “no single individual or organization” can “take all of the credit” for the passage of redress. It “was the result of dedicated efforts by all citizens who believed that meaningful restitution was necessary.”  The NCRR’s Gordon Nakagawa praised the contributions of the NCRR, JACL, and NCJAR as “three strands woven into a single fabric.” According to Nakagawa, “The victories of each one” were made “possible only by the virtue of the groundwork laid by the cumulative past achievements” of the entire community. Leaders of the JACL were not as magnanimous. In “Behind the Scenes,” a Pacific Citizen article about the backroom dealings for redress, Grant Ujifusa praised only Mike Masaoka, the Japanese American members of Con-

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gress, congressional supporters like Barney Frank, and veterans. Shigeya Kihara called redress a “wonderful tribute to the character, faith, courage, and sacrifice of the Nisei soldier.” An editorial by Harry Honda in the Pacific Citizen agreed that the “military record of Japanese Americans in World War II went a long way toward convincing Congress that redress was deserved and overdue.” Honda acknowledged the “handful who objected to military duty as a matter of conscience are entitled to respect,” but he found it inconceivable that Congress would have voted for redress if “the Japanese American community had resisted military service.” Bill Hosokawa was more blunt. He hoped redress would discredit the “efforts of late to glorify the very few, who, for whatever reason, sought to disrupt the orderly recruitment of Nisei troops in World War II.”  Hosokawa failed to recognize that redress, like Rashomon, could generate multiple interpretations of Japanese American activism and internment history. Certainly, the portrayals of redress by JACL lobbyists as a reward for patriotism, as an affirmation of the need to limit government power, and as a prize for self-reliance helped the legislation win the support of Congress and President Reagan in the late 1980s. Nevertheless, JACL critics remembered how league leaders like Bill Hosokawa and Mike Masaoka had opposed the campaign for individual compensation in the 1970s and early 1980s. Then again, they thanked early JACL redress leaders like Edison Uno, Clifford Uyeda, and John Tateishi for resurrecting the history of internment and overcoming Old Guard reluctance to pursue a campaign for redress. The NCJAR and the coram nobis campaign were lauded by supporters for undermining justifications for internment by disclosing evidence of government concealment and misrepresentation before the Supreme Court, and for discrediting the Magic cables touted by redress opponents. Activists with the NCRR recounted the organization’s mobilization of community participation in the CWRIC hearings and in grassroots letter-writing and personal-lobbying campaigns. The passage of redress legislation did not end battles over the meaning and legacy of internment. On the contrary, the unwillingness of JACL leaders to acknowledge other redress activists and other camp experiences intensified campaigns to promote alternative accounts of internment and redress. In the 1990s activists continued denouncing attempts to limit Japanese American history to the saga of the Nisei soldiers. The activists’ crusade to diversify Japanese American history extended into the public realm,

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as they challenged depictions of internment in exhibits, in monuments, and on film. Moreover, these activists would reach a much broader audience as the mainstream media and the Internet published diverse accounts of internment, which included the often heated community struggles to control the history presented to the public. Internees who had been silent for decades after the war became outspoken participants in debates about the legacy of internment and redress.

nine

Representations of Internment in Art and Media, and the Lessons of History

One week before Ronald Reagan signed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988, Sachi Seko, columnist for the Pacific Citizen, the newspaper of the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL), called for a reconciliation of all the many factions within the ethnic community. Having lived “to see the United States recommend an apology and remedy for wrongs suffered by Americans of Japanese ancestry due to the wartime internment,” Seko was troubled that “46 years later our Japanese American community remains divided by the experience.” She was bothered by the way narratives of the war depicted “JACLers, army volunteers, draft resisters, and renunciants” as either “heroes” or “villains.” Seko urged the community to remember that every “man, woman and child of this American tragedy is an equal witness to [this] constitutional travesty.” There was no “accurate measure” for pain or sorrow or devotion to God and country. “Patriotism,” Seko affirmed, “appears in different forms.” To ignore the 120,000 victims and “center our attention on a select few is to diminish the value and uniqueness of each individual.”  League activist Clifford Uyeda agreed with Seko that the community needed to recognize diverse responses to internment and to repair wounds that had festered since the war. Uyeda felt, however, that to “initiate the healing process,” the JACL needed to “acknowledge its wartime error in its reactions toward incarceration and toward the dissidents.” Uyeda was disappointed by the JACL’s response to two resolutions that addressed the organization’s conduct during the war. In 1988 Uyeda’s Golden Gate chap382

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ter had submitted a resolution calling for the recognition of the contributions of wartime dissidents, whereas a resolution by the Seattle chapter asked the JACL to “apologize” to the “no-no boys.” Uyeda was surprised at how critics of the resolutions provided “the same glorification of JACL heard 46 years ago and the repudiation of any contrary views.” Sansei were “intimidated” and told they could not “pass judgment” on the Nisei during the war because they “were not there.”  The JACL National Council did agree, however, to sponsor independent research on JACL wartime actions. Two years later, in 1990, the JACL released a report based on this research. The document, “Report on Resolution 7,” characterized draft resisters as “honorable and loyal Americans” who were “dedicated to the principles of defending their civil rights” and “were willing to make significant sacrifices to uphold their beliefs . . . in a different form from those who sacrificed their lives on the battlefield.”  Although the resolution passed by the JACL did not offer an outright apology, it did express regret for failing to recognize “draft resisters who declared their loyalty to their country.” Furthermore, the organization resolved “to educate our own community and the public that loyalty is not necessarily demonstrated in any singular form but can be manifested in other praiseworthy and admirable acts, and that by this recognition the JACL strives to promote and nurture the healing process of an issue that has divided our community.”  Yet the question of how best to educate the Japanese American community and the public about loyalty, patriotism, and the meaning of internment would not be resolved in the late 1980s or even in the 1990s. In fact, a growing number of Japanese Americans began to challenge earlier presentations of internment history in the public realm. Museum exhibits, monuments, websites, and films provided venues for the reinterpretation of the history of internment. Criticizing the “politics of knowledge production,” Japanese Americans became more assertive about controlling how the history of internment was presented to the public. In the 1980s former internees began to share diverse wartime experiences. But few outside the ethnic community were aware of this history. In fact, President Reagan and most members of Congress endorsed redress largely because of one-dimensional depictions of Japanese Americans that highlighted loyal internees and heroic Nisei soldiers. But even before the passage of redress legislation, activists within the Japanese American community

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began calling for multiple representations of Japanese American history in the public realm. In the late 1980s and 1990s, groups that had debated the meaning of internment within the ethnic community turned their attention to presentations before mainstream audiences. As the 1990s progressed, Japanese American activists intensified their drive to promote new interpretations of the war.

A More Perfect Union: Japanese Americans and the U.S. Constitution The development and reception of exhibits at the Smithsonian Institution, the Oakland Museum, and the Japanese American National Museum reflected and facilitated major changes in Japanese American views of historical memory. In 1987 the Smithsonian Institution opened the major exhibit A More Perfect Union: Japanese Americans and the Constitution. Newspapers like the Washington Post described the controversy surrounding the Smithsonian’s decision to commemorate the bicentennial of the Constitution with an exhibit on internment. These accounts noted how veterans, victims of Japanese atrocities during World War II, and opponents of redress had criticized the Smithsonian. This newspaper coverage said nothing, however, about the yearlong campaign of a group of Japanese American activists to change the Smithsonian’s plans for the exhibit. This campaign, waged through letters to museum staff and articles in the ethnic press, served to convince the museum to revise some elements of the exhibit. This action also inspired Japanese American activists to mount their own exhibits to promote alternative depictions of internment. A More Perfect Union was not the first exhibit on internment to arouse controversy. The exhibit Executive Order 9066 opened at the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco in 1972, and traveled throughout the country. At the time, several institutions refused to display the exhibit, which had been sponsored by the California Historical Society. Michael McCone, the executive director of the California Historical Society, recalled in 1992 hearing, “It will open old wounds” or “make people remember what they are trying to forget.”  The photographs in the exhibit had been collected by Maisie and Richard Conrat in the late 1960s. Richard Conrat had worked as an assistant to famed photographer Dorothea Lange. He was moved by

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her photographs of the mass removal and internment. The Conrats examined twenty-five thousand photographs, rejecting all but one hundred. This was because either the pictures “failed completely as images” or “the awkward presence of the photographer had made his evacuee subjects smile and try to project a sense of contentment and normality, thus completely betraying the truth of their situation.” When told by “young political activists from the Japanese American community” that internment was “a part of their people’s history” and “should be interpreted by those who experienced it,” the Conrats replied that “of course the evacuation is part of Japanese American history, but that it is also a part of white America’s history.”  Not all of white America agreed, and the exhibit was subjected to harsh attacks throughout its national tour. After KNBC-TV in southern California broadcast a story about the opening of the exhibit at the Pasadena Art Museum, the station received fifty-five hate calls within a span of just ten minutes. The Smithsonian knew the More Perfect Union internment exhibit would provoke controversy even as plans for it got under way in 1981. Dillon Ripley, the secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, was aware that the Presidio Army Museum of San Francisco had displayed an exhibit on the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. He was well acquainted with William Peers, the board president of the Presidio museum and a retired lieutenant general. Ripley had served as a captain under Peers in Burma during World War II, and both had worked with Nisei linguists. The two corresponded about placing the exhibit at the Smithsonian. Then Ripley turned the project over to Roger Kennedy, director of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History (NMAH). Kennedy was in the process of transforming the role of the NMAH. The museum, originally founded as the Museum of History and Technology in 1964, had once been filled with technological artifacts offering little narrative accompaniment. In the 1970s the museum began developing explanatory scripts for the exhibit’s artifacts that emphasized a celebratory view of American history. After Kennedy was hired in 1979, he changed both the name and the view of critical interpretation in the NMAH’s shows. Hiring scholars in social, labor, and environmental history, he promoted exhibits inspired by strong themes and ideas rather than available artifacts. Instead of glorifying American myths, the NMAH began presenting museum shows designed to educate visitors about the dark side of American history. Kennedy repeatedly

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said that he did not want to commemorate the bicentennial of the Constitution by presenting “the story of our ‘frame of government’ as a costume drama that occurred 200 years ago.” An exhibit on internment, he declared, would enable the museum to tell the “story of a group of Americans who fought for, struggled to improve, and worked within our system to realize, the promise of the Constitution.”  The exhibit on internment, like exhibits on racial segregation and the conquest of the Western frontier, reflected a new era at the Smithsonian. Although many of these exhibits were denounced for their revisionist views of history, the Smithsonian maintained a commitment to creating challenging exhibits that might make visitors uncomfortable. Then plans for an exhibit on the atomic bomb provoked bitter controversy that embroiled the institution in the culture wars of the mid-1990s. The job of converting an exhibit on the 442nd, which had been cosponsored by the veteran’s organization Go for Broke, to what would become the broader More Perfect Union exhibit on internment was assigned to Tom Crouch, curator at the Smithsonian’s NMAH. Crouch, who later came under attack as one of the cocurators of the atomic bomb exhibit, was excited at the prospect of providing a more critical view of the Constitution. He was designated curator of the exhibit and began preparing a script on the history of the internment. Internment had obviously not been the central focus of the 442nd exhibit, but some of the Smithsonian staff felt the show’s particular presentation needed both expansion and revision. Harold Langley, a curator and supervisor of the division of naval history, sent Kennedy a memo criticizing the 442nd exhibit’s portrayal of the “background of the relocation” as “almost laughable.” Langley declared, “There is a much larger picture of racial prejudice in California than they realize.” However, he revealed his own ignorance about internment when he wrote, “One of the main reasons that the Secretary of War and the President went along with a plainly unconstitutional action was that there were not enough troops to protect the Japanese from the Californians.” Langley disagreed with the emphasis on the “saga of the 442nd as a ‘success story.’” Acknowledging that the 442nd “paid in blood for some official recognition of their loyalty” and received many medals, Langley thought they went “home to an environment only slightly less prejudiced than the one they left in 1942.” He also felt internment caused “some bad psychological effects” that included individuals attempting “to

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erase their racial origins” by marrying “non-Japanese.” Although he deemed the 442nd script “inadequate for any kind of meaningful show on a serious subject,” Langley affirmed that the Smithsonian could mount a “powerful show” if the history of the 442nd was put in a “wider context.”  As Tom Crouch began writing drafts of a script that would place the history of the 442nd in this “wider context,” he never anticipated he would be besieged by letters from Japanese American activists criticizing his plans for the exhibit. Some of these activists had a long history of criticizing the 442nd’s domination of accounts of internment. These same activists became concerned when they read an account of the show in the ethnic press. In 1985 Smithsonian project manager Ed Ezell sent the Rafu Shimpo a letter appealing to the community to provide information, supporting documentation, photographs, and artifacts for the exhibit. In the process, he presented an announcement in which he described what the 442nd museum show would cover. The announcement discussed research on prejudice, family life, and women’s experiences, at the same time clarifying that the exhibit “focuses on Japanese Americans’ patriotic contributions during and after World War II.” Noting that some internees contested their treatment in the courts, Ezell’s announcement asserted that for “the majority of young men and women, the response was to volunteer their services to the Armed Forces or other phases of the national war effort.” After reciting a lengthy list of the 442nd’s accomplishments, the announcement concluded by declaring, “For this birthday of the Constitution, the museum intends to present a people-centered exhibition to show visitors that despite setbacks, the living Constitution still works” and “that eternal vigilance is essential in maintaining constitutional guarantees.”  Disturbed by this emphasis on the history of the 442nd, Japanese American activists questioned the prominent role of veterans on the Smithsonian’s advisory committee. Of course, 442nd veterans who had worked on the earlier exhibit as part of the Go for Broke organization, such as Chester Tanaka and Tom Kawaguchi, were natural candidates to coordinate the Smithsonian’s outreach efforts in the community. They helped collect artifacts for the exhibit and referred other veterans as contacts for the Smithsonian staff. But one member of the advisory committee, Aiko HerzigYoshinaga, thought it problematic to rely so much on just this one segment of the community. She therefore tried to keep activists informed of developments within the committee. She circulated drafts of the exhibit script and

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encouraged activists to submit material to the committee that might help counter the emphasis on the military experience. In 1986, after reading a script proposal, Kiku Hori Funabiki sent the committee a letter criticizing the fact that eleven pages were devoted to the military, whereas only nine discussed the incarceration experience. Declaring that the script proposal provided “neither an accurate or fair depiction of our history” and glorified war, Funabiki challenged the makeup of the committee. Aside from Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga and Congressman Norman Mineta, all the Japanese Americans on the advisory committee were veterans—Chester Tanaka, Tom Kawaguchi, Mike Masaoka, and Senator Spark Matsunaga. Moreover, most of the non–Japanese American members on the committee had affiliations with the military. After questioning why so many members of the advisory committee had a “military orientation” and were not Japanese American, Funabiki called for the inclusion of a “wide diversity of representation from the Japanese American community,” such as “historians, social scientists, women, writers, clergy, constitutional lawyers and others.”  Funabiki became more alarmed when she received a letter from HerzigYoshinaga recounting a meeting between the advisory committee, Roger Kennedy, and six NMAH staff members in June 1986. According to HerzigYoshinaga, Kennedy emphasized the “great importance of helping the relationship between Nikkei and non-Nikkei.” After saying, “Some will feel we’re insufficiently tough on the white world,” Kennedy hoped the exhibit would “sustain the sense that Nikkei are forceful, tough, self-reliant” and that it would not “borrow stereotypes that are injurious to the dignity of Japanese Americans.” Bemoaning the way that Native Americans have “been unfortunately viewed as a bunch of lazy alcoholics suited only for the reservation,” Kennedy affirmed a commitment to not portray Japanese Americans as victims. Retorting that Japanese Americans were indeed victims, Herzig-Yoshinaga, in her letter to Funabiki, expressed feeling “very uncomfortable” with his remarks: I flashed on the 1942 “don’t make waves or we may face adverse reactions—the quiet American” syndrome. Perhaps I’m too much on the offensive or overly sensitive to these “calls for unity” to which most of us acquiesced meekly back in the ’40s. We know a little better now, and I hope we can get enough support to sustain our demand for a truthful portrayal of our history.

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Knowing that the NMAH had received many hate letters and calls about the exhibit and that Kennedy had earlier described being “called on the carpet” by Congressmen opposing funding for the exhibit, Herzig-Yoshinaga conjectured that the NMAH might be “somewhat fearful of the backlash from Congress that might result from a radical [my term] portrayal of the JA story.”  Throughout the meeting, Herzig-Yoshinaga called for the inclusion of this “radical” side of the story. She criticized the exhibit’s military emphasis and suggested adding “the Issei DoJ [Department of Justice] internment camps, camp draft resisters, military resisters, and other issues.” Chester Tanaka responded by saying, “in essence, that too many issues would clutter the exhibit and confuse the viewer.” Herzig-Yoshinaga was pleased when a representative for Spark Matsunaga at the meeting asked why the script avoided using the term concentration camp. Tom Crouch, employing the same defense used by so many others years before, insisted that “since 1945 the term has been associated with German death camps and that therefore the public would object to it.” In a private conversation, Jack Herzig warned Crouch against “falling into the same pattern as the government did in 1942—that of allowing one group to represent itself as the mind (and the mouth) of the JA community.” Crouch expressed “his appreciation of our broadening the scope and level of contacts to a more representative sample.” He also explained that the NMAH had to acquire artifacts and make concrete plans soon. Consequently, Herzig-Yoshinaga advised Funabiki that the NMAH might be influenced to change the exhibit if many in the community sent “constructive criticisms.”  Community activists responded by sending Crouch a flurry of letters attacking his script’s terminology and his portrayal of the JACL, military service, and resistance. Sue Kunitomi Embrey, of the Manzanar Committee, urged Crouch to avoid euphemisms and to use the term concentration camps. She argued that the term had been used during the war by Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Harold Ickes, and Life magazine. She noted that the camps that confined Japanese Americans fulfilled the definition of a concentration camp provided by Webster’s dictionary and had been used by scholars like Roger Daniels and Michi Weglyn. Embrey also told Crouch about the Manzanar Committee’s success in mobilizing community support for the campaign that convinced California to engrave “concentration camp” on the plaque designating Manzanar a state landmark.

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The Manzanar Committee, Embrey explained “has been consistent in our belief that to be historically accurate, the terminology on the plaque at Manzanar must describe the camp as seen by the individuals inside the barbed wire.”  Crouch was not convinced. He told Embrey that “the only reason for using the term concentration camp is because it places Manzanar in a category with Dachau.” Insisting that the “Nazi death camps have become the definition of the term concentration camp,” Crouch felt its use would alienate museum visitors. “I am simply afraid,” he explained, “that when the normal museum visitor compares Dachau to Manzanar, he or she will draw the obvious conclusions that the American camp could have been worse” than it was, and this is “not the conclusion I want the visitor to draw.” Determined to “concentrate on the episode as the worst abrogation of Constitutional rights in American history,” he felt a “forced comparison” . . . “only clouds the issue.” He proclaimed that “the script, as it now stands, refers to internment camps.”  Yet activists were encouraged that Crouch agreed to add to the script a 1946 quote from Harold Ickes. In the excerpt, the then secretary of the interior criticized the use of euphemisms for the term concentration camp: Crowded into cars like cattle, these hapless people were hurried away to hastily constructed and thoroughly inadequate concentration camps, with soldiers with nervous muskets on guard, in the great American desert. We gave the fancy name of “relocation centers” to these dust bowls, but they were concentration camps nonetheless, although not as bad as Dachau or Buchenwald. War-excited imaginations, raw race-prejudice and crass greed kept hateful public opinion along the Pacific Coast at fever heat.

Activists also hoped they could convince Crouch to modify his depiction of Japanese American responses to the incarceration. Journalist James Omura commended Crouch for including Ickes’s quote, but Omura also provided an eight-page single-spaced list of “extensive errors” and warned that the proposed script bordered on “propaganda.” Omura was known for being the only Japanese American to denounce any government plans for mass removal during the Tolan Committee hearings in 1942. After hearing JACL leaders criticize the policy but then pledge cooperation, he also criticized the assumption that the JACL represented the community as a whole.

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Two years later, the government prosecuted Omura for writing, in the Denver-based Rocky Shimpo, editorials that supported draft resistance. Although found innocent, Omura was ostracized, like the draft resisters, for his protests during the war. Given this experience, it’s no wonder that he thought the script’s claim that the “JACL had traditionally fought for the rights of Japanese Americans” would “certainly raise eyebrows.” Omura also objected to the script’s declaration that “no effective alternative course was available,” which was a clear endorsement of JACL cooperation with the government. He informed Crouch that the JACL had opposed the legal test cases challenging mass exclusion and incarceration. Omura urged Crouch to recognize that the draft resisters “demonstrated their dedication and fidelity to the fundamental principles enunciated in our sacred Constitution.” He chastised Crouch for completely ignoring the story of the twenty-one court-martialed soldiers who “questioned confinement of their family members in concentration camps while requiring them to submit to their supreme sacrifice in the field of battle.” Their story, Omura maintained, was also “relevant to the constitutional theme.” Noting that “30 of the entire text is devoted to military achievements,” Omura declared that “certainly a few paragraphs could be devoted to home front standardbearers who demonstrated their constitutional fidelity.”  Omura sent a copy of the script to Roger Daniels, a University of Cincinnati historian and noted authority on the World War II incarceration. Daniels wrote Crouch a letter that praised the decision to mount the exhibit but also declared that he was “appalled at the errors that permeate” the script, “ranging from simple errors of fact, to errors of omission and errors of interpretation.” After explaining why Crouch should replace “internment camps” with “concentration camps,” Daniels gave a detailed account of the “errors of fact” contained in the section on the Supreme Court cases. Daniels also noted that Crouch seemed “to have systematically avoided the word ‘racism,’ even when it is quoted in contemporary documents.” At the end of his letter, Daniels reaffirmed that he wanted the exhibit to succeed and explained that he offered his criticisms in “an attempt to be helpful.” He also warned Crouch that “if at least some of the more glaring errors are not amended,” he would be “obliged to call them to the attention of others.”  Crouch responded by asking Daniels to serve as a consultant. He would later praise Daniels and Herzig-Yoshinaga for helping him improve the exhibit script. In the revised version, the draft resisters and the Heart

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Mountain Fair Play Committee received more attention and their protest was characterized as being part of the “American tradition.”  Tule Lake was no longer described as a “segregation center for bad boys,” and the dilemmas posed by the loyalty questionnaire were explained in greater detail. The JACL decisions during the war were described without implying that they represented all Japanese Americans or provided the only possible response. The script declared the “JACL urged Japanese Americans to cooperate with the government as a demonstration of patriotism and because it saw no effective alternative.” Furthermore, the script narrative noted that the JACL “hoped by collaborating, it would improve wartime treatment and earn a claim to better treatment after the war.”  A More Perfect Union: Japanese Americans and the U.S. Constitution opened to the public on October 1, 1987. The exhibit’s opening events included a ceremony on the steps of the Capitol and speeches by former Supreme Court Justice Arthur Goldberg and by the Japanese American members of Congress. There were banquets for veterans and panel discussions on constitutional questions. In addition, the Smithsonian held a special screening of Loni Ding’s documentary Color of Honor, which focused on the veterans who served in the 100th, 442nd, and the MIS, but also included the stories of the draft resisters and military protesters. But Daniels and Herzig-Yoshinaga would not succeed in convincing Crouch to use the term concentration camp, or to reduce the military emphasis of the exhibit. Two of the six sections in the exhibit were devoted to combat memorabilia, including a howitzer, a jeep, and an array of medals. Crouch consistently defended the portrayals of the military as a “part of the essential constitutional theme.” He explained to Michi Weglyn, “Ultimately, the record of the 100th, 442nd, and the Military Intelligence Service (MIS) had an enormous impact on public consciousness.” Crouch believed the “problems faced by returning vets and internees, as related in newspaper articles, editorials, and radio programs were repugnant to Americans, and focused attention on the wartime injustice.”  These veterans, Crouch insisted, helped “create a climate in which a new generation of Japanese American politicians, many of them veterans, could win election to state and national office.”  Crouch’s consistent refusal to change the exhibit’s portrayal of military service inspired a heated debate within the ethnic press. Longtime activist Raymond Okamura denounced the influence of the veterans on

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the proposed exhibit in the Hokubei Mainichi and the Pacific Citizen. “Of all the Japanese Americans who went through the internment experience,” Okamura asserted, “the veterans are the least deserving to participate in an event honoring the Constitution.” The “mainland Japanese Americans who volunteered for military service from within the concentration camps,” Okamura charged, “basically betrayed the Constitution.” They “acquiesced to a massive desecration of our most cherished constitutional rights without a whimper of protest.” The “real patriots,” according to Okamura, were “those who refused to obey the discriminatory curfew, refused to be imprisoned without charge or trial, refused to comply with an outrageous loyalty oath, and refused to volunteer or be drafted while they and their families were still incarcerated.” Americans needed to remember “the injustice and unconstitutionality of the Japanese American precedent—not the valor of Japanese American soldiers, nor the fallacious notion that loyalty has to be proven on the battlefield.”  Okamura’s articles generated even more controversy within the community. Violet Kazue de Cristoforo, the Tule Lake internee falsely branded a traitor, thought Okamura’s critique was “eloquent” and agreed that the achievements of the veterans were “not directly related to the celebration of the 200th anniversary of our Constitution.” Emphasizing the exploits of the Japanese American troops, de Cristoforo argued, would minimize American constitutional ideals “in order to glorify the worthy actions of a courageous but, from a historical perspective, small group of American citizen soldiers.”  Veterans, as one might expect, were outraged. Joe Kurata, president of the MIS Association of Northern California, wrote on behalf of numerous indignant veterans to denounce “Okamura’s unjustified attack of Nisei soldiers.” He proclaimed: We veterans have not forgotten the legacy left by our fallen brothers. We remember the sweat, the tears, the blood and guts spilled in the heat of battle. To us, the Constitution meant everything worth fighting for. We hope the hardships endured in battle and those killed in the battle to protect and preserve the United States Constitution were not in vain.

This battle between the Smithsonian’s critics and its defenders that raged within the pages of the ethnic press went unnoticed by the mainstream media. Before the exhibit opened, the Washington Post published the story “Smithsonian’s Constitution Controversy,” but it merely portrayed a

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conflict between the Smithsonian and “war veterans and their families,” who regarded the exhibit “as too downbeat or otherwise inappropriate for the Constitution’s birthday.” In the article, Roger Kennedy described how “hate letters are already coming in to the Smithsonian because we are treating people of Asian extraction like other Americans, as if that were a strange thing to do.” Tom Crouch recalled getting letters from folks saying, “My Dad was on the Bataan death march,” and “Don’t you realize that Manzanar wasn’t Dachau?” Kennedy affirmed the Smithsonian’s desire to be “provocative,” and declared, “the constitution isn’t a costume drama of the past upon which the curtain went down in 1789.”  This sympathetic account of the Smithsonian’s views of the exhibit might have excluded input from “radical” Japanese Americans, but it also frustrated critics like Lillian Baker who believed the exhibit was “antiAmerican.” Baker, who had testified before the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians in 1981 as well as before several subcommittee hearings in Congress, charged the “liberal media” with ignoring her views. Whereas the conservative Washington Times printed one of her letters attacking Crouch as a tool of the “JACL lobby” and the exhibit as an “anti-American project for un-American propaganda,” the media generally ignored Baker. Baker and her supporters had flooded the Smithsonian with letters denouncing the exhibit and providing the same military necessity arguments they had deployed in the past. As the years went by, the Smithsonian staff not only made it clear that they rejected all of Baker’s arguments, they began to treat her tireless campaign as a source of amusement. Instead of feeling compelled to defend himself against Baker’s charges, Tom Crouch would inform her that he had framed her Washington Times letter and hung it on the wall. In 1994 Crouch responded to yet another one of Baker’s letters, saying he was not surprised to learn that she counted him as “one among millions who have been wrongly informed and influenced by emotion and outright rhetoric.” “Frankly,” Crouch told her, “I have always regarded your opposition to ‘A More Perfect Union’ as more of an honor than the many awards and fine reviews that the exhibition received.”  Media coverage praised the Smithsonian’s decision to commemorate the bicentennial of the Constitution with a critical examination of internment. In a story that covered the exhibit’s opening in October 1987, the Washington Post proclaimed, “For many, A More Perfect Union is further

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evidence that American society is at last confronting what it did to thousands of its citizens.” In the article, Kennedy affirmed that the Smithsonian was still receiving hate mail from veterans who didn’t “understand the distinction between our fellow citizens of Japanese ancestry and those they fought against.” Kennedy insisted, however, the exhibit was “about as unabashedly patriotic a display as you’re going to see this year, maybe this decade.” Crouch was quoted as praising Japanese Americans as “a group of people to whom awful things happened” but who “refused to give up on the system.” After noting the exhibit’s “extensive display on the tools and weapons” used by soldiers, the Post included a quote by William Hohri that criticized the “inordinate amount of attention” . . . “paid to the approximately 1,000 who voluntarily left the camps to fight and not enough to those who wouldn’t.” Yet there was no analysis of the extent or the different types of resistance within the camps. Moreover, Hohri’s comment on resistance was contradicted by Phil Ishio, who was quoted as saying that the “first generation were very submissive” and the “second generation was influenced by the first.”  The ethnic press continued to voice the concerns of critics who felt the exhibit glorified the military at the expense of the resisters. But articles, especially in the JACL’s Pacific Citizen, also praised the Smithsonian for sponsoring the exhibit and acknowledged the major impact it could have on public understanding of internment and Japanese Americans’ pride in their history. An article in the Pacific Citizen carried the headline “Nikkei Crowd Jams Smithsonian Exhibit.” This piece by Harry Honda declared, “About 5,000 Japanese Americans from across the nation” provided the “largest turnout of Nikkei ever in the nation’s capital.” Honda praised the exhibit’s presentation of how internment violated the Constitution. The exhibit prominently displayed the warning by Charles Evan Hughes: “You may think that the Constitution is your security—it is nothing but a piece of paper . . . It is nothing at all, unless you have sound and uncorrupted public opinion to give life to your Constitution.”  The exhibit also provided a detailed list of all the rights that were disregarded during the war. Visitors could see evidence of the history of racism before and during the war, including such vicious artifacts as a “Jap Hunting License.” Life-size photo cutouts and pictures were designed to help visitors understand what it might have felt like to be interned. Museumgoers, under the watchful eye of an armed soldier, had to pass through a control sta-

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tion of the Wartime Civil Control Administration. As they came upon the open doorway of a replicated camp barrack, they could peer in and watch a video of a father explaining to his daughter what camp was like in 1942. Confronted with a huge video projection screen, viewers could almost feel the physical presence of the Japanese Americans who described their wartime experiences. Visitors could watch veterans Kelly Kuwayama and Chet Tanaka describe frontline gunfire. But they also could hear the remembrances of Gordon Hirabayashi, Morgan Yamanaka, Nancy Araki, Sue Kunitomi Embrey, and Mary Tsukamoto. Finally, in a section that was updated after Reagan signed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988, museumgoers could learn about the role of different groups in the struggle for redress. In 1990, three years after A More Perfect Union first opened, the Smithsonian announced that it was so pleased with the public’s response that it decided to extend its run indefinitely. Selections from the award-winning exhibit would travel throughout the country and provide many Americans with their first detailed look at the internment experience. A More Perfect Union inspired Japanese Americans to create their own exhibits with more diverse interpretations of internment history. It also inspired Go for Broke in 1986 to change its name to the National Japanese American Historical Society (NJAHS). The organization arrived at this decision partly in response to community criticism that it was representing only the perspectives of veterans in its dealings with the Smithsonian.

The National Japanese American Historical Society The NJAHS proceeded to sponsor exhibits designed by some of the people who had criticized the Smithsonian’s depiction of military heroism in A More Perfect Union. For example, the exhibit U.S. Detention Camps: 1942–1946 was curated by Clifford Uyeda in 1990 and shown in San Francisco. It included photographs of suicides and of different groups of resisters. In the booklet that accompanied the exhibit, Uyeda described how the War Relocation Authority escorted photographers in camp, censored photos, and controlled film processing. Declaring that the “military itself had less qualms about photos,” Uyeda explained that the “few images of guard towers and sentries were taken by U.S. Army photographers.” Although Uyeda preferred the term detention camps, he noted that the camps “have frequently been referred to as the American Concentration Camps.” In stark

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contrast to the Smithsonian’s tribute to patriotic Nisei soldiers, Uyeda’s exhibit described “inmates’ ambivalence concerning their devotion to their country and to its Constitution” because “upholding one was to reject another.” Uyeda declared that after being “trapped, confined and humiliated, there was no correct choice to make” and the “decision to go in different ways demonstrated the Japanese American’s democratic upbringing.”  Acknowledging the turmoil in camp, the show clearly sympathized with the resisters. In a section labeled “Submission and Resistance,” the exhibit described how “those who disagreed with total compliance without protest preached by Japanese American leaders were labeled ‘disloyals.’” A picture of Harry Ueno and other dissidents at the Leupp Isolation Center in Arizona was accompanied by a quote from the director of Manzanar. The dissidents were described as having been transferred “as a result of information obtained from informers” and “not because they are known to have a record as constant troublemakers.” Whereas the exhibit noted the distinguished record of Nisei soldiers, it also praised “protesters and resisters among Japanese Americans who demanded that the constitutional precepts apply equally to all citizens.” As well, the show provided a detailed account of the history of draft resistance. The exhibit highlighted groups often neglected in other accounts, such as the twenty-three hundred internees from Latin America who were “uprooted from their homes and deported to the U.S. to be used as hostages for prisoner-of-war exchange for Americans trapped in Japan and Japanese occupied territories.”  Another NJAHS exhibit promoted the history of women, noting that they were often forgotten in depictions of internment and in the Japanese American community in general. One month after A More Perfect Union’s 1987 debut, a group of Nisei and Sansei women, active in the San Francisco area, began developing the show Strength and Diversity: Three Generations of Japanese American Women. Several of the Nisei women on the Women’s Exhibit Committee had been active in the campaign to change the Smithsonian’s military-focused interment script. Among them were Kiku Funabiki, Mei Nakano, and Noriko Sawada Bridges. Funabiki protested to one Smithsonian advisory committee member that devoting “almost a quarter of the space” to the military was “a gross distortion of our history.”  In a letter to Roger Kennedy, Nakano affirmed her belief that it was “crucial to a democracy that citizens have as broad and accurate a portrayal of their history as possible.” Consequently, Nakano objected to the script

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because “the military life of Japanese Americans constituted merely a fraction of our history, and in the broad picture, did not impact our lives to the extent that the plans have accorded it.” Nakano declared, “To give it such emphasis in the exhibit is to skew our history.”  Funabiki and Nakano had no qualms about asserting their right to influence the presentation of Japanese American history. They protested the fact that only two of the twelve members of the Smithsonian’s advisory committee were women. Funabiki compiled a wealth of research on the history of resistance that was excluded from the planned exhibit. At a public meeting on the show, Nakano argued that the men in the armed forces should be portrayed “as victims in double jeopardy [internees and draftees], and not as gung ho warriors, bent on displaying their military prowess.” Noriko Sawada Bridges agreed, urging the community to “insist on doing the kind of exhibit that we want” and that “would portray the truth as we see it.”  After the Smithsonian refused to reduce the amount of attention given to the experiences of Nisei soldiers, Funabiki, Nakano, and Bridges realized that they’d have to create their own exhibit to present their version of history. Dissatisfied with the way Japanese American male leaders and academics ignored women’s memories, the Women’s Exhibit Committee sought to provide an alternative history that highlighted women’s vital role in helping their families and the community combat discrimination before, during, and after the war. The exhibit they produced challenged the stereotype of passive Japanese American women and presented new visions of women’s agency, protest, and community leadership. Many of the women on the exhibit committee had a long history of activism within the community and had participated in the Title II repeal, the pardon campaign for Iva Toguri, and the struggle for redress. Many also had a history of challenging gender discrimination as members of the JACL Women’s Concerns Committee, which was founded by Chizu Iiyama and Mei Nakano in March 1983. Established to “awaken the JACL to the realities of sexism, especially within the JACL,” the group had frequently criticized male leaders within the ethnic community. Chizu Iiyama felt women had to combat the perception that they were satisfied serving in “women’s auxiliaries, cooking demonstrations, [and] fashion shows.” She further insisted that women had to proclaim they “did a lot of [activism] work but didn’t receive recognition” for their activism. Hoping to educate JACL members about the need to oppose gender discrimination, Iiyama and other committee supporters wrote a column devoted to women’s issues in the Pacific

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Citizen. In one article that appeared in the column, Mei Nakano explained why committee members did not mind being called “radical women.” Nakano declared, “Certainly we were ‘radical’ in the sense that we saw a need for radical change within the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL).” The “radical change” they wanted, Nakano explained, “would offer women members the same options afforded men—equality, if you will.”  These “radical” women did not hesitate to challenge the portrayal of internment by veterans, the Smithsonian, and other exhibits. For Nakano and Funabiki, this exclusion of women’s perspectives provided a misleading history of internment. They characterized “the detention experience” as “very much a woman’s story because the women were left behind barbed wires to care for their families as the male population dwindled.”  Even after they were eligible for release, many Japanese American women stayed in camp to attend to the needs of young children, the elderly, and the ill. Excluding the approximately 18,000 people segregated at Tule Lake, slightly more than 60,000 Japanese Americans remained in camp as of January 1945. Although equal numbers of men and women made up the 0 to 20 age bracket and the 40 to 60 age range, women outnumbered men 8,320 to 4,787 in the 20 to 40 age category. These 20- to 40-year-old women were mainly married Nisei who stayed to support family members and others in the community, such as many elderly and ailing bachelors, who needed assistance. The exhibit committee wanted to honor such women and to challenge the notion that only famous veterans, protesters, or politicians should be acknowledged in the community. Cochair Chizu Iiyama explained that committee members “wanted to have an exhibit that really spotlighted the contributions that Japanese American women have made, not only to their families but to this community and to society at large.” Iiyama went on to say: We wanted to have the story of plain people, ordinary people, and not just the superstars that flash through the sky every so often in any generation. We wanted to tell the story of people as they met different kinds of conditions . . . how they utilized their Japanese background and combined it with the American experience to present what we think is a very unique Japanese American culture.

Iiyama also noted that the Women’s Exhibit Committee wanted to “interpret our own history in our own way, because often history is interpreted by people in what we call ivory towers.”  After surveying research on Japa-

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f i g u r e 2 1 . Chizu Iiyama and Kiku Hori Funabiki, organizers of the Strength and Diversity exhibit. Courtesy of Steve Murray and the author.

nese American internment, committee members were dismayed at the neglect of women’s experiences. Aside from the pioneering research of Valerie Matsumoto, Dana Takagi, Sylvia Yanagisako, and Evelyn Nakano Glenn, few studies had explored the impact of the camps on gender ideology and gender relations. Conscious that most accounts of Japanese Americans highlighted only the war, they broadened the scope of the exhibit to encompass the period from the end of the nineteenth century, with the arrival of the first picture brides, to the late twentieth century, in which the focus was contemporary issues facing fourth-generation women. Working with the National Japanese American Historical Society and the Oakland Museum, in Oakland, California, they mounted a striking collection of photographs, artifacts, and art objects. Ironically, the Oakland Museum agreed to cosponsor the exhibit with the NJAHS, in part, because it was familiar with A More Perfect Union and Go for Broke’s 442nd exhibit at the Presidio Army Museum. The very shows the women of the exhibit committee had criticized helped establish the credentials of Go for Broke and the NJAHS. In 1986 they had challenged Go for Broke’s complete focus on veterans and helped change its

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name to the National Japanese American Historical Society. They then lobbied for the inclusion of women on the organization’s board of directors. Under this new name, the NJAHS broadened its horizons beyond the Nisei soldiers and strove to serve other members of the community. Demonstrating how much the organization had changed, the NJAHS hired Rosalyn Tonai, a Sansei woman, as its executive director. Tonai and the other NJAHS staff offered technical assistance and sponsorship. But most of the groundwork was performed by more than sixty volunteers. Both retired and working Japanese American women, along with a number of supportive men, raised funds and planned the exhibit, which involved determining the themes, writing narratives, and collecting artifacts and photographs. Undaunted by the lack of historical material on record about Japanese American women, the volunteers collected oral histories to provide a narrative that would help the photographs come to life. In a span of nine months, they interviewed approximately sixty Japanese American women. Hoping to illuminate the diversity of women’s experiences, they interviewed Issei, Nisei, and Sansei women. They also interviewed post–World War II immigrants, women from rural and urban communities, and women living throughout the country. Rosalyn Tonai credited these recordings and transcribed tapes with revealing “a past rich with stories never told, the routines of daily life forgotten, and the feelings well hidden.”  The women volunteers had a history of grassroots activism. They used their community connections to find women who were willing to be interviewed and to locate artifacts and photographs. Through these personal contacts in the form of letters, phone calls, and family gatherings, they found items never displayed before: the belongings of a picture bride, a Hawaiian plantation worker’s outfit from the 1920s, two Women’s Army Corps uniforms, and a quilt made by a camp civics class. When the Strength and Diversity exhibit opened at the Oakland Museum in 1990, it effectively used such artifacts and the oral histories to celebrate Japanese American women’s “central and diverse roles in the home, community, and society.”  Documenting women’s restricted occupational opportunities before World War II, the exhibit showed women as plantation workers, migrant field hands, domestic servants, and seamstresses. Yet although it exposed the racism that denied immigrants the right to own land before World War II and to become naturalized citizens before 1952, the exhibit provided much more than a history of victimization. Even the show’s depiction of internment emphasized women’s roles in

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helping their families and the community cope with the trauma of incarceration. The exhibit displayed vibrant oil paintings and colorful craft items created by women to brighten their barren and bleak surroundings. Victory gardens not only embellished the outside of the barracks but also added variety to the bland camp diets. One testimonial of women’s ingenious use of available materials described a flower corsage made from the tiny white shells found around the Gila River Camp in Arizona. The show’s organizers modeled the history of Japanese American women on the quilt Threads of Remembrance, which served as a focal point for the exhibit and commemorated one hundred years of Japanese American women’s experiences. The quilt displayed the ten WRA internment camps and the Manzanar cemetery monument. Surrounding these were portrayals of various women, including a picture bride, a plantation worker, an Issei mother holding a baby, and a child tagged for removal to an internment camp. Against the broad backdrop of historical events, the committee explained, women’s “personal stories” formed the “fabric patterned within the patchwork of family and community.” The “threads of common values adapted to the American scene” connected “the generations—from immigrant women to their great grandchildren.” Weaving a “rich tapestry of Japanese American women’s diverse experience,” the exhibit praised women’s “indomitable spirit,” which belied stereotypical images of “quiet and passive” women. The quilt also reflected the committee’s emphasis on involving women from the community in the show’s evolution. The quilt traveled throughout California and even Tokyo, Japan, so that women could participate by sewing a few stitches. Although the quilt was brought to many community functions and touched by many hands, the exhibit committee especially treasured the stitches from Issei women in senior citizen centers. Naoko Ito, quilt project coordinator, described how “Issei women have come up to the quilt, gently touched the appliqué of women and cried openly as they recalled their experiences, especially during their incarceration during World War II.” They told her, “Don’t you forget what happened, that’s me carrying the baby in my arms on my way to camp!” One woman in her nineties said to Ito, “Now I can die knowing my story has been told through this quilt.” She passed away one month later. The committee also put together a series of community programs in conjunction with the show. Drawing on the tremendous growth in women’s

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depictions of internment in art, music, literature, and film, the exhibit sponsored a dance performance, a performing arts celebration, a panel discussion of women writers, a family arts workshop, and a film series. Committee members participated in school programs and established a curriculum guide for grades four through nine that included some of the oral histories they collected and an extensive bibliography and film list of works by and about Japanese American women. The Women’s Exhibit Committee also tried to encourage other women to speak about their experiences during the war. During a panel discussion on internment, Noriko Sawada Bridges, Mei Nakano, and Kiku Funabiki shared their recollections of the camp experience before an auditorium filled with hundreds of Japanese American men and women. After recalling her own evolution from a silent victim of internment to an outspoken redress activist, Funabiki urged the members of the audience to share their memories of internment. Sansei Margene Fudenna described how listening to the commission hearings helped her establish a connection to the Japanese American community. Hearing other Sansei describe how they had felt distant from the community, couldn’t speak Japanese, and knew little about Japanese culture made her realize that her “fear of being Japanese” was a legacy of internment. Her mother still refused to talk about the camps, but Fudenna learned more about the history of the camps when she joined the Threads of Remembrance quilt project. As the women quilted, they reminisced and cried about their camp experiences. Crying with them, Fudenna told the audience, helped her experience her own catharsis. Many in the audience wept as well when they heard these recollections. Responding to the panelists’ call for more community discussion of internment, a group of Sansei organized the Sansei Legacy Project so that Sansei could share their feelings about the impact of internment on their lives. This group also conducted oral history workshops, which gave the Sansei the skills they needed to preserve their family histories. The exhibit also impacted communities outside the San Francisco area. After it was exhibited in Oakland, the show traveled to different locations throughout the United States. Committed to helping Japanese Americans “take ownership of their own histories,” the exhibit planners encouraged communities to customize the exhibit for their location. They were pleased that the show exhibited in Oakland was different from the one in Hawaii, Portland, Seattle, and Los Angeles, as groups of local women con-

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ducted their own oral histories and collected materials for display. A glowing review in the Los Angeles Times noted that this encouragement of local customization “distinguished this show from other ethnic exhibits, even groundbreaking ones.” The review also acknowledged that “because Japanese American soldiers, many fresh from the camps, fought so heroically during World War II, the story of Japanese American men has been told before.” The review praised the exhibit as the first that “tells the story of Japanese American women, often in their own words.” Declaring the stories of Nisei women “are especially interesting,” the article quoted Mei Nakano’s description of how women were “objects of the sexism of society-at-large as well as the deeply entrenched one of the traditional Japanese society.” The article concluded by describing the exhibit’s depiction of the history of women’s activism during the civil rights movement and during the redress movement. The exhibit produced the book Japanese American Women: Three Generations, 1890–1990, the first of its kind to survey three generations of Japanese American women’s history. Realizing that the show could provide only an overview of this broad history, Mei Nakano wrote the book to complement the museum piece. In a promotional handout for the book, Nakano described how “the history of women, told by women calls into question the assumptions and principles that govern traditional history.” Challenging us to provide a “more inclusive view of history,” women’s history “calls for a record, not only of the heroic, but of the undervalued, not merely of events, but of human values effecting, and being affected by those events.”  Nakano’s book, like the exhibit, not only restored women to the historical record but also promoted new definitions of agency, protest, and community leadership. Other accounts had celebrated JACL leaders, Nisei soldiers, “No-No boys,” and draft resisters. But women were rarely included in these accounts. King-Kok Cheung and Sylvia Junko Yanagisako point out that “heroic” accounts of Asian American men that exclude women can bolster racial and sexual hierarchies. While combating the racist stereotype of Asian American men as “passive and feminine,” many of these works continue to identify agency with men and submission with women. Equating machismo and agency in this way reinforced the stereotype of Asian American women as “docile and subservient.” Using oral histories and commission testimony, Nakano’s book reinterpreted well-studied topics like military service, the loyalty questionnaire,

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and renunciation by showing how gender could influence internee experiences. Nakano quoted a life history from The Salvage that described the harassment of women who volunteered to serve in the Women’s Army Corps (WAC). While male Japanese American veterans recounted being taunted and threatened, she remembered being told that a WAC “would never be able to get married.” Nakano also showed how the issue of gender could worsen the conflict created by the loyalty questionnaire. In an interview Chizu Iiyama recalled how she attended a block meeting at Topaz, in Utah, where two Kibei and one Issei loudly argued for a “no-no” response. Concerned that people might be pressured to become “No-No’s,” Iiyama stood up and urged people to study the questions carefully and decide what was best for their situation. Instead of disagreeing with Iiyama, the Issei “nono” advocate denounced her father by saying, “That’s what you get for sending your daughter to college!” Nakano also shed new light on the impact of gender on renunciation. Quoting Violet Kazue de Cristoforo’s account of her decision to renounce her citizenship, the book showed how views of citizenship and loyalty were affected by gender roles: I was an American-born citizen, as were my three children but, as was customary in those days, I had been trained as a mother and as a housewife and had no employable skills. My husband was my sole means of support and I, too, in desperation finally decided to go to Japan with them in order to keep my family together, and because my primary loyalty was to my husband and his family.

In addition to reinterpreting these traditional topics of internment research, Nakano gave numerous examples of women who were heroic without serving in the military or becoming involved in camp protest. She praised women like Hannah Yasuda, who struggled with poverty and pregnancy while her husband worked as a sharecropper, and Mitsuyo Amanos, who helped her family resettle while her husband served in the armed forces. “Unassuming, out of the public eye,” Nakano noted, “they would be astonished at being called heroines.” But, Nakano declared, “in the tradition of their mothers before them, they are heroines in the best sense: it was largely through their strength and tenacity that the family survived.”  (emphasis in the original) To celebrate such women, Nakano devoted one of her book’s chapters to a moving portrait of Issei Take Eto, written by Eto’s daughter Grace

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Shibata. Knowing “full well that such an inclusion would defy conventional publishing practices,” Nakano placed Shibata’s memoir, “Okaasan” (“Mother”), between her chapters on Issei and Nisei women. Shibata’s tribute to her mother echoed Nakano’s praise of Issei and Nisei women whose “activism” consisted of the support they gave their families: In every sense, Mother was the embodiment of the words, “en no shita no chika mochi,” a pillar to her family. She loved us all with boundless patience. Her strength and understanding sustained us, embraced us with comfort and security. Her name, Take, or bamboo, befitted her: she knew how to bend with the wind; she grew straight and strong and had put firm roots in the ground.

Redefining heroism, Nakano and the other women who created the Strength and Diversity exhibit proclaimed that women who comforted children traumatized by the barbed wire, who cared for elderly parents, and who helped their families cope with the incarceration were important historical figures.

The Japanese American National Museum and the America’s Concentration Camps Exhibit The organizers of the Strength and Diversity exhibit were not the only Japanese Americans to insist on presenting their own perspectives of history to the public. In the 1990s Japanese American groups became more assertive about seizing control of the history they exhibited, even if they ran the risk of alienating a part of their audience. The Japanese American National Museum (JANM) titled a 1998 exhibit America’s Concentration Camps: Remembering the Japanese American Experience. The JANM insisted upon this title for the exhibit’s showing at the Ellis Island Museum, even after the superintendent of the museum threatened to cancel the exhibit. In 1986 and 1987 the Smithsonian staff members rejected use of the term concentration camp in A More Perfect Union because they feared offending museum visitors. Whereas some activists and scholars criticized this decision, most of the Japanese American members of the advisory committee deferred to Tom Crouch, a white curator, when he objected to the term. A little more than a decade later, another exhibit on internment was created, and Karen Ishizuka, a Japanese American curator, defended the use of the

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term. What’s more, she mobilized support for her position from scholars and politicians, and used the controversy to educate the public about Japanese American interpretations of history. Of course, the Japanese American National Museum was very different from the Smithsonian Institution. The JANM was the first museum developed for the sole purpose of collecting and displaying Japanese American history. Established in Los Angeles, it was created out of two separate campaigns. In 1980 with the help of Little Tokyo business leaders, Bruce Kaji raised funds to commission a feasibility study for a “National Museum of Japanese American History.” A similar effort was started by a group of veterans who had helped bring the 442nd Go for Broke exhibit to the Los Angeles County Natural History Museum. These veterans wanted to create a “100th/442nd/MIS Museum Foundation.” The two groups joined forces and were incorporated in 1985 as a private, nonprofit institution under the JANM moniker. The founders chose the Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist Temple as the permanent site of the museum. Constructed in 1925 by Japanese immigrants, it was the oldest existing Buddhist temple in Los Angeles and had sponsored many cultural and community events in Little Tokyo before the war. During World War II, the temple stored many household belongings for interned families. After the war, it served as a temporary hostel for many returnees. Thus the site of the museum had a special significance for many in the Japanese American community. In 1985 state senator Art Torres secured the passage of a bill providing state funds of $750,000 for the museum, conditional on matching funds from the city of Los Angeles. The next year the Los Angeles Community Redevelopment Agency agreed to provide $1 million to renovate the Nishi temple. Early promotional literature for the museum gave little indication it might support more radical interpretations of Japanese American history. Much of this material highlighted Japanese American heroism and achievements in ways one might expect from the Nisei business leaders and veterans who had created the museum. In one pamphlet, founding president Bruce Kaji declared the “Japanese American community re-established itself after the wartime evacuation and made a great recovery.” Kaji vowed the museum would document the contributions, sacrifice, and suffering of the Issei immigrants to America; teach about the tragedy of the wartime concentra-

408 Internment in Art and Media tion camps and the contrasting bravery of the Nisei soldiers who served America in Europe and the Pacific during that same war; preserve that 100 year heritage and pass it along to younger generations; take the lessons of one minority’s history and serve as the conscience of America.

Kaji thus seemed comfortable using both evacuation and concentration camps when describing the wartime experience. The pamphlet provided a detailed profile of Hiroshi “Hershey” Miyamura, the only living Japanese American to have received a Congressional Medal of Honor for his service during the Korean War. It also promised that a “permanent exhibit on the wartime camp experience” would be the “centerpiece” of the museum’s programs. The museum declared this exhibit would “bring the high drama of the evacuation and incarceration to an intimately personal scale” and make the “shattering impact of the camps” . . . “felt as a personal loss by the exhibit viewer, who will also share in the pride of the Issei and their families as they persevere and rebuild their lives and communities during the postwar period.”  After devoting many of its early years to fundraising, the JANM opened its doors in 1992 without its internment exhibit. However, in an effort to make up for lost time and eventually get an exhibit under way, the museum began expanding its staff to conduct an “integrated program of research, collection, exhibits and education.” Many of the younger staff members, such as Karen Ishizuka, who would be appointed curator of the exhibit on wartime evacuation, had a history of activism in the Japanese American and Asian American communities. Ishizuka was a Sansei who remembered how she “grew up with silence” about the camps. There were enough “pauses in between the silence,” however, to cause Ishizuka to want to learn more about the war. But when she asked her parents about the incarceration, she was told to let “bygones be bygones.” Refusing to do this, she participated in the early 1970s in the campaign to repeal Title II. As Ishizuka worked with other Sansei activists, she became convinced that her generation “inherited the legacy” of the camp experience. She began conducting research and interviews on the impact of the incarceration on Sansei identity. Ishizuka’s research became the basis for a thesis in social work, earning her a master’s degree at San Diego State. Profoundly moved by the testimonies given during the 1981 commission hearings, Ishizuka wrote a play entitled The Truth of the Matter, which

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was about three individuals sharing their personal experiences and feelings about the incarceration. She hoped the work would contribute to the movement to revive memories of the war. After the play was performed before standing-room-only crowds, she turned the theater piece into the film Conversations: Before the War/After the War. As she traveled around the country with the film, she heard more and more Japanese Americans talk about the suffering they had endured during the war and the sense of shame that haunted and silenced them for several decades. These experiences convinced Ishizuka that Japanese Americans who used euphemisms like “evacuation” or “relocation” simply reflected the “depth of the scars of racism.” She was committed to using the term concentration camp because she believed it would help former internees recognize that the incarceration was not their fault and would encourage them to shift any sense of blame from themselves to the government. But as the curator for the museum’s internment exhibit, Ishizuka knew use of the term would be controversial. Although “concentration camp” had been used by activists and academics since the 1970s, including the term in the title of her exhibit would make the JANM the first “national mainstream organization to put it out.” Moreover, at first she thought she was designing an exhibit for two disparate audiences—former internees and non–Japanese Americans. Later, however, Ishizuka decided that the general public could not “really know” what happened to Japanese Americans unless they understood it from the “inmates’ point of view.” Ishizuka was bolstered by the knowledge that she had the support of scholars like Michi Weglyn and Roger Daniels, and that curators throughout the country were producing exhibits that were more challenging and that dealt more openly with the history of racism. To avoid conflict with the Jewish community, Ishizuka met with leaders of groups like Ba’nai B’rith in Los Angeles to explain why she felt “concentration camp” was an important term for the Japanese American community. After describing the scholarly evidence of the term’s use during the war and explaining that the exhibit was not trying to equate the Japanese American experience with the Jewish experience during the Holocaust, Ishizuka found that many understood and supported her decision to use the term. There was little public controversy when America’s Concentration Camps: Remembering the Japanese American Experience opened in November 1994. In fact, the exhibit, which ran for eleven months, received critical

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acclaim, positive reviews, and record audiences. More than fifty-five thousand individuals toured the exhibit. Using photographs and artifacts to illustrate diverse responses during the war, the show presented a sympathetic view of all internees, whether they were veterans, resisters, elderly Issei, or children. Reflecting Ishizuka’s commitment as a Sansei activist to connecting internment to a long history of racism, the exhibit made explicit comparisons between the camp barracks, American Indian reservations, and African American slave quarters. The show also presented a powerful video component in Ishizuka’s Something Strong Within, a compilation of never-before-seen home movies by internees of the mass removal and incarceration. The haunting footage included scenes of Japanese Americans trying to create a semblance of a normal life in camp by participating in dances and baseball games. The display of a real wartime barrack from the Heart Mountain camp in Wyoming attracted a lot of attention. It was placed in the parking lot adjacent to the museum. Half original and half restored, the barrack provided a stark contrast to the simulated barrack in the Smithsonian’s A More Perfect Union exhibit. Many Nisei had been dissatisfied with the Smithsonian’s replica. Some thought the camp apartment should have had four rather than two cots to illustrate the crowding of families into a single room. Others thought the furniture looked “store bought” when it should have been made of scrap wood. The most persistent complaint, however, was that the Smithsonian had left out the cracks in the lumber that had let in so much dust and dirt. This led one visitor to quip, “The Smithsonian carpenters were better than what the Army had in ’42.”  Although the Smithsonian responded to these criticisms by trying to make the room more realistic, many still felt it was too clean and too comfortable to reflect what they remembered. The genuine barrack that Bacon Sakatani secured for the JANM exhibit, on the other hand, presented what Ishizuka called “undeniable evidence it happened.” The barrack, chain-link fence, and guard tower provided a dramatic illustration of the conditions Japanese Americans endured. Seeing an elderly couple weep after gently touching the outside of the barracks brought home to Ishizuka its symbolic importance for former internees. The most innovative aspect of America’s Concentration Camps, however, was the emphasis on including the contributions of living internees in the evolution of the exhibit. The docents were former internees who described

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f i g u r e 2 2 . Billboard for the exhibit America’s Concentration Camps. Courtesy of Norman Sugimoto, Japanese American National Museum.

their experiences in camp to the exhibit’s visitors. Moreover, museumgoers who were former internees were encouraged to make their memories and experiences part of the exhibit, through several interactive displays. Exhibit designer Ralph Applebaum Associates, a group that had earlier designed the permanent exhibition for the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, spread out large blueprints of individual camps in glass cases. Visitors who had been interned were asked to mark the location of their barrack with a miniature model. Ishizuka had hoped to empower former internees, but even she was surprised at the how the simple act of placing a model on a map helped individuals “make a claim” on or “own” their past. After watching one man help his grandchild position the model barrack, she felt she had witnessed him “literally passing the experience” to another generation. In addition, former internees were invited to have their pictures taken and included in camp albums laid out on tables. They were encouraged to share biographical information from the war, such as their maiden names,

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their current addresses, and their personal recollections of their camp experiences. The camp albums became one of the most important elements of the exhibit because they helped Japanese Americans share their memories with each other and with the public. Ishizuka had hoped the albums would “add faces to the figures,” allow internees to tell their own stories, and help all the visitors recognize that each internee was an important historical figure. The 3,746 photos of living internees, often accompanied by children and grandchildren, made it impossible to dismiss internment as “past history” that no longer had relevance to people’s lives. As former internees wrote about their experiences or read the accounts of others, many seemed to relive the camp experience. Some remembered playing baseball, making friends, and meeting spouses. Many were happy to rediscover old friends and acquaintances and learn about camp reunions being held in the area. Others shared feelings of pain, sadness, and anger about the economic losses, the devastation of Issei parents, and the identity problems caused by internment. Writing and reading such accounts heightened the emotional impact of the entire exhibit. All visitors, regardless of whether or not they were internees, were asked to share their views of the exhibit in a comment book. A few visitors criticized the term concentration camp and the emphasis on racism in the exhibit, but most echoed the comment of preservationist Milt Sheft, who declared the exhibit “moving, compelling, [and] enlightening.” Dan Ginsburg welcomed “this effort to educate everyone on this blot on our country’s ideal of freedom and justice for all.” He remembered being appalled by the internment of Japanese American friends who had graduated with him from high school in 1938. The exhibit, Ginsburg declared, reminded us “we should never forget the past lest we repeat the same mistakes.” Preston Reese told the exhibit staff of how in 1967 his high school history teacher flunked him “for daring to write a critical report on the internment.” Now he was “glad we are no longer required to be silent on the subject.” Geoffrey Black explained, “As an African American, I am touched by what I have seen here and in my own way, I share the pain that those remembered here must feel.” Black hoped the museum would “live on for all generations of Americans yet to be born to see so that they might know the danger of racism that goes unchallenged.” 

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Many other comments praised the exhibit for helping visitors understand internees’ experiences and feelings. Among them, Thomas Nishida, an internee at Poston, Arizona, proclaimed, “We need to keep exhibits like this before the public” in order for “our children to know and experience the history.” Several children and grandchildren, in fact, affirmed that the exhibit helped them learn more about their families. Ron Shumokey, a grandchild of internees, was so moved by the exhibit that he wrote a poem about the experience: My journey through life is continuing. What is housed inside these walls Is a part of that journey. Though never having experienced the Pain and suffering my grandparents endured. Thanks to what I’ve witnessed today, I have walked in their footprints if Just for one brief moment.

Given the success of the exhibit in Los Angeles, Ishizuka was excited at the prospect of showing it in New York. In August 1995 she and Steve Briganti, the CEO of the Statue of Liberty–Ellis Island Foundation, discussed the possibility of showing a condensed version of the exhibit at the Ellis Island Museum between April 1998 and January 1999. The exhibit would discuss the role of Ellis Island as a World War II detention facility for aliens of Japanese, German, and Italian ancestry. Briganti expressed some concern that the term concentration camp might elicit opposition in the New York Jewish community and in the press. After consulting with scholars, community members, members of other ethnic communities, colleagues at other institutions, and members of its New York advisory committee, JANM decided it was important to retain the term. Briganti then suggested that the exhibit explain the origins of the term as early in the show as possible. Consequently, Ishizuka agreed to move later quotations from government officials about the concentration camps to the front of the exhibit. The situation seemed resolved until Ishizuka received a fax on January 20, 1998, from Diane Dayson, superintendent of the Ellis Island Museum, opposing the use of the term concentration camp in the exhibit. Dayson declared that the “phrase today is used to refer to death camps; New York City has a very large Jewish community that could be offended by or mis-

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understand the use of this phrase.” Dayson wrote, “In addition, National Park Service superiors are not so inclined to endorse the title because of controversy that stems around this title.”  In her response, Ishizuka explained that after “serious and extended thought and re-consideration of the issue, with regard to the needs and feelings of our constituency as well as the larger debate and discussion regarding civil rights and liberties for all people, we feel it is appropriate to keep the name of the exhibit, as it is a critically acclaimed pre-existing show.” Acknowledging that the term was controversial, Ishizuka argued that it was a euphemism for Nazi extermination camps, that government officials had used the term during the war, and that it was still used by historians to describe the unconstitutional incarceration. Ishizuka emphasized the need to reject the government’s attempt to shroud the injustice with euphemisms that “not only worked to sidetrack legal and constitutional challenges, but more insidiously, functioned to gain the cooperation and determine the mindset of its victims.” She declared: Because of this psychological dissonance, inmates have been effectively silenced, the few who have spoken out practically unheard. As part of the ongoing process to better understand this dark chapter of American history as well as come to grips with its discordant memory, it is critical to address the semantics of oppression and acknowledge that, while they were not death camps, innocent Americans were herded into what the government itself called concentration camps in a failure of democracy that affects all Americans.

Ishizuka ended her fax by noting that the museum staff “will continue with our plans to have a dialogue with the Jewish leadership and other community leaders in New York.”  Dayson remained adamant, however. She sent a fax to JANM’s director, Irene Hirano. She insisted, “The word ‘Concentration’ must be removed from the title of your forthcoming exhibit if we are to install it at Ellis Island.” Dayson said the term could be used within the exhibit with “an explanation of its meaning.” But she warned Hirano that “should there be political pressure as a result of the words ‘Concentration Camp’ being used throughout the exhibit, there might be a chance that the park is requested to remove it.”  On the same day that the museum received the ultimatum, Hirano and Ishizuka faxed a letter to “friends, colleagues and supporters” of the mu-

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seum to solicit their input and advice. They recognized that if they protected the “integrity of the exhibit and the experience,” they might lose the opportunity to expose a large sector of the public to Japanese American history. Within forty-eight hours, they heard from one hundred people throughout the country. The majority urged the museum to “keep the original title and not bow too quickly to pressure.”  Among these supporters were Jewish leaders like Tom Freudenheim, executive director of the Yivo Institute for Jewish Research, in New York. Freudenheim declared that as a Jew who lost relatives in the Holocaust, he was “deeply disturbed by the notion that Jewish Americans appear to be telling Japanese Americans about sensitivity.” While stating that the Jewish and Japanese American experiences might not be comparable, he did not feel “that should prevent us from recognizing, and naming, America’s concentration camps as precisely what they were: concentration camps.” Freudenheim declared, “To find us once again engaging in [the] Newspeak of distopian novels simply continues the dishonesty of the past, in a pattern that reminds me of my childhood, when I knew nothing about officially sanctioned segregation in the South.” Urging public protest if the exhibit “can not be shown in uncensored form,” he concluded the unnecessary conflict “demonstrates once again the United States’ official insensitivity to the history of Japanese Americans.” Scholarly advisers like Michi Weglyn, Gary Okihiro, Lane Hirabayashi, and Ron Takaki all voiced their support for the title. Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga gave a particularly impassioned appeal for retaining the name. Initially, during a telephone conversation with Ishizuka, she expressed that “it would be a shame to lose educating a potential audience of thousands of viewers” in a venue with an “obvious historical connection to the JA experience in this country.” But later, upon reflection, she changed her position because she felt it was time to “stand up” for a “truthful recounting of our history in America.” Ultimately, Herzig-Yoshinaga declared: At what point are we, as Americans of Japanese ancestry, going to cease to resist having our history written for us by others? Where do we draw the line? Is our empowerment so weak that we must capitulate and surrender our right to state our own history in our own words? Why do we have to be the ones to give in? Why can we not educate others to the righteousness of the nomenclature in the title of the exhibition? We have been wronged by our government and there is no reason why we cannot express our outrage for the persecution we endured in our own words.

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Herzig-Yoshinaga also warned that acquiescence might set a precedent and make it more difficult for future exhibits, articles, books, symposiums, and productions to use the term. Moreover, she agreed with those who suggested the controversy might provide “an opportunity to educate and widen the discussion nationally.”  The JANM’s board of trustees decided to postpone a response until it consulted historian Roger Daniels and Senator Daniel Inouye. Daniels was a member of both the JANM advisory board and the History Committee that advised the Statue of Liberty-Ellis Island Foundation. He immediately contacted Dwight Pitcaithley, chief historian of the National Park Service, who promised to look into the matter and emphasized that the NPS supported the presentation and discussion of various views at its public sites. Remembering the battle, Daniels recalled, “I was a sniper,” whereas Inouye “had a howitzer.”  The senator wrote a lengthy letter to Bruce Babbitt, secretary of the interior. The secretary’s department oversaw the National Park Service. Inouye knew that Babbitt, who had recently come under fire in Congress because of accusations of impropriety, needed all the support he could muster from an old Senate colleague. Inouye told Babbitt that as the chair of the museum’s board of governors, he had “personally discussed” the exhibit’s title “with countless numbers of Japanese American leaders and with leaders of the Jewish American community.” He explained that only “certain Jewish American leaders in the New York area” opposed the term. He excerpted Ishizuka’s letter explaining the importance of the term. Then Inouye recounted his “long, friendly, and abiding relationship with leaders of the Jewish American community,” his support of the state of Israel and the fact that he was a “non-paid salesman for the State of Israel Bonds in 1951.” He assured Babbitt, “With this background, I am certain you know that the last thing I would do would in any way dishonor the men and women who lost their lives during the sad and infamous holocaust of World War II.”  Less than two weeks later, Hirano and Ishizuka told JANM’s supporters that the original title of the show would be retained. The issue, they affirmed, was “not a Japanese American–Jewish dilemma and we must take care not to enter—or be placed—into any realm of comparative suffering.” At issue, they declared, was the “free exchange of ideas in a democratic society and the right to be heard—for all Americans.” Also, Hirano and Ishizuka described plans to hold a series of public programs in New York to enhance the educational mission of the exhibit. They hoped the first

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program, Coming to Terms: The Impact of World War II on Contemporary Jewish and Japanese American Communities, would provide an “open forum for speakers and dialogue” and “bring these two communities together to inform and engage a wider audience in a discussion of how acts of memory and the process of healing shape and reshape individual and collective identities.”  Media coverage verified that controversy could be educational. Reporting on the debate, New York Times journalist Somini Sengupta observed that the issue “goes beyond the semantic, touching on the questions of how to remember a people’s suffering and who has the right to tell that story.” The story quoted David Harris, the executive director of the American Jewish Committee, in New York, who said the title “dilutes what we have come to understand as the meaning of concentration camps.” But Harris also noted that some American Jews thought the term was appropriate. Appearing in the article as well, Ishizuka was able to explain why the “term best describes, from a Japanese-American perspective, the experience of those who were incarcerated without due process.” After recounting the exchanges between Dayson and Ishizuka and the appeal by Inouye to Babbitt, reporter Somini Sengupta astutely noted that “the intensity of the debate reflects the fact that the memory of the wartime camps has become central to the identity of both Jews and Japanese-Americans.” Gary Okihiro was quoted as saying that the memory of the wartime camps “became a means by which to justify a peoplehood, a sense of history, a sense of having been oppressed.”  Also enlightening were many of the reactions to the article. There were still people like Linda Goetz Holmes, who refused to acknowledge any differences between Japanese Americans and Japanese committing atrocities in the Pacific during the war. But most of the letters to the editor provided additional information. David Harris criticized the story’s omission of the “consistent Jewish support for the Japanese-American quest for an official United States Government apology and redress.”  Robert Shaffer, a doctoral candidate in history at Rutgers, noted that the September 1942 issue of The Crisis, the magazine of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, provided a blistering attack on the government’s policy of confining “Americans in Concentration Camps.” Allan Appel wrote that his research on the Spanish-American war indicated that Spanish concentrados were the first “concentration camps.”  Endorsing the title, a New York Times editorial declared, “There is a value

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to preserving the continuity of language even when it is a painful thing to do.” The editorial affirmed, “It does no service to the memory of the victims of Nazi genocide to distort an ugly truth about American history.” Noting that Franklin Delano Roosevelt called the sites concentration camps, the editorial concluded, “Since that is how authorities defined what the Japanese-Americans themselves experienced, it is only logical for the victims to want to remember it that way, and for others to honor that intention.”  Of course, in early discussions of the exhibit, the JANM had agreed to explain the term. In a separate article in the same edition entitled “Accord on Term ‘Concentration Camp,’” the Times publicized the explanation that would be displayed in the lobby and in the program booklet: A concentration camp is a place where people are imprisoned not because of any crimes they have committed, but simply because of who they are. Nazi camps were places of torture, barbarous medical experiments and summary executions; some were extermination centers with gas chambers.

The display also would cite other examples of concentration camps in the former Soviet Union, Cambodia, and Bosnia before concluding, “All had one thing in common: the people in power decided to remove a minority group from the general population, and the rest of society let it happen.” Both groups, JANM with its supporters and the Ellis Island Museum with its backers, were quoted as being pleased with the outcome. Arthur Berger, a spokesperson for the American Jewish Committee, said his group supported Japanese Americans’ efforts to educate the public about their history. Ishizuka declared that both sides “reiterated the commonalities we have had, the past work we have done together and the future work we hope to do together.”  In fact, after the exhibit was displayed at Ellis Island, it traveled in 1999 to the William Bremen Jewish Heritage Museum in Atlanta and in 2000 to the California Historical Society in San Francisco. The confidence Ishizuka and the Strength and Diversity organizers displayed in promoting their own interpretations of Japanese American history illustrated a dramatic transformation in the ethnic community. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, a growing number of Japanese Americans participated in projects to preserve the history of the incarceration experience. Many different groups within the community produced books, films, and exhibits to educate the public about internment. Some of these groups wanted to make sure that their children and future generations wouldn’t forget their experiences. Others hoped their projects would help the redress

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campaign. After the passage of redress legislation, even individuals who had not participated in the campaign took pride in the government’s recognition of the injustice, and these people acknowledged the importance of commemorating the history of the incarceration. Others believed that providing the public with a history of internment might deter future acts of racism and discrimination. Of course, given the multiplicity of internees’ responses and perspectives, there was often disagreement about the particular internment experiences that should be presented in a project. Different groups—from JACL leaders and the 442nd to “No-No’s,” mothers, college students, and Japanese Latin Americans—offered such a range of distinctive histories that the very concept of a “representative” history of internment became problematic. Diverse projects flourished. Some focused on one type of experience. The View from Within is an example. The exhibition of artwork by former internees was shown at the San Jose Museum of Art in 1994. Other examples include the 1992 NJAHS exhibit Children of the Detention Camps, and Uncommon Courage: Patriotism and Civil Liberties, a 1999 documentary directed by Gayle K. Yamada about the men and women who served in the Military Intelligence Service. Other projects, like local community exhibits that involved internees with a variety of backgrounds, required more negotiation before the participants could agree on which histories to select for the final presentation. Whereas these projects promoted diverse representations of internment, they all shared a conviction that the history should be remembered and that the many perspectives of former internees should be respected.

Memorials and Reinterpretations of Patriotism At the beginning of the new millennium, Japanese Americans continued to present the public with diverse and often conflicting interpretations of the history of internment through monuments, films, and Internet sites. Mike Masaoka had long been a controversial figure within the Japanese American community. Controversy surrounded him in the larger community as well, when conflicting views of his wartime leadership sparked public debate. The issue of his leadership arose in a battle over whether to include as an inscription on a national monument text written by the JACL stalwart. These accounts exposed the long-standing debates about Masaoka’s decision to

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cooperate with the government and promote a history of loyalty on the battlefield. Did the history of the 442nd and MIS provide stirring examples of how patriotism could overcome racism? Was Japanese American faith in the government vindicated by an official acknowledgment of this wartime mistake and the passage of redress legislation? Finally, did redress demonstrate the greatness of democracy? In July 2000 Annie Nakao explained to readers of the San Francisco Examiner the controversy surrounding Masaoka’s wartime leadership. Masaoka had passed away in 1991. But it wasn’t until nine years later that a monument attempted to honor him. Scheduled for dedication in November 2000 in Washington, D.C., the National Japanese American Memorial to Patriotism, sponsored by the NJAM, sought to honor him by including the following inscription: “I am proud that I am an American of Japanese ancestry. I believe in this nation’s institutions, ideals and traditions; I glory in her heritage; I boast of her history; I trust in her future.” Nakao explained, “When he penned these words in 1940,” he “was a brash young idealist expressing a love of country—a lifelong devotion that some say made him a towering civil rights leader.” Nakao noted, “But 60 years later, the late Masaoka has become the focus of a seething controversy over a national monument that will carry his name and the words he wrote long ago—words that critics say mask the painful legacy of his disputed wartime leadership in the days following Pearl Harbor.”  The controversy over Masaoka’s inscription on a national monument suggests that different groups within the community will continue to debate the legacy of internment and redress. What makes this recent battle over history distinctive, however, is the involvement of both the mainstream media and multiple websites. Mainstream newspapers, especially those with Asian American reporters, are now more likely to acknowledge diverse views of internment history as well as the Japanese American community in general. Furthermore, with the advent of the Internet, issues that were once debated within the pages of the ethnic press have become accessible to a much larger audience. Now institutions, groups, and individual activists can promote their interpretations of internment on websites that provide links to related news articles and supportive historical documents. A history of protest that was once deemed radical has now become more mainstream. This can be seen, for example, in an official JACL apology to draft resisters and in recent presentations on PBS of films that promote the histories of

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JACL critics and wartime resisters. The controversy surrounding these revisionist historical depictions illustrates how the lessons of internment and redress continue to be reinterpreted by diverse groups. The monument debate indicates that some groups will persist in promoting a single representative history of internment that will be challenged by others in the community. Originally based on a 1988 proposal by the Go for Broke Foundation for a veterans’ memorial, the monument plans always emphasized Masaoka’s depiction of Japanese American patriotism triumphing over adversity. The NJAM Foundation’s brochures, advertisements, and website all proclaimed “the story of a 120,000 brave men, women, and children who, despite the abridgement of their civil rights and even relocation to desolate camps, maintained their loyalty and supported their nation on the home front.” The injustice of internment was symbolized by a sculpture of a pair of bronze cranes surrounded by barbed wire. But the depiction of the cranes breaking free of the barbed wire made the sculpture an uplifting sight. Racism was acknowledged, but as a component of the adversity that made the final triumph of democracy all that more glorious. The sculpture and the quotes by government officials, Japanese American politicians, and Masaoka paid tribute to Japanese Americans and the nation for rewarding Japanese American patriotism. The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 was presented as a testimonial of the greatness of the nation. Redress, the NJAM Foundation explained, provided a “re-dedication to fairness,” a “commitment anew to America’s democratic principles and a demonstration of faith to freedom-loving people everywhere.”  The government provided federal land and eighteen thousand individuals donated funds to support the NJAM Foundation’s goal of establishing a monument that would provide “a celebration of America, its system and its people.”  Since Masaoka had been one of the original advocates for the monument and since the monument replicated his vision of the Japanese American experience, it’s hardly surprising that many on the NJAM board wanted to inscribe his creed for posterity. One also could have anticipated that Masaoka’s critics would challenge the inclusion of his creed and his being designated a “civil rights advocate.” More than seven hundred individuals, including many historians, signed a resolution urging the National Park Service to eliminate Masaoka’s name and creed from the monument. Nevertheless, National Park Service director Robert Stanton decided to include Masaoka’s quote on the monument.

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f i g u r e 2 3 . Crane sculpture, part of the National Japanese American Memorial, Washington, D.C. Courtesy of the author.

He defended the text as an “important point of view” that contributes to the “emotion of the memorial’s message.” Masaoka, according to Stanton, was a “key civil rights leader in this country for 50 years during which he successfully fought for the rights of Japanese Americans.” Acknowledging that Masaoka had been “charged with making some statements which are offensive,” Stanton argued that these comments “must be the subject of further research and, in turn, must be judged in the context of his other

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achievements during his lifetime.” Disregarding the criticisms of many historians who had signed the resolution that would disallow the inscription, Stanton declared that “research about this period is ongoing and it is possible that current historical thinking may change.”  Stanton probably wanted to retain Masaoka’s creed because it reinforced the rest of the monument’s celebration of patriotism and democracy. Could one really expect that a national monument on federal land, just six hundred yards away from the Capitol, would provide a more complex depiction of Japanese American responses to internment? This portrayal of loyalty and patriotism had helped members of the government endorse redress legislation and continues to appear in political rhetoric. For example, in June 2000 President Clinton paid tribute to this version of Japanese American history during a White House ceremony. He awarded the Medal of Honor to twenty-two Asian Americans who served during World War II, including twenty members of the 100th and 442nd. Newspapers throughout the country acknowledged that this was a belated recognition of the “racial prejudice that denied these men the medal many years ago.”  Gregg Kakesako, of the Honolulu Star-Bulletin, wrote several articles about the seven surviving Japanese American recipients, five of whom were from Hawaii, that recounted their struggle against discrimination in the military during the war. Kakesako noted that many of the veterans considered the medal a “tribute long overdue” and that five of the recipients would not be present at the ceremony because they had died “still awaiting their final recognition.”  President Clinton’s speech made only an oblique reference to the fact that the veterans had been “passed over” for “honors they clearly had earned.” Clinton chose to emphasize a history of volunteers from “behind barbed wire” who “helped define America at its best.” Ignoring that most of the volunteers came from Hawaii, Clinton called it an “astonishing fact” that “young men of Japanese descent, both in Hawaii and on the mainland, were still willing, even eager, to take up arms to defend America.” According to the president, “So many mothers and fathers told them, live if you can; die if you must; but fight always with honor, and never, ever bring shame on your family or your country.” This display of consistent loyalty and courage on the battlefield was, of course, rewarded, in Clinton’s words, as “news of their patriotism began to beat back prejudice in America.” The president went on to highlight examples of racism condemned. Fellow veterans attacked prejudice against their Japanese American comrades in a

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letter to the Des Moines Register, a bus driver forced a woman to apologize for hurling a slur at a uniformed soldier, and President Truman proclaimed the 442nd had fought and defeated prejudice. Their heroism “did much more than prove they were Americans,” Clinton declared, “they made our nation more American.”  It was a moving speech that Mike Masaoka could have written, and one like the many he had, in fact, delivered before. But now Japanese Americans let the public know that not everyone accepted this vision of proving one was American by volunteering from behind barbed wire. The ethnic press and mainstream papers gave extensive coverage to the monument controversy and the dispute surrounding a JACL resolution to apologize to draft resisters. Annie Nakao’s article in the Examiner was just one of many that described the history of the JACL wartime actions that made Masaoka such a divisive figure. Masaoka and other leaders of the JACL, Nakao reported, “advocated complete cooperation with the government, squelching protest by labeling as troublemakers and dissidents those who questioned the abrogation of their civil rights.” The article recounted Masaoka’s proposal of a “suicide battalion” to prove Japanese American loyalty. Nakao’s piece also mentioned that the JACL had provided “information on community members to the FBI.” Annie Nakao included a range of opinion from a variety of sources in her history of Mike Masaoka. Defenders of Masaoka, such as Bill Hosokawa and Grant Ujifusa, protested that he was being scapegoated to take attention away from what the government had done to Japanese Americans during the war. John Tateishi noted that he had a been a frequent critic of Masaoka’s too. He declared he was sad that Masaoka’s arrogance, ego, and mistakes had cast a “long shadow over a lot of things he did that benefited not just Japanese Americans but a lot of people.” Clifford Uyeda, on the other hand, thought the inscription would send a message to the public that Japanese Americans wanted a “pat on the back from white people, saying, ‘You’re nice little Japs.’ ” Rita Takahashi, one of three dissident NJAM board members, called the decision to include Masaoka “mind-boggling,” because his name and words were “a total contradiction of what the memorial is about.” Nakao’s article also noted that Takahashi was part of the Committee for a Fair and Accurate Japanese American Memorial. The committee submitted a petition with 707 signatures to Interior Secretary Babbitt asking for a review of the “problematic and controversial inscriptions.” 

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Providing a remarkably candid account of this “impassioned debate” within the Japanese American community, the article also assessed the significance of the controversy. Masaoka and the creed, the article declared, “do not reflect divergent wartime experiences of Japanese Americans— anger, resistance, and protest—which many feel have long been muzzled in the name of patriotism.” Dale Minami, the civil rights attorney and Sansei, described how the conflict was rooted in the wartime division between “those who wanted to cooperate and those who wanted to resist.” Noting that in hindsight it was hard to fault those who felt compelled to cooperate, Minami also declared, “But looking back with today’s standards, we’ve come to respect those who did protest, those who did resist.” The memorial, he concluded, “omits that diversity of responses from Japanese Americans and to that extent, it does not reflect a true history.”  This article was just one of many mainstream media accounts on the monument controversy and the struggle to control depictions of the history of internment. Whereas ten years earlier one might have expected the extensive coverage the controversy received within the Japanese American and Asian American press, now articles in the national media took on the issue. The Washington Times devoted four articles to the story. The Seattle Times ran a front-page story that concluded the “fight over the monument is symbolic of the challenges JACL—and the Japanese-American community as a whole—faces as it tries to reconcile its past with the future.” The article quoted a member of the Committee for a Fair and Accurate Memorial, Chizu Omori, who called the campaign the “first real organized challenge” to the JACL’s authority and to the way it has “dominated the history of our community.”  The Sacramento Bee printed a guest editorial by freelance writer Judy Tachibana that described how “dissenting board members felt that the JACL, as it did during the war, is usurping the voice of the community.”  This was followed a couple of months later by the front-page headline “War over Words on WWII Memorial.” Like the Examiner, the Bee quoted Masaoka’s supporters as well as critics. On the eve of his appointment as the secretary of commerce, making him the first Asian American cabinet official, Norman Mineta defended Masaoka, his deceased brother-in-law, by accusing his critics of imposing “today’s thinking” on civil rights on “something that happened in 1942.” Racism and injustice in that period “required bending in the wind,” Mineta explained, and Masaoka’s message, “that these are loyal Americans,” . . . “proved to

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be correct.” Steve Yoda, representing the monument’s critics, argued that including the creed on the monument would represent “a whitewashing of the community’s history.” Yoda explained how the issue “divides the older generation amongst themselves” and it “divides the younger generation from the older generation.” He then declared, “We’re not trying to reconstruct the 1940s . . . This is about how we in the year 2000 are going to remember the internment.” 

The Internet and Japanese American History Throughout the past sixty years, the needs of different groups in particular historical contexts have made for diverse interpretations of internment. Speeches, government records, court documents, ethnic newsletters and newspapers, and a variety of archival and private document collections reflected these diverse agendas. But two websites that criticized Mike Masaoka and the wartime JACL indicated the potential impact the Internet could have on public perceptions of historical issues. Instead of physically wading through archival stacks and shelves of academic titles, as of the year 2000, people could now simply go to JAvoice.com (Japanese American Voice) and Resisters.com. JAvoice.com was started by the Committee for a Fair and Accurate Memorial to “make certain that the collective recollection of Japanese Americans is representative of the diversity of our entire community.” Resisters.com was created by Frank Abe to accompany his documentary, Conscience and the Constitution, about the Heart Mountain draft resisters. The sites allowed visitors to read and download the news coverage of the various debates. In addition, the websites provided access to historical documents, emails, and letters on the issues. Mike Masaoka’s critics may have lost the battle to delete his inscription on the monument but they created JAvoice.com, which may ultimately reach more people than any other outlet. Of course, the website didn’t include the NJAM Foundation press releases and promotion pieces about the monument, but it did provide links to news articles on the controversy that covered both sides of the debate. It also made available emails and letters by the dissidents assailing NJAM board policies, voting procedures, and views of community input. Visitors could read quotes criticizing Masaoka, the

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NJAM Foundation, and the NPS by veterans; well-known redress activists like Clifford Uyeda, William Hohri, and Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga; and respected scholars like Steve Sumida, Gary Okihiro, and Nadine Hata. They could sign a resolution to the NPS calling for the removal of Masaoka’s inscription, read the NPS letter rejecting this resolution, and a JAvoice.com rebuttal to the NPS decision. Even after the NPS decision, JAvoice.com continued to collect signatures for the resolution. As of August 28, 2000, 1,050 individuals had signed the website resolution. The collection of historical documents available at the site were particularly fascinating. Visitors could examine Mike Masaoka’s entire “Japanese American Creed,” which was far more accommodating than the edited version inscribed on the monument. The site provided excerpts from Masaoka’s testimony before the House Select Committee Investigating National Defense Migration, also known as the Tolan hearings, where he vowed to cooperate with government policies. Visitors could read James Omura’s “In Spirit We are Americans,” a ringing indictment of how internment would “usher in the bigoted and misguided belief that Americanism is a racial attribute and not a national symbol.” Also, the site offered up excerpts from Omura’s testimony at the Tolan hearings, in which he opposed the JACL for “leading the American born Japanese down the wrong channels.” In addition, JAvoice.com presented The Lim Report, a highly critical and onesided study of the JACL’s wartime conduct. Underground copies of the report have circulated throughout activist networks within the Japanese American community ever since the JACL, after commissioning the study, decided not to distribute it to its members. Consequently, longtime JACL critics like William Hohri copied and distributed the report “as though it were samizdat in some communist country.”  In 1989 the JACL had hired Deborah Lim, an attorney and San Francisco State instructor, to conduct independent research on the league’s history after the rejection of two key 1988 JACL resolutions. The JACL’s Golden Gate chapter submitted a resolution calling for the recognition of the contributions of wartime dissidents. The Seattle chapter advanced a resolution asking the JACL to “apologize” to the “no-no boys.”  When neither resolution passed, the league authorized an independent investigation of available wartime sources, including the JACL’s own archives. Lim’s ninety-five-page report created a huge controversy when she submitted it to

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the league’s Presidential Select Committee in 1989. There were two reasons for the uproar. First, the report provided evidence of JACL identification of community leaders to intelligence authorities, collaboration with the government, opposition to resistance, and support of segregation. Second, it was never distributed to the JACL membership. Instead, the chair of the committee, Cressy Nakagawa, prepared a twenty-eight-page revised “official” version of the report that was distributed in 1990. Whereas this version added a review of the wartime racism confronting JACL leaders, which was missing from Lim’s report, it also eliminated most of the material criticizing JACL activities during the war. Nakagawa’s report did call for the JACL to acknowledge that draft resisters “who clearly professed their loyalty to America and were otherwise willing to serve in the armed forces,” but for the “deprivation of their constitutional rights,” were “honorable and loyal Americans” who were “dedicated to the principles of defending their civil rights” and “were willing to make significant sacrifices to uphold their beliefs . . . in a different form from those who sacrificed their lives on the battlefield.”  Although the resolution passed by the JACL in 1990 did not offer an outright apology, it did declare that the “JACL regrets any pain or bitterness caused by its failure to recognize”. . . “draft resisters who declared their loyalty to their country.”  However, many advocates for the resisters still wanted the JACL to deliver a bona fide apology, and to distribute The Lim Report. Even though the league agreed in 1994 to distribute copies of an expanded version of Lim’s report to assembled delegates, it took no action on the issue. Consequently, the appearance of the report on both JAvoice.com and Resisters.com, complete with detailed instructions on how to download and print the document, reflected a determination to publicly expose this evidence of JACL conduct during the war. JAvoice.com introduced the report by saying it “helps illuminate why” Masaoka “has proved such a controversial figure in Japanese American history.” Then the website proceeded to explain the lessons of the past it wanted to promote. Celebrating a history of protest and resistance, JAvoice. com declared: The lesson of our history will be that the content of a people’s patriotism must be more than their glorification of and loyalty to the government at

Internment in Art and Media 429 any cost. Rather, patriotism is the unwavering commitment to the ideals of a nation and thus must recognize the necessity to uphold conscience and justice no matter what the obstacles. We believe that this kind of patriotism is the real bedrock of our people’s and our nation’s greatness, and is the most important lesson of our community’s history.

Thus, while the site honored “those who served heroically” in the armed forces and “who courageously endured the hardships of the camps,” it also honored “those who were without support during the camp years—the resisters, the objectors, the ‘no-no’s,’ the strikers, and those who fought against the camps in the courts.” The website proclaimed, “They are all a part of our history, our community, and our legacy.”  Frank Abe, a journalist and activist who helped produce in 1978 the first Day of Remembrance program, also wanted to publicize the history of resistance within the camps. To this end, he created Resisters.com. The site provided an online news center and study guide for Abe’s one-hour documentary, Conscience and the Constitution, about the Heart Mountain draft resisters, which appeared on public television in November 2000. Funded by the Independent Television Service, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, and the Civil Liberties Public Education Fund, the documentary recounted the “largest trial for draft resistance in U.S. history.” It also described how the draft resisters were “ostracized” by Japanese Americans as “traitors,” served two to three years in prison, and “for the next fifty years,” were “written out of the official history of Japanese America.”  In fact, the suppression of history received considerable attention in general on the website. Resisters.com introduced the The Lim Report as providing “documentation that went into the production of our film.” It also posted two 1990 articles that profiled Lim and revealed “the JACL’s rejection and rewriting of the report, which prompted a decade of rumor and speculation.” The site explained that making the report widely accessible fulfilled a “years-long mission of historian William Hohri, who manually rekeyed the manuscript and inserted internal hyperlinks to the footnotes.” And with this wide availability, the report provided one of the more significant critiques of the JACL’s “abbreviated and sanitized account” of wartime history. Resisters.com was devoted to sharing the “research that went into the writing of this documentary.” Visitors were told that by “providing you

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with the primary documents, you can verify the information in this program and put the pieces of this story together for yourself.” Links were provided to news articles about the documentary, the resisters, and the controversy surrounding a JACL resolution to apologize to “resisters of conscience,” which ultimately passed by a two-to-one margin in July 2000. Also, visitors could explore links to the JACL, the Mike Masaoka Papers at the University of Utah Marriott Library, the National Japanese American Historical Society, the Japanese American National Museum, the National Japanese American Memorial Foundation, and Japanese American Voice. Recognizing that the Internet can also promote misinformation, the site linked visitors to an article by Robert Ito that “exposes the ‘new generation of revisionists’ using the Internet to try to put a happy face on America’s wartime concentration camps.” This article named several sites, most notably the Webb Research Group. This company distributed Lillian Baker’s books, which promoted a history of military necessity, lumped Imperial Japanese soldiers with Japanese Americans, and exhibited pictures of smiling internees. Students looking for help with homework could go to the Study Center section of Resisters.com. Receiving homework requests “about twice a week,” the site provided a link to the Civil Liberties Public Education Fund Educational Resources page. It recommended Michi Weglyn’s Years of Infamy, the commission report Personal Justice Denied, and the works of Roger Daniels. Students and teachers could view a lesson plan by professor Art Hansen on “The 1944 Nisei Draft at Heart Mountain, Wyoming: Its Relationship to the Historical Representation of the World War II Japanese American Evacuation.” The unit was designed by Hansen to induce “an appreciation for how the past as a whole is constructed, communicated, and used as a source of identity and empowerment.” It specifically explored “the problematic nature of such concepts as loyalty, patriotism, and heroism” by examining the experiences of Fair Play Committee leader Frank Emi, war hero Ben Kuroki, and journalist James Omura. Providing handouts and study questions, the Resisters.com also gave links to a series of wartime documents. Visitors could read JACL bulletins on the incarceration and the test cases, Fair Play Committee bulletins, letters of protest to draft boards, James Omura’s editorials in the Rocky Shimpo that supported the resisters, the Heart Mountain Sentinel’s condemnation of the resisters, and Wyoming Eagle coverage of the trial.

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Japanese American History on Film Frank Abe hoped his film along with his Resisters.com website, which received between two hundred and four hundred hits per week before the film was shown on PBS, would “shift the paradigm of how we view Japanese American history, by offering new information that many simply didn’t want us to hear.”  Resisters.com also provided links to a website on Emiko Omori’s film Rabbit in the Moon, which won the Best Documentary Cinematography award at the 1999 Sundance Film Festival and an Emmy for Outstanding Historical Programming after appearing on PBS. The National Asian American Telecommunication Association hailed Omori for providing the first film in which “former internees speak openly about their acts of protest and reflect on the psychological toll the camps took on themselves and the community.”  In marked contrast to the history commemorated in the National Japanese American Memorial to Patriotism, Rabbit in the Moon presented a history of JACL leaders informing against the Issei, of the army shooting two of the participants in the Manzanar Riot, of draft resisters protesting the violation of their constitutional rights, of families breaking apart, and of a community divided during and after the war. Rabbit in the Moon, which was part memoir and part documentary, and the film’s PBS website asked viewers to contemplate the relationship between memory and history. Emiko Omori was only eighteen months old when she was interned. The film discussed how Emiko, with the help of her older sister Chizu, came to remember and understand what happened to her family during the war, and why her mother died of bleeding ulcers less than one year after leaving camp. The film’s interactive website invited visitors to watch video clips from the film and respond with their own personal histories. Visitors were urged to reflect on how we “rewrite memory much as history is rewritten” and on how chapters of our history come from stories told to us rather than from our own memories. The site also provided more detailed information about individuals in the film, in addition to educational resources, classroom lesson plans, and a message board. Posting viewer responses, the website encouraged an ongoing discussion of the documentary. Many praised the film for providing fresh insight into internment. Several expressed surprise and admiration at the history of resistance. A few Japanese Americans criticized the film’s portrayal of the JACL. EA, a Sansei, praised the film but wished “JACL

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representatives had been asked to participate in the documentary so that their view was represented.” Former JACL national director Karl Nobuyuki denounced Rabbit in the Moon, saying it presented a “gross distortion of the facts” that failed to provide a JACL response to its critics or a sense of “the climate, hysteria and actions of that time.” Nobuyuki must have been frustrated by the response of twelve-year-old Erin Pullen, who thought the film helped her understand what Japanese Americans experienced during the war. Pullen wrote that she had “studied this part of American history, but had not heard it from this perspective, someone in the circle of it all.” Watching Rabbit in the Moon exposed her to “someone experiencing all the sadness, anger, and new hopes.”  Pullen’s comment illustrated how films can have a powerful impact on historical consciousness. Numerous documentaries have been produced since the 1980s that offer a variety of views of the history of internment. Many of these films have been directed by Sansei and provide new perspectives on the meaning and legacy of the wartime incarceration. For example, Steven Okazaki’s 1986 documentary, Unfinished Business, portrayed how court challengers Fred Korematsu, Gordon Hirabayashi, and Minoru Yasui reopened their cases and vacated their wartime convictions. Okazaki then won the 1990 Academy Award for Best Documentary Short. His Days of Waiting told the story of Estelle Ishigo, a white woman who refused to be separated from her Nisei husband while he was interned. The film displayed Ishigo’s role in preserving a history of daily life at the Heart Mountain camp through her drawings, sketches, and paintings. It also recounted how she and her husband struggled to find work after leaving camp, how she lost her husband to cancer, and then lost her legs to gangrene before a former Heart Mountain internee found her living in dire poverty in 1984. Lise Yasui was nominated for an Oscar in 1989. Her short documentary, Family Gathering, began as a thesis project as part of her studies at Temple University. Using home movies, photographs, and interviews with relatives, Yasui documented her own attempt to understand the history of her family and the experiences of her grandfather Masuo Yasui. But as she interviewed family members, including her uncle Minoru Yasui, she began to realize that they had different recollections. Exploring why people remember certain experiences and forget others, the film ultimately revealed a family secret and forced Yasui to reevaluate what she had thought she remembered about her grandfather.

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Like Family Gathering, other films by Sansei shed light on the problem of recovering and interpreting the past. Janice Tanaka’s 1992 film, Who’s Going to Pay for These Donuts Anyway? documented the filmmaker’s search for a father she had not seen since she was three. Her father had been arrested by the FBI for opposing internment, and he was ultimately diagnosed a schizophrenic. In the course of the film, Tanaka found her father living in a halfway house for the chronically mentally ill in Los Angeles’ Skid Row. In the 1991 documentary History and Memory: For Akiko and Takeshige, filmmaker Rea Tajiri juxtaposed Hollywood images, World War II propaganda, family stories, interviews, memorabilia, and a camp pilgrimage to reconstruct a history she had never experienced and that her mother couldn’t remember. Depicting history as a puzzle that required grappling with forgetfulness, distortion, and uncertainty, the film posed more questions than answers about the process of remembering and representing the past. It is hoped that Sansei filmmakers might have an influence on the depictions of internment in Hollywood motion pictures. Film studios need to move beyond the portrayal of internment as an inspiring ordeal that tests the romance between a Japanese American woman and a white man. Alan Parker’s 1991 Come See the Paradise and Scott Hicks’s 1999 Snow Falling on Cedars provided moving images of internment but focused on how the experience affected a white protagonist. Come See the Paradise presented the story of Jack McGurn, played by Dennis Quaid, who had to cope with the internment of his Nisei wife, Lily, played by Tamlyn Tomita. Using former internees as historical consultants, Parker effectively replicated camp conditions down to the barracks, guard tower, and dust. The film explored conflicting responses to the incarceration by showing one of Lily’s brothers joining the army and another becoming a “No-No” protester. But these promising characters were given little screen time so that the film could concentrate on showing McGurn’s outrage at American racism and his efforts to sustain Lily and her family through the ordeal. In Snow Falling on Cedars, an adaptation of David Guterson’s best-selling novel, internment tore apart childhood sweethearts Ishmael and Hatsue, played by Ethan Hawke and Youki Kudoh. Hicks provided an incredibly moving scene of Hatsue and the other Japanese Americans being forced from their homes by armed soldiers. Hatsue was sent to an internment camp where she married Kazuo Miyamoto, played by Rick Yune. Later,

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Kazuo was accused of murder, and Ishmael, who became a reporter, covered the trial. But almost every scene in the film revolved around Ishmael’s obsession with his lost love. Therefore, very little was revealed about the experiences of Hatsue or Kazuo. One can only hope that future Hollywood films will display greater faith in the ability of audiences to identify with a Japanese American character.

Internment Site Preservation What sources will future generations use to learn about the history of internment? Before the late 1960s, very few books included the diverse perspectives of Japanese American internees. Works by government officials, scholars, and Japanese American community leaders emphasized cooperation and patriotism. In the 1970s and 1980s, revisionist scholars and community activists began to document a history of internee suffering and resistance. In the past decade, new research has shed light on the perspectives of women, children, and renunciants as well as the Issei and Japanese Latin Americans interned in Department of Justice camps. Few sources, however, attempt to provide much of a comparative analysis of the camps. But the federal government is in the process of creating a resource that will help the public explore, study, and compare the history of the ten WRA camps. In 1992 Congress established the Manzanar National Historic Site to protect the historical, cultural, and natural resources associated with Japanese American internment. As part of this effort, in 1999 the Department of the Interior (DOI) published a report describing the condition of the other internment sites. President Clinton directed the secretary of the interior to follow up on this report by developing recommendations to protect and develop the existing internment facilities. Moreover, the DOI was to create proposals to improve public education about internment. Perhaps most remarkable about this effort was that the comprehensive report was to be developed “in consultation with members of Congress, States, Tribes, local officials, and other interested parties.”  This is an extremely ambitious project but the involvement of numerous national and local groups, and consultation with individuals who can provide diverse expertise in the history of internment gives one hope that the DOI will succeed in its mission of “ensuring that this period in American history is never forgotten.” 

Epilogue The Legacy of Japanese American Internment and Redress

The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 heralded a new age of public apologies throughout the world. Germany’s 1952 Luxembourg Agreements, which provided monetary compensation for Holocaust victims, had long been cited as a model of successful reparations campaigns. However, the passage of Japanese American redress ushered in a veritable flurry of acknowledgments by political and religious leaders of a variety of historical transgressions in North and South America, Europe, Asia, Australia, and Africa. The long list of injustices included colonialism, racism, stolen land, genocide, war crimes, and political persecution. There were countless statements of regret, requests for forgiveness, payments of reparations, and acts of atonement. By 1990 East German lawmakers had ended four decades of denying responsibility for the Holocaust. In 1995 Tomiichi Murayama, Japan’s prime minister, expressed “feelings of deep remorse” and a “heartfelt apology” for victims of Japanese colonialism during World War II. That same year Pope John Paul II asked for “forgiveness for the wrongs inflicted on nonCatholics” during the sixteenth-century Counter-Reformation, and South Africa established a Truth and Reconciliation Commission that brought together perpetrators and victims of abuses under apartheid. In 1997 President Bill Clinton told eight African American male survivors of the Tuskegee Syphilis Study that the government’s role in withholding penicillin treatment “was shameful and I am sorry.” A short time later British prime minister Tony Blair apologized for British indifference to the Irish potato famine of the 1840s. Noting this trend, USA Today declared in 1997 that we were “living in an era of apologies.”  435

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Why were so many government officials eager to acknowledge historical oppression in political speeches, legislative resolutions, diplomatic correspondence, and commemorative ceremonies? Historian Elazar Barkan attributed the politics of restitution to the global scale of modern life and a new international emphasis on morality. Individuals and groups could take advantage of new information technologies and media outlets to document and publicize far more widely than before their claims of victimization. With these claims reaching many more eyes and ears, it became difficult for national leaders to ignore evidence of past injustices. At the same time, political leaders felt compelled to display a heightened sensitivity to the historical grievances of neighboring countries as they cultivated international partnerships and economic trade agreements. The recognition of national guilt was a small price to pay for developing global alliances and economic resources. The proliferation of campaigns for apologies and reparations also reflected a new consciousness on the part of historical victims and their descendants that their demands for justice be heard and addressed. “We are at one of those moments,” Robert Weyeneth explained, “when the meaning of history is being vigorously debated and renegotiated, not just by professional historians but by the public in popular forums.”  Revisionism was no longer just the province of scholars as individuals and groups challenged the historical record with personal memories and new historical research. As more accounts of historical oppression and successful redress efforts were provided by the news media, popular press, and Internet, more victims were inspired to share their stories of suffering and pursue public campaigns for their losses.

Other Campaigns for Redress The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 had a direct impact on numerous redress efforts. Declaring, “I’ve always said if they pay the Japanese, they should pay us,” Woodrow W. Bussey filed a lawsuit against the government for forcing his Cherokee ancestors onto the Trail of Tears in 1883. Bussey filed his suit in U.S. District Court on August 7, 1988, three days before Reagan signed the Civil Liberties Act. The Florida legislature emulated the model of Japanese American redress when it assumed responsibility for failing to prevent in 1923 a white mob’s

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destruction of Rosewood, a prosperous African American community. Each of the nine survivors was awarded $150,000 in 1995. In 1999 board members of the National Coalition of Blacks for Reparations of America, Imari A. Obadele, Kuratibisha X. Ali Rashid, and Kalonji Olusegun, filed a lawsuit based on the Civil Liberties Act and declared that “descendants of slaves were similarly in need of reparations based upon the government’s failure to allow blacks to exercise their ‘political selfdetermination’ following the abolition of slavery.”  In a Black Manifesto, Randall Robinson cited Japanese American redress as an example of the “principle that reparations is the appropriate remedy whenever a government unjustly abrogates the rights of a domestic group or foreign people whose rights such government is obligated to protect.”  Extrapolating from the Japanese American precedent, sociologist Richard Rene Laremont calculated that if twenty million descendants of slaves were each paid $20,000, the total cost would be $400 billion. Yet at the same time that Japanese American redress had inspired several campaigns for an apology and reparations for slavery, none of these efforts had garnered much public support. Representative John Conyers, a Democrat from Michigan, could not even convince Congress to consider a bill to study the effects of slavery. Introduced each year since 1989, H.R. 40, a reference to the forty acres and a mule promised to freed slaves, was patterned after the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians. It failed to reach the House floor. Summarily dismissed by opponents was the simple one-sentence resolution proposed in 1997 by Congressman Tony Hall, a white Democrat from Ohio. It stated that “Congress apologizes to African-Americans whose ancestors suffered as slaves under the Constitution and the laws of the United States until 1865.”  Even President Bill Clinton, who was sometimes ridiculed for his fondness for public apologies, refused to support slavery compensation. He apologized for the Truman administration’s role in allowing the Swiss to keep hundreds of millions of dollars in treasure stolen from Holocaust victims. Clinton even compensated victims of radiation experiments conducted during the Eisenhower administration. But during a 1997 visit to Uganda, President Clinton could muster little more than an expression of “regret” that “European-Americans received the fruits of the slave trade.” When asked why he wouldn’t support slavery reparations, he explained, “It’s been so long and we’re so many generations removed.”

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Clinton’s response reflected a common problem African American redress activists encountered. Japanese American redress provided a relatively small amount to a limited number of survivors who directly experienced well-documented discrimination. Opponents of African American reparations dismissed parallels made between the campaigns because in the case of Japanese Americans “the victims themselves were compensated for quantifiable, provable suffering at the hands of an identifiable perpetrator, the United States government.”  Rejecting the idea that one can determine the effects of slavery on later generations, reparations opponents posed a number of problematic questions. Who would decide on fair compensation, who would qualify, and who would pay the potentially enormous bill? If we provided reparations for slavery, shouldn’t we also pay Native Americans, Hawaiians, Mexicans, and the descendants of other victims of U.S. policies? Where would it all end? Wasn’t it time to focus on the future rather than the past? Hadn’t we learned from the Balkans that dwelling on racial tension is not only divisive but also dangerous? Didn’t dredging up this history promote a sense of victimhood that might prevent the African American community from addressing current problems? Underlying the last question was the assumption by opponents that African Americans would rather complain about past injustices than show some initiative or take responsibility for their current situation. Reparations critics promoted an implicit contrast between the “model minority” image of patriotic and hardworking Japanese Americans and depictions of “undeserving” African American militants. But as the campaign for African American reparations grew to include prominent advocates such as defense attorney Johnnie Cochran and Harvard law professor Charles Ogletree, it received more favorable publicity and therefore began to gain credibility with the public. The issue continued to maintain a high profile because of a series of class-action lawsuits filed between March 2002 and June 2003. These suits targeted nineteen American companies from the banking, insurance, textile, transportation, and tobacco industries for profiting from unpaid slave labor or the slave trade. The cases were consolidated into a single case and dismissed in federal court in 2004 when U.S. District Judge Charles Norgle ruled that the plaintiffs had established no clear link to the nineteen companies and that their claims were barred by the statute of limitations.  A few Japanese Americans endorsed these campaigns. William Hohri, of the National Council for Japanese American Redress (NCJAR), declared

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that Japanese Americans “ought to support the current efforts to secure an apology from the U.S.” for “our history of slavery, Jim Crow, and continued failure to achieve racial equality for black Americans.”  The National Coalition for Redress/Reparations (NCRR) sponsored workshops addressing the arguments and methods for obtaining African American redress. Declaring that African American reparations are “not only appropriate but necessary,” law professor Eric K. Yamamoto explained how the “racial harms to African Americans” had “wounded the American polity” and “grated on America’s sense of morality.” According to Yamamoto, reparations for African Americans “conceived as repair, can also help mend this larger tear in the social fabric for the benefit of blacks, Latinos, Native Americans, Asian Americans as well as mainstream white America.”  Will more Japanese Americans play a role in these and other campaigns for redress? What lessons from the history of internment and redress will they promote for the rest of the world? In 1997 redress activists were asked to write about the “legacy of Japanese American redress” for a conference on the movement. Their diverse assessments of redress reflected the different views of American government and race relations that had shaped the movement itself. The “successful pursuit of redress” convinced Hitoshi Kajihara, of the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL), that “the US government will never again commit” an “unjust wholesale incarceration of any ethnic minority.” Kajihara declared, “In an ironic way, the ethnic minority Japanese Americans was the ‘chosen one’ upon whom injustice was inflicted but also provide the opportunity to ‘write a sentence’ in the evolution of US history toward a ‘more perfect union.’” The JACL activist Fred Hirasuna agreed that redress “restores our faith in the US and what the Constitution really means.” Bill Hosokawa, however, “would not credit Redress with making a profound impact either on the J-A community or the greater American community.” A JACL leader and a journalist, Hosokawa noted that there was a lot of media coverage of the ceremony in which the first redress checks were presented. “But news events,” Hosokawa proclaimed, “generally are one-day sensations, and what was published day before yesterday is forgotten today except for earthshaking events like the attack on Pearl Harbor.” But other Japanese Americans were determined to remind the public of the history of internment and redress. Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga wasn’t as optimistic as Kajihara and Hirasuna about the government’s treatment of

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other minorities. The NCJAR supporter hoped the “blatantly racial discrimination visited upon JAs will sensitize them to the struggles of other minorities who suffer indignities and prejudice at the hands of the government.” Chizu Iiyama, a veteran of JACL and NCRR campaigns, wrote that “whether it’s war, or civil unrest, or economic problems, people look for scapegoats.” Believing that racial discrimination “has always been a part of American life,” Iiyama worried that redress would not deter other acts of injustice. Iiyama noted, “Today it’s the immigrants; yesterday it was the Arabs during the first Persian Gulf war, or the protesters at the time of the Vietnam War.” The legacy of redress, Iiyama declared, should be a commitment to “work with other groups within and outside of the JA community for civil rights.” Even before the passage of redress legislation, some Japanese Americans expressed solidarity with other groups fearing internment or demanding redress. In 1982 Clifford Uyeda began urging the JACL to support Navajos who refused to comply with government orders to leave the Big Mountain area of Arizona after the 1974 Relocation Act gave the land to the Hopis. The NCRR held a rally in 1986 condemning the government’s forced relocation of ten thousand Navajos because the organization saw “ugly similarities between what is happening to the Navajo in 1986, and what happened to 120,000 Japanese Americans in 1942.”  More Japanese Americans joined other redress efforts after the passage of the Civil Liberties Act in 1988. Some campaigned on behalf of the twentytwo hundred Japanese Latin Americans who were interned by the U.S. government but were excluded from the act because they were not citizens or legal residents during the war. In 1996 the NCRR joined the ACLU of Southern California and the Japanese Peruvian Oral History Project to form the coalition Campaign for Justice: Redress Now for Japanese Latin Americans. Although the government settled the Mochizuki v. United States lawsuit in 1998 by offering Japanese Latin American internees $5,000 each, many activists wanted the same redress compensation presented to Japanese American internees. Seventeen rejected the settlement and proceeded with litigation. More than 500 Japanese Latin Americans were denied even the $5,000 amount when the $1.65 billion fund set aside to provide redress was depleted. The Campaign for Justice unsuccessfully tried to sue the government for “breach of fiduciary duty” for failing to invest these funds in interest-bearing

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government bonds. Congress, however, later authorized an additional $4.3 million in payments. The Campaign for Justice convinced Congressman Xavier Becerra, from Los Angeles, to introduce new legislation in 2000. This legislation sought to provide Japanese Latin American internees, and others denied redress because of technicalities, the same compensation awarded to Japanese American internees. The bill failed to pass. Therefore, in 2006 Congressman Becerra and Senator Daniel Inouye attempted to establish the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Latin Americans of Japanese Descent. This federal commission would study the wartime violations committed by the U.S. government against Japanese Latin Americans and make recommendations for appropriate remedies. This legislation also failed to move forward but was targeted to be reintroduced in 2007. Supporters of the commission clearly hoped that this investigative body would emulate the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians that recommended an apology and compensation for Japanese Americans. In 2003 Japanese Peruvian internees and the Japanese Peruvian Oral History Project filed a petition with the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, a subset of the Organization of American States. The petition asked for “equitable redress” from the U.S. government for “war crimes and crimes against humanity.”  Japanese Americans also have participated in the Hawaiian sovereignty movement. In 1984 the JACL passed a resolution to support the movement. This was reaffirmed by resolutions in 1986, 1992, and 2000. The JACL chapter in Honolulu held several educational workshops on sovereignty issues. However, Office of Hawaiian Affairs trustee Mililani Trask accused the JACL and Senator Daniel Inouye of not providing enough support for Hawaii’s native population and even called the senator a “one-armed bandit.”  Inouye cosponsored federal legislation that provided an official government apology to Hawaii in 1993, but the legislation never specified the return of any land or resources to Native Hawaiians. Resolutions offered by the JACL supported the concept of sovereignty; however, these also failed to mention land or resources. Then in February 2000, Ida Yoshinaga and Eiko Kosasa criticized Inouye and the JACL, and they announced that twenty Japanese American women in Hawaii had formed a Japanese Women for Justice group to support Mililani Trask and the struggle for sovereignty. In an article in the Honolulu Advertiser, the women noted that Trask and other

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Native Hawaiians had supported Japanese American redress and declared, “Now it is our turn to do the same for Native Hawaiians.”  Japanese Americans sparked controversy within the community also by supporting redress claims for victims of the Japanese government. Some members of the community feared that bringing up Japanese atrocities from World War II would inspire racist attacks against Japanese Americans. But other Japanese Americans argued that the redress movement was a human rights campaign and that Japanese Americans have a duty to help all victims of oppression. In the 1980s and 1990s, the JACL’s Clifford Uyeda and NCRR activists participated in several programs that protested Japanese discrimination against Korean residents living in Japan. This racism was a legacy of the Japanese colonization of Korea. In one such effort in 1999, California assemblyman Mike Honda, a former internee and redress activist, sponsored resolution A.J.R. 27. The legislation called on Japan to apologize and pay compensation to victims of the “atrocious war crimes committed by the Japanese military during World War II.” The list of victims included the Chinese subjected to the “rape of Nanking,” Asian sexual slaves, prisoners of war, and civilians internees. Fellow assemblyman George Nakano opposed the resolution and argued that Asian Americans shouldn’t become involved in the affairs of a foreign government. Nakano told a reporter that Honda’s resolution played into “the very reason we were put into camps— because people couldn’t make a distinction between Japanese Americans and the Japanese government.”  But when the resolution was approved, Honda was praised by Asian Americans active in groups like the Global Alliance for Preserving the History of World War II in Asia, an umbrella group of about thirty organizations. The Rape of Nanking Redress Committee, a San Francisco area group cochaired by Clifford Uyeda, also commended Honda for his bravery in leading the campaign for A.J.R. 27. Many of these activists hoped the legislation, which also called on the U.S. Congress to “take appropriate action to bring about a formal apology and reparations” by Japan, would invigorate the movement for redress from Japan. Honda continued his campaign to win redress for World War II victims of Japan after he was elected to the U.S. Congress. The redress legislation he introduced did not move forward but the publicity surrounding the campaign educated the public about the suffering of wartime victims of Japan.

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Many of the groups seeking redress from Japan have cited or based their claims on the Civil Liberties Act of 1988. For example, in 1995 a POW suit was filed in Tokyo district court by the Miami-based Center for Internee Rights. The suit asked for an apology and individual compensation of $22,000 from the Japanese government. This and other suits by POWs and forced laborers were dismissed by Japanese courts because of rulings that all wartime compensation issues were resolved in 1951 with the signing of the San Francisco Peace Treaty.

Can Internment Happen Again? After terrorist hijackers attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon on September 11, 2001, the history of Japanese American internment and redress assumed new relevance for all Americans. Would Middle Easterners be subjected to the same discrimination Japanese Americans experienced during World War II? Would civil liberties be again sacrificed in the name of national security? Would the country forget the injustice of internment during another national crisis? Was it possible that after issuing an apology and redress to Japanese Americans the U.S. government might even consider reviving internment camps based on ethnicity or race? Or had in fact the history of Japanese American internment and redress taught Americans to condemn racist hysteria and reaffirm a commitment to tolerance, civil rights, and equality? The jury is still out. Even before Americans watched in horror as two planes crashed into the Twin Towers, Japanese Americans had participated in protests against government treatment of Arab Americans. More than ten years earlier, the National Coalition for Redress/Reparations, which changed its name to Nikkei for Civil Rights and Redress, sponsored programs providing information on discriminatory policies against Middle Easterners during the 1980s. At a 1990 workshop on Internment and the Constitution, John Ota remembered the calls by Senator S. I. Hayakawa to round up Iranian students during the 1980 Iranian hostage crisis. Ota warned workshop attendees that “racism is still a problem,” “hysteria is still possible,” and “we cannot let our guard down.”  Khader Hamide then told workshop participants about how, at the time of the crisis, the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) attempted

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to deport him and other Palestinian immigrants after deciding they posed a threat to national security. The government had suspected Hamide and the other members of the “L.A. Eight” were affiliated with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, a militant faction of the Palestine Liberation Organization. News articles were distributed revealing how the L.A. Eight was targeted by the INS after a ten-month FBI investigation failed to provide any evidence of terrorist activities. When no proof of terrorism was found, the government charged the immigrants under the McCarran Act with “membership or affiliation with an organization that distributes literature that advocates world wide communism.” Deportation proceedings were initiated in 1987. The group battled with the government for three years before a judge declared the rationale for deportation to be unconstitutional. Hamide thanked the NCRR for its support and said he would never forget the sight of former internees carrying signs at rallies declaring, “Don’t repeat the 1942 experience with Japanese Americans with the Arab community.”  Also at the workshop, Hamide described the activities of the Alien Border Control Committee (ABC Committee) during the 1980s. The ABC Committee had been established by the Department of Justice in May 1986 to concentrate the government’s “counterterrorism efforts against particular nationalities or groups” from “states known to support terrorism.” Memos from the ABC revealed plans to hold suspected immigrants at a Louisiana detention camp. Congressman Norman Mineta protested the creation of this camp to incarcerate “certain nationalities for vague national security reasons” when he testified before a House subcommittee in 1987. In 1992 Mineta told the House floor that FBI interrogations of Arab Americans suspected of being “alleged terrorists” during the Gulf War made it clear “that the attitudes and the prejudices that led to internment are still with us.”  The JACL and NCRR also denounced these FBI interrogations of Arab nationals, immigrants, and Arab American citizens during the Gulf War. Sansei activists were particularly impassioned about protesting the harassment of Arab Americans. At a press conference, Susan Hayase, chair of the Nihonmachi Outreach Committee, declared that the FBI should be protecting Arab Americans from unprovoked attacks rather than publicly targeting them and “casting unwarranted suspicion on Arab American businessmen and community leaders who have nothing to do with ter-

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rorism.” Declaring that the “atmosphere today is frighteningly similar” to 1942, Hayase proclaimed: One thing, luckily has changed since then. In 1942, Japanese Americans felt very alone, and those who dared to defend us were few in number. In 1991, we want Arab Americans and Muslims to know that Japanese Americans will not stand idly by while they are persecuted. For those of us who have fought so long and hard for redress, this is a matter of principle and honor that we cannot and will not ignore.

Few other Americans, however, paid any attention to government counterterrorism policies before 9-11. After the attacks, many Americans seemed more concerned about preventing future terrorist attacks than they were about protecting the rights of Arab Americans. In the immediate aftermath, poll results even suggested that Americans might have been receptive to the revival of internment camps. On September 24 the Associated Press reported the results of a Siena College Research Institute poll. Conducted between September 12 and 19, the poll asked New York–area residents, “Would you favor establishing internment camps in the United States for individuals who authorities identify as being sympathetic to terrorist causes?” Thirty-five percent of those polled in New York City and thirtyfour percent of those in the rest of the state answered yes. Twenty-nine percent of the respondents to a Pew Research Center survey, conducted between September 13 and 17, would allow “the US government to take legal immigrants from unfriendly governments to internment camps during times of tension or crisis.” A surprisingly large group was also willing to suspend the rights of citizens who came under suspicion by the government. A Time–CNN poll conducted on September 27 found that 31 percent of Americans would “allow the Federal Government to hold Arabs who are US citizens in camps until it can be determined whether they have links to terrorist organizations.”  However, Secretary of Transportation Norman Mineta tried to reassure the country that Arab Americans would not be targeted by the government. The very fact that a former Japanese American internee, redress leader, and defender of Arab Americans during the Gulf War, not to mention a Democratic congressman, had been appointed to President George W. Bush’s cabinet was an indication that race relations had clearly changed since World War II. Appearing at the University of Rochester in New York,

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one month after the attack, Mineta acknowledged that “one of the greatest dangers that we will face as a country during this crisis” was “the danger that in looking for the enemy we may strike out against our own friends and neighbors.” Yet Mineta was proud that “every act of violence and discrimination has been countered by multiple acts of friendship and respect.” And he gave this account of the president’s meeting with Arab American and Muslim leaders: But there is one moment that will always stand out in my mind—and that was when the President of the United States, President George W. Bush, walked through the door of a mosque in Washington, D.C., to meet with Arab American and Muslim American leaders. He told them that he understood who our enemy truly is—an isolated group of violent cowardly extremists. And he told them who our enemy most emphatically is not—the millions of loyal and honorable Arab and Muslim Americans who call this nation home, and the hundreds of millions of true followers of the Islamic faith around the world.

Mineta could not help but wonder “whether history might have been different” if President Roosevelt had “taken a similar step” during World War II. But other Americans disparaged Mineta’s concern for Arab American rights. Karina Rollins wrote an article in the journal American Enterprise critical of Mineta. The transportation secretary had commented on the CBS television news program 60 Minutes that elderly white women and young Muslim men should be treated basically the same at airport security gates. Rollins agreed with William Lind, of the Free Congress Foundation, that the “same government that wants to invade Iraq is too intimidated by political correctness to provide homeland security by profiling terrorists.” Agreeing that “racial profiling isn’t the answer,” Rollins insisted that “terrorist profiling is” and “that means being wary of young Arab-looking men.” This kind of reasoning alarmed defenders of Arab Americans and critics of the Bush administration’s policies toward suspected terrorists. Few feared a resurrection of the overtly racist rationale embodied by DeWitt’s World War II proclamation that “a Jap is a Jap.” Many were confident that despite the emotional poll responses taken right after the attacks, Americans would not support a mass incarceration of all citizens and immigrants of Arab ancestry.

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But might our fear of future attacks lead us to accept government profiling of suspected terrorists based on little more than ethnic or religious affiliations? Could our desire to prevent terrorism lead us to turn a blind eye when the government rounds up Arab Americans and Muslims without providing evidence of actual links to terrorist activities? Would we let the government arrest and detain such individuals until they could prove their innocence? Are we more concerned about protecting our security than we are our civil rights? Critics of the Bush administration have effectively argued that the war on terrorism has created arrest, detention, and deportation policies based on little more than ethnic and religious criteria. In the weeks following the attacks, the Department of Justice announced that approximately twelve hundred Muslim and Arab “suspected terrorists,” had been arrested and were being interrogated. Instead of charging individuals with direct links to the terrorists, the government decided to hold hundreds of suspects, the majority from Pakistan and Egypt, for immigration violations such as overstaying temporary visas. On September 20, 2001, the INS issued an order allowing for detentions of indeterminate length during periods of “emergency or other extraordinary circumstances.” In other words, the government could hold these people for as long as it deemed necessary to ensure that they were not terrorists. Such policies reminded Jane Brunner, the then vice mayor of Oakland, California, of the treatment of Japanese Americans during World War II. In a letter to the San Francisco Chronicle, she expressed concern over this return to “discriminating against a group of people because of how they look and what countries they come from.” Brunner proclaimed: Today, 1,200 foreigners have been swept up in a dragnet and held for days, weeks, and even months in prison. Only ten to fifteen of these are suspected of being Al Qaeda sympathizers. The government will not even release the names of the people detained. Friends are afraid to help them because if they inquire about them, they themselves might be detained. If and when detainees get to speak to attorneys, they cannot get fair representation because these conversations are taped . . . Let’s stop using noncitizens as scapegoats.

Japanese Americans also warned against blaming Arab and Muslim Americans for an attack by a few extremists. The NCRR initiated a candle-

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f i g u r e 2 4 . Lillian Nakano, who spoke at the candlelight vigil in L.A.’s Little Tokyo for the victims of 9-11 and the protection of civil liberties. Courtesy of Lillian Nakano.

light vigil in Los Angeles’ Little Tokyo a few weeks after 9-11 to pay tribute to the victims and remind the public to protect the civil liberties of Middle Eastern Americans. Richard Katsuda, cochair of the Los Angeles NCRR, explained that the event was a way for the Japanese American community to come together to say we feel the sorrow and want to remember what happened to the victims on September 11. At the same time we feel that, as the Japanese American community, we know all too well what happens during times of crises—war hysteria and all—and we felt it was very important for us to speak out . . . We also want to embrace the Muslim and Arab American community and let them know we feel their pain and we want to do whatever we can do to join with them to counter possible hate crimes or scapegoating that might result.

In a speech delivered at the vigil, Lillian Nakano noted, “One of the important points during our struggle for redress and reparations” was to

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“make sure ‘it never happens again’ to any group of people.” Consequently, Japanese Americans who “experienced that hatred and incarceration” had a “responsibility to speak out against it at every opportunity.” Nakano explained, “By doing so, we can help to make our country and our government more sensitive and responsive in the treatment of Arab and Muslim Americans, and for that matter, to any group of people who may be singled out unjustly because of their skin color or religious belief.”  In the weeks that followed 9-11, the roundups of Arab Americans made Teresa Watanabe remember how her grandfather had been arrested and detained right after Pearl Harbor. Following 9-11, her sister had described their grandfather, Yoshitaka Watanabe, to a Japanese American carpenter, who researched as a hobby the detention of Japanese “enemy aliens” in camps run by the Department of Justice. He then gave the family a 132-page file he obtained through the Freedom of Information Act. The file revealed that the FBI had arrested Teresa’s grandfather, a fruit and vegetable dealer at Pike Place Market on Seattle’s waterfront, because he subscribed to Sokoku (“Motherland”) magazine. He was kept from his family in a separate detention camp for nearly two years. Upon investigation, Teresa discovered that the magazine labeled subversive during the war had no substantive links to the Japanese war effort. It was probably placed on the attorney general’s list because its title was seen to promote Japanese nationalism. After learning that FBI agents didn’t read or speak Japanese, Teresa Watanabe questioned “how our government deprived my grandfather of his freedom for so long based on such faulty intelligence.” She also wondered whether today’s intelligence was any more reliable. Ironically, however, Watanabe’s Auntie Kim, who had denounced the “unnecessary feelings of shame inflicted on my father and my family” during her 1981 commission testimony, supported the government’s roundup policies now. Watanabe’s Auntie Joy agreed with Auntie Kim, saying, “I don’t feel it’s right to do this exactly but it almost has to be done to protect the country.” This acceptance of policies by the elder Watanabes similar to ones that had once victimized their own family struck Teresa, causing her to wonder what “we remember” and “what we learn” from the past. For Rev. Greg Kimura, the lessons of Japanese American internment were very clear. The president of the JACL’s Alaska chapter told readers of the Anchorage Daily News that, as Muslim and Arab Americans came under

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attack, Japanese Americans needed to remember the commission’s indictment of “wartime hysteria, racial prejudice, and lack of political leadership” during World War II. He emphasized, “Memory reminds us of America’s shame. In times of conflict, we often turn on ourselves. We take out our fears, usually on the most vulnerable amongst us, in hopes that it will make us more secure. It doesn’t.” Kimura hoped that we would not “fight for equality, right and freedom overseas but then trade these values away at home.” Other critics of United States policy would argue that these values already have been undermined. Stephen J. Schulhofer denounced Department of Justice claims that the policy of refusing to release the names of detainees would give the “terrorists’ cohorts clues about the progress of the investigation.” Since all detainees have the right to make phone calls, and gag orders were not issued, Schulhofer noted that detainees who really were terrorists “could easily signal their confederates.” Such secrecy, Schulhofer declared, “without any obligation to present case-specific reasons for it in court,” had less to do with the war on terrorism than “with the administration’s consistent efforts, firmly in place before 9-11, to insulate executive action from public scrutiny.” The “cumulative effect of these efforts,” Schulhofer concluded, was an “unprecedented degree of power—an attempt simultaneously to cut off the right to counsel or judicial review and any ability of the press to report what happens to individuals arrested on U.S. soil.”  A report released in June 2003 by Inspector General Glenn A. Fine, of the Department of Justice, also criticized these violations of due process and provided some consolation to government critics. Fine found that during the investigation, the government made little effort to distinguish fingered terrorist suspects from the 762 caught by chance because of immigration violations. The inspector general acknowledged that many suspects were jailed for months without being charged or given access to lawyers. Fine especially condemned the harsh treatment of eighty-four detainees at the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn. At the center, one corrections officer confirmed that inmates were slammed against walls before their statements were videotaped. Further, inmates were housed in brightly lit cells around the clock and were routinely asked, “Are you OK?” in lieu of being granted their legal right to a telephone call. After the report was released, Attorney General John Ashcroft told a House Judiciary Committee that “we make no apologies” for holding suspects as long as necessary to determine whether they had links to terrorism. Even though none of the 762 suspects were charged as terrorists, and these

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policies would not have prevented the actions of the actual 9-11 terrorists, who were legal immigrants, Ashcroft insisted that “we must be unrelenting” and “not forget that Al Qaeda’s primary terrorist target is the United States of America.” What’s more, Ashcroft requested greater powers to track and pursue illegal immigrants who were suspected terrorists and urged Congress to allow authorities to detain suspects without bond before trial. Ashcroft’s consistent position that he was right to detain noncitizens until he was convinced that they did not pose a risk as terrorists outraged David Cole, a law professor at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. About a year after the attacks, writing in the Nation, Cole indicted such policies as calling “8,000 foreigners in for interviews based solely on the fact that they were recent male immigrants from Arab countries,” making “the deportation of Arabs a priority,” and planning “to impose fingerprinting, registration and reporting requirements selectively on noncitizens from a handful of Arab nations.” Cole also denounced the provisions of the USA PATRIOT Act, enacted six weeks after 9-11, aimed at noncitizens. The act, Cole noted, “permits the Attorney General to detain noncitizens on his own say-so, without a hearing; bars foreign citizens from entering the country, based solely on their speech; and authorizes deportation based on any support to a disfavored group, without any requirement that the support be connected to a terrorist act.” Cole warned that President Bush’s creation of military tribunals in November 2001 also threatened the rights of American citizens: The Administration has asserted the authority to detain under military custody two US citizens—Yasser Hamdi, a citizen captured in Afghanistan, and Jose Padilla, arrested at O’Hare Airport in May on suspicion that he might be planning to set off a radioactive “dirty bomb.” The military claims that simply by attaching the label “enemy combatant,” the President can authorize the indefinite, incommunicado incarceration of any US citizen he chooses, without judicial review. Military justice has come home . . . The Wall Street Journal reported in August that high-level Administration officials have advocated even broader reliance on this power, and have suggested creating a special camp to house citizen “enemy combatants.”

Maintaining that the “illusory line between alien and citizen has often been crossed before,” Cole warned that the World War II treatment of all Japanese Americans as “enemy aliens,” . . . “suspicious based solely on their

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group identity,” demonstrated the need to condemn these policies against Arab Americans. In November 2002 Fred Korematsu, Gordon Hirabayashi, and the legal teams that helped overturn their wartime convictions circulated a letter by email calling for the removal of John Ashcroft as attorney general. The group indicated that his policies to “justify the mass internment of ‘suspected terrorists’” were an attempt to “revive” the “ugly precedent” set by the Korematsu, Hirabayashi, and Yasui decisions of 1943 and 1944. The email characterized Ashcroft as a “clear and present danger to the Constitution, to civil rights, and to anyone who chooses to dissent against the Administration’s policies.” Recognizing that “Americans have been reluctant to stand up to Bush and Ashcroft because of the political authority conferred on them by the tragic events of 9/11,” the group maintained that “silence now is the same silence which allowed Japanese Americans to go to prison with only a few isolated dissents.”  Could Ashcroft be reined in by such protests or by the influence of other administration officials such as Norman Mineta? Or could another attack lead Americans to endorse Ashcroft’s proposals to detain illegal immigrants and intern citizens deemed “enemy combatants” until they are cleared of links to terrorists? It is hoped that in the coming weeks, months, and years, the nation remembers the tragic mistake its government made during World War II when it presumed guilt based on ethnic background without actual evidence of an individual’s dangerous behavior. Perhaps more Americans will agree with people like Rev. C. Nozomi Ikuta, of the United Church of Christ in Cleveland, when she proclaimed that “our civil liberties are really protected only to the extent that we are willing to struggle to defend them.” In her article “Another Lesson of War,” she further declared to the readers of the Plain Dealer: The internment of Japanese Americans was truly a shameful chapter in American history. The suffering of my family and other members of my community, however, will not be wholly in vain, if our nation is able to learn a lesson from this sad chapter of American history. We must write a better, more just story for our future—a story in which the wrongs of the past are rights, the rights of all are protected and we seek to take our place within—not over or against—a united family of nations.

Reference Matter

Notes

i n t r oduc t ion

1. James Omura to Tom Crouch, 12 January 1987, Kiku Hori Funabiki Archive, courtesy of the author. 2. Other scholars have criticized this tendency to romanticize resistance and have called for the recognition that interpretations of resistance reflect the power relations between ethnographers and their informants. See Lila Abu-Lughod, “The Romance of Resistance: Tracing Transformations of Power through Bedouin Women,” American Ethnologist 17 (February 1990): 41–56; and Julian McAllister Groves and Kimberly A. Chang, “Romancing Resistance and Resisting Romance: Ethnography and the Construction of Power in the Filipina Domestic Worker Community in Hong Kong,” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 28, no. 3 (June 1999): 235–38. 3. Akemi Kikumura, “Family Life Histories: A Collaborative Venture,” Oral History Review 14 (1986): 1–7; Valerie Matsumoto, “Notes on Research,” in Farming the Home Place: A Japanese American Community in California, 1919–1982 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 219–24. 4. Chandra Talpade Mohanty, “Cartographies of Struggle: Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism,” in Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism, ed. Chandra Talpade Mohanty, Ann Russo, and Lourdes Torres (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1991), 3. 5. Michel Foucault and Donald F. Bouchard, eds., Language, Counter Memory, Practice (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980), 153–54. 6. Robert F. Berkhofer Jr., Beyond the Great Story: History as Text and Discourse (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 138.

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456 Notes to Introduction 7. Gail Hershatter, Dangerous Pleasures: Prostitution and Modernity in Twentieth-Century Shanghai (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997), 12. 8. Joyce Appleby, Lynn Hunt, and Margaret Jacob, Telling the Truth about History (New York: W. W. Norton, 1994). 9. Maurice Halbwachs, The Collective Memory, trans. Francis J. Ditter and Vida Yazdi Ditter (New York: Harper & Row, 1980). 10. Elizabeth F. Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979); Elizabeth Loftus and Katherine Ketcham, The Myth of Repressed Memory: False Memories and Allegations of Sexual Abuse (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994); William Kaye Estes, “Process of Memory Loss, Recovery and Distortion,” Psychological Review 104, no. 1 (1997): 148–69; James W. Pennebaker, Dario Paez, and Bernard Rime, eds., Collective Memory of Political Events: Social Psychological Perspectives (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1997); Ulric Neisser and Eugene Winograd, eds., Remembering Reconsidered: Ecological and Traditional Approaches to the Study of Memory (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 11. Alessandro Portelli, The Death of Luigi Trastulli and Other Stories: Form and Meaning in Oral History (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), 1–2. 12. Michael Frisch, A Shared Authority: Essays on the Craft and Meaning of Oral and Public History (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990), 188. 13. Pierre Nora, ed., Realms of Memory: The Construction of the French Past, 3 vols. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996–98). 14. David Thelen, ed., introduction to Memory and American History (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), viii. 15. Eric Hobsbawm, introduction to The Invention of Traditions, ed. Eric Hobsbawm and Terrence Ranger (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 2, 9. 16. Commemorations, ed. John R. Gillis (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994). 17. Henry Rousso, The Vichy Syndrome: History and Memory in France since 1944, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991). 18. This vast literature includes Saul Friedlander, Memory, History, and the Extermination of the Jews of Europe (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993); Saul Friedlander, Probing the Limits of Representation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992); Lawrence L. Langer, Holocaust Testimonies: The Ruins of Memory (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1991); Dominick LaCapra, Representing the Holocaust: History, Theory, Trauma (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994); Dominick LaCapra, History and Memory after Auschwitz

Notes to Introduction 457 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998); James Edward Young, The Texture of Memory: Holocaust Memorials and Meaning in Europe, Israel and America (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1993); James Edward Young, Writing and Rewriting the Holocaust: Interpreting Holocaust Narrative (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1988); and Raul Hilberg, Politics of Memory: The Journey of a Holocaust Historian (Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 1996). 19. Edward T. Linenthal, Sacred Ground: Americans and Their Battlefields (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1991). 20. Karal Ann Marling and John Wetenhall, Iwo Jima: Monuments, Memorials, and the American Hero (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991); James W. Loewen, Lies Across America: What Our Historic Sites Get Wrong (New York: New Press, 1999). 21. David W. Blight, “Frederick Douglass and the American Apocalypse,” Civil War History 31 (December 1985): 309–328; David W. Blight, “‘For Something beyond the Battlefield’: Frederick Douglass and the Struggle for the Memory of the Civil War,” in Memory and American History, 27–49; Robert E. McGlone, “Rescripting a Troubled Past: John Brown’s Family and the Harpers Ferry Conspiracy,” in Memory and American History, 50–71; David W. Blight, “Quarrel Forgotten or a Revolution Remembered? Reunion and Race in the Memory of the Civil War, 1875–1913,” in Union and Emancipation: Essays on Politics and Race in the Civil War Era, ed. David W. Blight and Brooks D. Simpson (Kent, OH, and London: Kent State University Press, 1997). 22. Merrill D. Peterson, Lincoln in American Memory (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). See also Merrill D. Peterson, The Jeff ersonian Image in the American Mind (New York: Oxford University Press, 1960). 23. Edward T. Linenthal and Tom Englehardt, eds., History Wars: The Enola Gay and Other Battles for the American Past (New York: Metropolitan Books, 1996); Philip Nobile, ed., Judgment at the Smithsonian (New York: Marlowe, 1995); Laura Hein and Mark Selden, eds., Living with the Bomb: American and Japanese Cultural Conflicts in the Nuclear Age (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1997); Michael J. Hogan, ed., Hiroshima in History and Memory (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Michael Perlman, Imaginal Memory and the Place of Hiroshima (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988). This debate also sparked new interest in the politics of museum exhibitions. See Edward T. Linenthal, Preserving Memory: The Struggle to Create America’s Holocaust Museum (New York: Viking, 1995); and Didier Maleuvre, Museum Memories: History, Technology, Art (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999); Steven C. Dubin, Displays of Power: Memory and Amnesia in the American Museum (New York: New York University Press, 1999); Amy Henderson and Adrienne L. Kaeppler, eds., Exhibiting Dilemmas: Issues of Representation at the Smithsonian

458 Notes to Introduction (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1997); Ivan Karp and Steven D. Lavine, eds., Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991). 24. David R. Farber, Chicago ’68 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988); The Sixties: From Memory to History, ed. David Farber (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1994); John Bodnar, Remaking America: Public Memory, Commemoration, and Patriotism in the Twentieth Century (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 13–20; Marita Sturken, Tangled Memories: The Vietnam War, the AIDS Epidemic, and the Politics of Remembering (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); Michael Schudson, Watergate in American Memory: How We Remember, Forget and Reconstruct the Past (New York: Basic Books, 1992). 25. Michael Omi and Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States from the 1960s to the 1980s (New York: Routledge, 1986); George Lipsitz, Time Passages: Collective Memory and American Popular Culture (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990). 26. Stephen Cornell, “That’s the Story of Our Life,” in We Are a People: Narrative and Multiplicity in Constructing Ethnic Identity, ed. Paul Spickard and W. Jeffrey Burroughs (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000), 44. 27. Roy Rosenzweig and David Thelen, The Presence of the Past: Popular Uses of History in American Life (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998); Genevieve Fabre and Robert O’Meally, eds., History and Memory in African-American Culture (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994); John Bodnar, “Power and Memory in Oral History: Workers and Managers at Studebaker,” in Memory and American History, 72–92; Devra Anne Weber, “Raiz Fuerte: Oral History and Mexicana Farmworkers,” in Unequal Sisters: A Multicultural Reader in U.S. Women’s History, ed. Vicki L. Ruiz and Ellen Carol DuBois, 3rd ed. (New York and London: Routledge, 2000), 395–404. 28. Kathleen Neils Conzen, David A. Gerber, Ewa Morawska, George E. Pozzetta, and Rudolph J. Vecoli, “The Invention of Ethnicity: A Perspective from the U.S.A,” Journal of American Ethnic History 12, no. 1 (Fall 1992): 3–63; John Bodnar, “The Construction of Ethnic Memory,” Remaking America, 41–77; American Immigrants and Their Generations: Studies and Commentaries on the Hansen Thesis after Fifty Years, ed. Peter Kivisto and Dag Blanck (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1990). 29. Presenting the Past: Essays on History and the Public, ed. Susan Porter Benson, Stephen Brier, and Roy Rosenzweig (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1986), xvii. 30. James Goodman, Stories of Scottsboro (New York: Pantheon Books, 1994).

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31. John Bodnar, Remaking America, 13–20. 32. Examples of exciting scholarship that explore Issei views of internment include Brian Hayashi, “For the Sake of Our Japanese Brethren”: Assimilation, Nationalism, and Protestantism among the Japanese of Los Angeles, 1895–1942 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1995); Inside an American Concentration Camp: Japanese American Resistance at Poston, ed. Lane Ryo Hirabayashi (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995); and Morning Glory, Evening Shadow: Yamato Ichihashi and His Internment Writings, 1942–1945, ed. Gordon Chang (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997). 33. Works that document Sansei activism include Glen Ikuo Kitayama, “Japanese Americans and the Movement for Redress: A Case Study of Grassroots Activism in the Los Angeles Chapter for the National Coalition for Redress/ Reparations” (master’s thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1993); Yasuko Takezawa, Breaking the Silence: Redress and Japanese American Ethnicity (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995); and Jere Takahashi, Nisei/Sansei: Shifting Japanese American Identities and Politics (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1997). chapter 1

1. Richard Rovere, The American Establishment and Other Reports, Opinions and Speculations (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1962). 2. Testimony of John J. McCloy, Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (hereafter cited as CWRIC), Washington, DC, November 2, 1981, CWRIC files, National Archives and Records Service (hereafter cited as NARS); Japanese Americans’ “sarcastic laughter” and “vocal disagreement” were noted in “Ex-Aide Calls Japanese Internment ‘Humane,’” New York Times, November 4, 1981. 3. Testimony of John J. McCloy, CWRIC, November 3, 1981. 4. Ibid. William Marutani came to the hearings prepared to confront McCloy with this evidence of his disregard for the Constitution. William Marutani, author’s interview, Sacramento, May 17, 1998. 5. Ibid. 6. Who’s Who in America, 1946–1947 (Chicago: A. N. Marquis, 1946), 173. 7. Testimony of Karl R. Bendetsen, CWRIC, November 2, 1981. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (hereafter cited as CWRIC), Personal Justice Denied: Report of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (Washington, DC: GPO, 1982), 89.

460

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11. U.S. Department of War, Final Report: Japanese Evacuation from the West Coast, 1942 (Washington, DC: GPO, 1943), 33–34. 12. “Transcript of Conference, DeWitt and Newspapermen,” April 14, 1943, RG 338, NARS. 13. Although DeWitt was listed as the author of the Final Report, the actual text was written by Karl Bendetsen, then head of the Aliens Division of the Provost Marshal General. See Glen Kitayama, “John Lesesne DeWitt,” in Japanese American History: An A–Z Reference from 1868 to the Present, ed. Brian Niiya (Los Angeles: Japanese American National Museum, 1993), 128. 14. U.S. Department of War, Final Report, vii. 15. Ibid., 34. 16. Roger Daniels, The Politics of Prejudice: The Anti-Japanese Movement in California and the Struggle for Japanese Exclusion (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1962), 86, 89, 90; Susan McCoin Kataoka, “Issei Women: A Study in Subordinate Status” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1977), 97–98. 17. Emma Gee, “Issei Women,” in Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, ed. Emma Gee (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1976), 361. 18. “Grizzly Bear,” January 1942, cited in Morton Grodzins, Americans Betrayed: Politics and the Japanese Evacuation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1949), 48. 19. Jacobus tenBroek, Edward N. Barnhart, and Floyd M. Matson, Prejudice, War and the Constitution (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1954), 79. 20. Frank J. Taylor, “The People Nobody Wants,” Saturday Evening Post, May 9, 1942. 21. tenBroek et al., Prejudice, 75. 22. San Francisco Chronicle, San Francisco Examiner, and Los Angeles Examiner, December 16, 1941, cited in Grodzins, Americans Betrayed, 399. 23. Los Angeles Times, December 28, 1941, cited in Grodzins, Americans Betrayed, 399. 24. Ibid., January 8, 1942. 25. Ibid., 399. 26. District Intelligence Officer, Fourteenth Naval District, to District Intelligence Officer, Third Naval District, memorandum, 9 February 1942, in House Joint Committee on the Investigation of the Pearl Harbor Attack, Hearings Pursuant to S. Res. 27, 79th Cong., 1st sess., 1942, part 35, 337–38. 27. Ron Dorfman, “The Media and the New Nativism,” Los Angeles Times, August 1986.

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28. San Francisco News (December 8, 1941) and San Francisco Chronicle (December 14, 1941), cited in Grodzins, Americans Betrayed. 29. Nichi Bei, December 5, 1941, and February 3, 1942, cited in Grodzins, Americans Betrayed, 185. 30. Nichi Bei (January 24, 1942), Rafu Shimpo (December 20, 1941), and Nichi Bei (January 20, 1942), cited in Grodzins, Americans Betrayed, 186. 31. Roger Daniels, Prisoners without Trial: Japanese Americans in World War II (New York: Hill and Wang, 1993), 30. 32. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 64. 33. Ibid., 65. 34. Daniels, Prisoners without Trial, 38. 35. Leland M. Ford to Henry L. Stimson, 16 January 1942, cited in American Concentration Camps: A Documentary History of the Relocation and Incarceration of Japanese Americans, January 1, 1942–February 19, 1942, vol. 2, ed. Roger Daniels (New York: Garland Publishing, 1989). 36. Recommendations of the Pacific Coast Subcommittee on Alien Enemies and Sabotage (stamped received in the Assistant Secretary’s Office, War Department, February 15, 1942), cited in CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 81–82. 37. Bill Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans; The Story of a People (New York: William Morrow, 1969), 281. 38. Michael Slackman, Target: Pearl Harbor (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press / Arizona Memorial Museum Association, 1990), 37–38. 39. Dennis M. Ogawa and Evarts C. Fox Jr., “Japanese Internment and Relocation: The Hawaii Experience,” in Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, rev. ed., ed. Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991), 135. 40. Office of the Chief of Military History, United States Forces Middle Pacific and Predecessor Commands during World War II, 7 December 1941–2 September 1945: History of Provost Marshal’s Office, historical manuscript file, vol. 24, pt. 2, 198–99, cited in Gary Y. Okihiro, Cane Fires: The Anti-Japanese Movement in Hawaii, 1865–1945 (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1991), 211–12. 41. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 272–73. 42. Peter Irons, Justice at War: The Story of the Japanese American Internment Cases (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 283. 43. Ibid. 44. Daniels, Prisoners without Trial, 36. 45. Ibid., 38. 46. Ibid., 39. 47. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 75. 48. Ibid., 42.

462 Notes to Chapter 1 49. Ibid., 77. 50. Henry L. Stimson and McGeorge Bundy, On Active Service in Peace and War (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1947), 406. 51. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 79. 52. Ibid., 43–44. 53. John Franklin Carter to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, “Memorandum on C. B. Munson’s Report ‘Japanese on the West Coast,’” 7 November 1941, in American Concentration Camps: A Documentary History of the Relocation and Incarceration of Japanese Americans, July 1, 1940–December 31, 1941, vol. 1, ed. Roger Daniels (New York: Garland Publishing, 1989). 54. Curtis B. Munson, “Japanese on the West Coast” (report attached to memo from Carter to Roosevelt), 7 November 1941, cited in CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 52–53. 55. Ibid., 65. 56. Roger Daniels, Asian America: Chinese and Japanese in the United States since 1850 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1988), 212. 57. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 57. 58. Ibid., 55, 73. 59. WRA: The Story of Human Conservation, WRA files (Washington, DC: GPO, 1946), 7–8. 60. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 74. 61. Ibid. 62. Ibid., 78. 63. Walter Lippmann, “The Fifth Column on the West Coast,” Washington Post, February 12, 1942. 64. Westbrook Pegler, “Fifth Column Problem on Pacific Coast Very Serious,” Los Angeles Times, February 16, 1942. 65. Ernie Pyle, San Francisco News (December 25, 1941), and Chester Rowell, San Francisco Chronicle (February 2, 1942), cited in Grodzins, Americans Betrayed, 184. 66. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 83. 67. Francis B. Biddle, In Brief Authority (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1962), 226. 68. Francis B. Biddle to Henry L. Stimson, 12 February 1941, in American Concentration Camps, vol. 2, ed. Roger Daniels. 69. Ibid., 85. 70. Ibid. 71. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 95. 72. Ibid.

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73. Audrie Girdner and Anne Loftis, The Great Betrayal: The Evacuation of the Japanese-Americans during World War II (New York: Macmillan, 1969), 104–5. 74. Sandra C. Taylor, “‘Fellow-Feelers with the Afflicted’: The Christian Churches and the Relocation of the Japanese during World War II,” in Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, ed. Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1986), 124. 75. Ibid. 76. Ibid. 77. Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 293. 78. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 99. 79. Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 87. 80. Ibid., 288. 81. Irons, Justice at War, 208. 82. Ibid., 212. 83. Ibid., 206–212. 84. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 91. 85. Ibid., 196–97. 86. Daniels, Asian America, 275–76. 87. Irons, Justice at War, 284. 88. Ibid., 285. 89. Ibid., 286. 90. Ibid. 91. Ibid., 340. See also Daniels, Prisoners without Trial, 62. 92. Daniels, Asian America, 279–81. 93. Eugene Rostow, “The Japanese American Cases—a Disaster,” Yale Law Journal 54, no. 489 (1945): 489. Rostow also wrote an article for a popular audience portraying internment as “hasty, unnecessary, and mistaken.” See Eugene Rostow, “Our Worst Wartime Mistake,” Harper’s Magazine 191, no. 1144 (September 1945): 193–201. 94. Grodzins, Americans Betrayed, 190. 95. Harry Paxton Howard, “Americans in Concentration Camps,” Crisis, September 1942, 281–84, 301–2, cited in Grodzins, Americans Betrayed, 164. See also Cheryl Greenberg, “Black and Jewish Responses to Japanese Internment,” Journal of American Ethnic History 14, no. 2 (1995): 3–37; and Robert Shaffer, “Cracking the Consensus: Defending the Rights of Japanese Americans during World War II,” Radical History Review 72 (Fall 1998): 84–120. 96. Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 497. 97. This campaign is discussed in greater detail in Chapter 7.

464 Notes to Chapter 2 chapter 2

1. House Select Committee Investigating National Defense Migration, Preliminary Report and Recommendations of Evacuation of Citizens and Aliens from Military Areas, 77th Cong., 2d sess., March 19, 1942, H. Rep. 1911, 16. 2. Ibid., 18. 3. Ibid., 16. 4. “Citation to Accompany the Award of the Medal for Merit to Dillon S. Myer,” 8 May 1946, Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study (hereafter cited as JERS), file E 2.032 (Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley). 5. Ruth E. McKee, “Recommendation for the Award of the Medal for Merit to Dillon S. Myer,” 8 May 1946, JERS, file E 2.032. 6. Ruth E. McKee, “Reflections on the Proper Care and Treatment of Historians,” 18 June 1946, JERS, file E 2.331. 7. Richard Drinnon, Keeper of Concentration Camps: Dillon S. Myer and American Racism (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987), 38. Drinnon points out Myer’s contradictory account of the reasons for mass removal and incarceration. Yet Drinnon assumes Myer’s stance before Congress in 1943 reflected a true belief “that mass exclusion was justified.” I, however, suspect that Myer’s statement reveals more about the way he chose to defend the government and his agency before a hostile Congress than about his personal views of the decision to intern Japanese Americans. 8. Dillon S. Myer, Uprooted Americans: The Japanese Americans and the War Relocation Authority during World War II (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1971), 285. 9. Ibid., xv. 10. Drinnon, Keeper of Concentration Camps, 48. 11. Ibid., 49. For more information on Richard Nishimoto, Dorothy Thomas, and the Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study, see Chapter 4. 12. Ibid., 274. 13. Milton S. Eisenhower, The President Is Calling (New York: Doubleday, 1974), 125. 14. Ibid., 95. 15. Ibid., 97. 16. Roger Daniels, Concentration Camps USA: Japanese Americans and World War II (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971), 91. 17. “Oral Autobiography of Dillon S. Myer,” 183–84, cited in Drinnon, Keeper of Concentration Camps, 8. 18. Ibid.

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19. Dillon S. Myer, “Democracy in Relocation,” Common Ground (Winter 1943): 43–48. 20. Ibid., 44. 21. Ibid. 22. Ibid., 45–48. 23. J. A. Krug, WRA, U.S. Department of the Interior, WRA: A Story of Human Conservation (Washington, DC: GPO, 1946), 7. 24. Morton Grodzins, Americans Betrayed: Politics and the Japanese Evacuation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1949), 248. 25. Congressional Record, March 10, 1942, A931, cited in Grodzins, Americans Betrayed, 329. 26. Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (hereafter cited as CWRIC), Personal Justice Denied: Report of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (Washington, DC: GPO, 1982), 11. 27. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 110. 28. See Sandra C. Taylor, “Evacuation and Economic Loss: Questions and Perspectives,” in Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, ed. Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1986), 165–67. Accounting firm ICF, hired by the CWRIC, estimated that Japanese Americans lost between $108 million and $164 million in income and between $11 million and $206 million in property. Adjusting these figures for inflation would result in a total loss of between “$810 million and $2 billion in 1983 dollars.” Adding interest that might have accumulated, the ICF study set total uncompensated losses at between $1.2 billion and $3.1 billion. 29. Outside of joining the military, there were four major ways to leave the camps. Beginning in the summer of 1942 seasonal leaves were granted for agricultural harvest work. In 1942 and 1943 more than eight thousand workers obtained these work release furloughs. By December 1943 the National Japanese American Student Relocation Council was able to place more than two thousand Nisei in colleges in the Midwest and East. In February 1943 the WRA allowed internees who had passed the “loyalty test” to resettle in the interior states. On December 17, 1944, officials announced the termination of mass exclusion one day before the Supreme Court declared, in Ex parte Endo, that the United States could no longer detain loyal citizens against their will. See Leonard Bloom and Ruth Riemer, Removal and Return: The Socioeconomic Eff ects of the War on Japanese Americans, vol. 4 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1949), 34–46. After California, Oregon, and Washington were reopened in January 1945, more than two-thirds of the internee population returned to the West Coast. See

466

Notes to Chapter 2

Roger Daniels, Asian America: Chinese and Japanese in the United States since 1850 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1988), 288. 30. Edward H. Spicer et al., Impounded People: Japanese-Americans in the Relocation Centers (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1969), 72. 31. Dorothy Swaine Thomas and Richard S. Nishimoto, The Spoilage: Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement during World War II (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1946), 39. 32. Ruth E. McKee, “History of W.R.A.: Pearl Harbor to June 30, 1944,” WRA files 1943–1944, RG 210, 72, National Archives and Records Service (hereafter cited as NARS), Roger Daniels Archive, courtesy of the author. 33. Ibid., 139–40. 34. Ibid., 140. 35. Ibid., 83. 36. WRA, U.S. Department of the Interior, Community Government in War Relocation Centers (Washington, DC: GPO, 1946), 7. 37. Myer, Uprooted Americans, 39. 38. Krug, WRA: A Story of Human Conservation, 35. 39. John F. Embree, “Notes on the Poston Project,” 9 September 1942, JERS, file J 1.001, 9. 40. WRA, Community Government in War Relocation Centers, 87. 41. Rosalie Hankey, Field Notes, July 1943, cited in Rosalie H. Wax “The Destruction of a Democratic Impulse: A Case Study,” Human Organization 12, no. 1 (Spring 1953): 12. 42. Alexander H. Leighton, The Governing of Men: General Principles and Recommendations Based on Experience at a Japanese Relocation Camp (New York: Octagon Books, 1964; orig. pub. 1945, Princeton University Press), 81–86. Leighton’s work as a social scientist is discussed in greater detail in Chapter 4. 43. Spicer et al., Impounded People, 81. 44. Ibid., 86–87. 45. “Information, Objectives and Principles of the War Relocation Authority,” WRA files, RG 210, 4–5, NARS. 46. Spicer et al., Impounded People, 87. 47. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 177. 48. Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, 40. 49. Drinnon, Keeper of Concentration Camps, 68. 50. Ibid., 48. 51. Ibid., 39. 52. Spicer et al., Impounded People, 88. 53. Embree, “Notes on the Poston Project,” 4–5. 54. Ibid., 8.

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55. John F. Embree, “Dealing with Japanese-Americans,” October 1942, JERS, file J 1.001, 1–8. 56. Gary Y. Okihiro, “Japanese Resistance in America’s Concentration Camps: A Re-evaluation,” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 1 (Spring 1973): 20–34. 57. “Meeting of Temporary Community Council and Block Managers of Poston I, II, and III with Dillon S. Myer,” 17 November 1942, JERS, file J 1.12, 1–2. 58. Ibid., 3. 59. Ibid. 60. See Okihiro, “Japanese Resistance,” 20–34; Arthur A. Hansen and David A. Hacker, “The Manzanar Riot: An Ethnic Perspective,” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 2 (Fall 1974): 112–57. 61. F. Alan Coombs, “Congressional Opinion and War Relocation, 1943,” in From Relocation to Redress, 89. 62. Ibid. 63. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 224. 64. Ibid., 225. 65. Ibid., 221. 66. Ibid., 225. 67. Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, 56. 68. Daniels, Asian America, 261. 69. Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, 61. 70. WRA, “Project Directors’ Meeting,” 1–3 February 1943, JERS, file G 1.03, 3. 71. Spicer et al., Impounded People, 158. 72. Ibid., 157. 73. Ibid. 74. Dillon Myer to Attorney General Francis Biddle, 1 March 1943, JERS, file E 7.00, 2. 75. Ibid., 3. 76. Dillon S. Myer, press conference, 14 May 1943, JERS, file E 2.033, 24–26. 77. Ibid., 47. 78. Ibid., 33. 79. Ibid., 34, 45. 80. Ibid., 42–43. 81. Ibid., 56. 82. Myer, Uprooted Americans, 76. 83. Dillon S. Myer, “Introductory Remarks on Segregation Program,” Project Directors’ Conference, 26 July 1943, JERS, file E 6.20, 1. 84. Bill Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans; The Story of a People (New York: William Morrow, 1969), 373. 85. Myer, Uprooted Americans, 96–97.

468 Notes to Chapter 2 86. WRA, U.S. Department of the Interior, “Myths and Facts about the Japanese Americans: Answering Common Misconceptions Regarding Americans of Japanese Ancestry” (Washington, DC: GPO, 1945), 44. 87. WRA, “Text of Address by Dillon S. Myer of the War Relocation Authority, over the National Broadcasting Company Network,” 15 July 1943, JERS, file D 4.28, 2. 88. Ibid., 43. 89. Myer, Uprooted Americans, 99–100. 90. Ibid., 99. 91. Ibid., 100. 92. WRA, “Text of Address by Dillon S. Myer of the War Relocation Authority, over the National Broadcasting Company Network,” 3. 93. Ibid., 4–5. 94. Dillon S. Myer, “West Coast Speech Excerpts,” January 1945, JERS, file E 2.12, 2. 95. Dillon S. Myer, “Relocation Problems and Policies,” Pasadena address, 14 March 1944, JERS, file E 2.12, 9, 11. 96. Myer, “West Coast Speech Excerpts,” 2–3. 97. Myer, Uprooted Americans, xx–xxi. 98. WRA, “Myths and Facts about the Japanese Americans,” 12. 99. Ibid., 24. 100. Ibid., 11. 101. Ibid., 23. 102. Ibid., 14. 103. WRA, “The Wrong Ancestors,” June 1943, JERS, file E 1.001, 1. 104. Ibid. 105. WRA, “Myths and Facts about the Japanese Americans,” 28. 106. Ibid., 8. 107. Myer, “Relocation Problems and Policies,” 6. 108. Ibid., 10. 109. Dillon S. Myer, “A Tenth of a Million People,” Des Moines address, 26 October 1944, JERS, file E 2.12, 1. 110. WRA, “The Wrong Ancestors,” 1. 111. WRA, “Myths and Facts about the Japanese Americans,” 24. 112. WRA, “The Wrong Ancestors,” 8. 113. Ibid., 11. 114. WRA, “Myths and Facts about the Japanese Americans,” 15. 115. WRA, “The Wrong Ancestors,” 12. 116. Myer, “Relocation Problems and Policies,” 7.

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117. Ibid. 118. Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 419. 119. Myer, “Relocation Problems and Policies,” 6. 120. Myer, “West Coast Speech Excerpts,” 3. 121. Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, 62. 122. Daniels, Asian America, 263. 123. Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, 113–46. Chapter 4 analyzes the portrayal of Tule Lake in greater depth. 124. Ibid., 135. 125. San Francisco Examiner, November 4, 1943, cited in Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, 139. 126. Ibid., 140–46. 127. Robert Cozzens, press release, 8 November 1944, JERS, file E 11.40, 1. 128. Dillon S. Myer, “The Facts about the War Relocation Authority,” Los Angeles address, 21 January 1944, JERS, file E 11.40, 1. 129. Dillon S. Myer, “Problems in the Rehabilitation of Our Japanese American Citizens,” n.d., JERS, file E 2.12, 6. 130. WRA, Community Government in War Relocation Centers, 99. 131. Ibid. 132. “Report to Myer from Residents of Minidoka,” 19 February 1945, JERS, file P 1.31, 2. 133. Ibid., 3–8. 134. Ibid., 13–14. 135. Ibid., 6. 136. Ibid., 4. 137. “Minutes of the Meeting of the Community Council and the Block Commissioners with Mr. Myer, National Director,” 19 February 1945, JERS, file P 1.31, 6–7. 138. Ibid., 17. 139. Ibid., 20. 140. Ibid., 13. 141. Ibid., 25. 142. Ibid., 28. 143. Ibid., 19. 144. Ibid., 18. 145. “Full Text of Dillon S. Myer’s Speech to the People of Poston,” 6 March 1945, JERS, file E 2.12, 5. 146. Ibid., 7. 147. Ibid., 4.

470

Notes to Chapters 2 and 3

148. Ibid., 7. 149. Ibid., 1. 150. Ibid., 1–2. 151. Ibid., 2. 152. Ibid., 3. 153. Ibid., 7. 154. Myer, Uprooted Americans, 291. 155. Ibid., 286. 156. Ibid. 157. Ibid., 295–98. 158. Ibid., 342. 159. Ibid., xvii. 160. Ibid., xi. 161. Robert K. Murray, review of Uprooted Americans: The Japanese Americans and the War Relocation Authority during World War II, by Dillon S. Myer, Journal of American History 58, no. 4 (March 1972): 1050. 162. Ibid. 163. John Modell, review of Uprooted Americans, Western Historical Quarterly 5, no. 1 (January 1974): 87–88. 164. Hilary Conroy, reviews of Uprooted Americans, and The Great Betrayal: The Evacuation of the Japanese Americans during World War II, by Audrie Girdner and Anne Loftis, Americas 23 (1971): 230. chapter 3

1. Dillon S. Myer, Uprooted Americans: The Japanese Americans and the War Relocation Authority during World War II (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1971), xii. 2. Ibid. 3. The full text of the creed is presented in Bill Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice; History of the Japanese American Citizens League (New York: William Morrow, 1982), 279–80. 4. Historian Roger Daniels has compared the JACL’s “position of acquiescence to almost anything the government proposed” to Booker T. Washington’s “gospel of accommodation.” See Roger Daniels, “The Japanese,” in Ethnic Leadership in America, ed. John Higham (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 36–63. For more on Booker T. Washington, see Louis R. Harlan, “Booker T. Washington and the Politics of Accommodation,” in Black Leaders in the Twentieth Century, ed. John Hope Franklin and August Meier (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1982), 1–17; and The Booker T. Washington Papers, ed. Louis R. Harlan and Raymond W. Smock (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1972).

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5. For more on LULAC, see Mario T. Garcia, Mexican Americans: Leadership, Ideology, and Identity, 1930–1960 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1990), 22; and Richard A. Garcia, Rise of the Mexican American Middle Class: San Antonio, 1929–1941 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1991). 6. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice, 130–31. 7. Ibid., 132. 8. Roger Daniels, “The Forced Migrations of West Coast Japanese Americans, 1942–1946: A Quantitative Note,” in Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, rev. ed., ed. Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991), 72. 9. Arthur A. Hansen, “James Matsumoto Omura: An Interview,” Amerasia Journal 13, no. 2 (Fall 1986): 99–113. 10. Mike Masaoka, “Statement Before the Tolan Committee” (San Francisco, February 21, 1942), appendix in In Quest of Justice. 11. Mike Masaoka with Bill Hosokawa, They Call Me Moses Masaoka: An American Saga (New York: William Morrow, 1987), 91 12. Ibid., 92. 13. Roger Daniels, Asian America: Chinese and Japanese in the United States since 1850 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1988), 218. See also Samuel Walker, In Defense of American Liberties: A History of the ACLU (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990); Richard Drinnon, Keeper of Concentration Camps: Dillon S. Myer and American Racism (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1987); and Michi Weglyn, Years of Infamy: The Untold Story of America’s Concentration Camps (New York: William Morrow, 1976). 14. Roger Daniels, Prisoners without Trial: Japanese Americans in World War II (New York: Hill and Wang, 1993), 29. 15. See also Yuji Ichioka, “A Study in Dualism: James Yoshinori Sakamoto and the Japanese American Courier, 1928–1942,” Amerasia Journal 13, no. 2 (Fall 1986): 49–81; Bob Kumamoto, “The Search for Spies: American Counterintelligence and the Japanese American Community, 1931–1942,” Amerasia Journal 6, no. 2 (Fall 1979): 45–75; and Paul Spickard, “The Nisei Assume Power: The Japanese American Citizens League, 1941–1942,” Pacific Historical Review 52, no. 2 (May 1983): 147–74. 16. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 94–95. 17. Ibid., 102–3. 18. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice, 369. 19. Milton Eisenhower, The President Is Calling (New York: Doubleday, 1974), 117. 20. Mike Masaoka to Milton Eisenhower, 6 April 1942, RG 210, National Archives and Records Service (hereafter cited as NARS).

472 Notes to Chapter 3 21. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 116–17. 22. Ibid., 23, 120. 23. Ibid. 24. Masayo Umezawa Duus, Unlikely Liberators: The Men of the 100th and 442nd (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1987), 52. Quoted material comes from U.S. Army Chief of Staff correspondence, dated July 18, 1942. This was a reply to a letter from the U.S. Citizens of Japanese Descent, dated June 1, 1942. 25. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 125. 26. Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, Personal Justice Denied: Report of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (Washington, DC: GPO, 1982), 191. 27. “U.S. Army, Relocation Center Address,” Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study (hereafter cited as JERS), n.d., file E 7.00, 1 (Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley). 28. Ibid., 2. 29. Ibid., 3. 30. Ibid., 6. 31. Ibid., 4. 32. “Questions and Answers, Topaz Dining Hall 1,” 10 February 1943, JERS, file H 1.37, 3. 33. Ibid., 4. 34. Ibid., 7. 35. Ibid. 36. “Translation of Speech by Kinya Okajima at Preliminary Gatherings before Army Induction,” 11 February 1943, WRA: Community Analysis section, JERS, file P 7.50, 2. 37. Jaxon Sonada, “Speech at Volunteers’ Banquet,” 19 March 1943, JERS, file P 5.00. 38. Chester Sakura, “Speech at Volunteers’ Banquet,” 17 March 1943, JERS, file P 5.00. 39. “‘Tats’ to ‘Dear Pa,’” 15 February 1943, JERS, file P 5.00, 2. 40. Daniels, Asian America, 252. 41. Joseph D. Harrington, Yankee Samurai: The Secret Role of Nisei in America’s Pacific Victory (Detroit: Pettigrew Enterprises, 1979); Duus, Unlikely Liberators; Thelma Chang, “I Can Never Forget”: Men of the 100th/442nd (Honolulu: Sigi Productions, 1991); Lyn Crost, Honor by Fire: Japanese Americans at War in Europe and the Pacific (Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1994); Chester Tanaka, Go for Broke: A Pictorial History of the Japanese American 100th Infantry and the 442nd Regimental Combat Team (Richmond, CA: Go for Broke, 1981); John Aiso and

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the M.I.S.: Japanese-American Soldiers in the Military Intelligence Service, World War II, ed. Tad Ichinokuchi (Los Angeles: Military Intelligence Service Club of Southern California, 1988). 42. Daniels, Asian America, 254. 43. Bill Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans; The Story of a People (New York: William Morrow, 1969), 405–9. 44. Ibid., 414–15. 45. Testimony of Mike Masaoka, Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, July 16, 1981, Washington, DC, CWRIC files, NARS. 46. Myer, Uprooted Americans, 75. 47. Weglyn, Years of Infamy, 154; Douglas W. Nelson, Heart Mountain: The History of an American Concentration Camp (Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1976). 48. Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 362. 49. Joseph Y. Kurihara, “Niseis and the Government,” unpublished letter to the editor, Saturday Evening Post, June 1, 1943, Kiku Hori Funabiki Archive, courtesy of the author. 50. Ibid. 51. Eileen Tamura, “The Question of Joe: Identity, Citizenship Renunciation, and the Incarceration of Japanese Americans during World War II,” July 10, 1998, 4, courtesy of Eileen Tamura. 52. Kiyoshi Okamoto, memorandum, Heart Mountain, March 26, 1944, courtesy of George Nozawa. 53. Ibid. 54. Ibid. 55. In December 1943 Bill Hosokawa left Heart Mountain to resettle, and Haruo Imura became the Sentinel ’s editor. Haruo Imura, “Fair Play Committee,” Heart Mountain Sentinel, January 22, 1944, courtesy of George Nozawa. 56. Haruo Imura, “Our Cards on the Table,” Heart Mountain Sentinel, March 11, 1944, courtesy of George Nozawa. 57. Nobu Kawai, “The Bitter Harvest,” Heart Mountain Sentinel, April 8, 1944, courtesy of George Nozawa. 58. Ibid. 59. Frank Emi, letter to the editor, Heart Mountain Sentinel, March 25, 1944; Nobu Kawai, “The Rocky Shimpo,” Heart Mountain Sentinel, April 1, 1944, courtesy of George Nozawa. 60. George Ishikawa, “Letter to Frank Emi and Friends,” Heart Mountain Sentinel, May 4, 1944, courtesy of George Nozawa. 61. Nelson, Heart Mountain, 143.

474 Notes to Chapter 3 62. Mike Masaoka, “Statement before the Tolan Committee.” 63. Togo Tanaka, “History of the JACL,” unpublished, n.d., Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley, cited in James Matsumoto Omura, review of JACL: In Quest of Justice, Amerasia Journal 11, no. 2 (Fall 1984): 97–102. 64. Testimony of Mike Masaoka, House Committee on Un-American Activities, “The Investigation of Un-American Activities in the U.S.,” 78th Cong., 1st sess., July 3, 1943, vol. 15, 9493, 9565. 65. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice, 275. 66. “Response to Declaration of War with Japan,” RG 220, CWRIC file 5386a–87, NARS, courtesy of Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga and Michi Weglyn, cited in Deborah K. Lim, “Report on Resolution 7 to the JACL National Council at the 31st Biennial Convention,” Section IB, 11, June 17–22, 1990 (San Diego, CA: unpublished), courtesy of George Nozawa. 67. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 73–74. 68. Mike Masaoka, “Final Report,” 22 April 1944, JERS, file T 6.15, 48–9. 69. “Memo RE: Lt. Brown’s Request,” n.d., JACL Archives. 70. Togo Tanaka, “Report of Manzanar Riot,” 29 January 1943, JERS, file O 7.50, 9. 71. Togo Tanaka, “History of JACL,” ch. IV, n.d., JERS, file T 6.25, 36. 72. Togo Tanaka, “Report of Manzanar Riot,” n.d., JERS, file O 10.12. 73. Morris Opler, “A History of Internal Government at Manzanar, March 42–Dec 42,” 15 July 1944, Merritt Collection, University Research Library, University of California, Los Angeles, 122, box 12, file 1, 97–98. 74. Morris Opler, “The Effects of the Nisei Draft at Manzanar,” 11 March 1944, Ralph P. Merritt Collection, 122, box 23, file 9; “Registration 1944–1945,” 13. 75. World Herald, editorial, October 22, 1944. 76. Washington Post, October 11, 1945, cited in U.S. War Agency Liquidation Unit, People in Motion: The Postwar Adjustment of the Evacuated Japanese Americans (Washington, DC: GPO, 1947), 18. 77. New York Times, December 8, 1945, cited in U.S. War Agency, People in Motion, 1. 78. Ibid., 19. 79. New York Herald Tribune, July 16, 1946, cited in U.S. War Agency, People in Motion, 19–20. 80. Houston Press, August 17, 1946, cited in U.S. War Agency, People in Motion, 23–25. 81. Ibid., 25. 82. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice, 273. 83. Bill Hosokawa, “Better Americans in a Greater America” (Spokane, WA: Litho-Art Printers, n.d.), Edison Uno Collection, box 39, folder 4 (University

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Research Library, University of California, Los Angeles). The story of Munemori’s death and posthumous medal is recounted in Bill Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 412–13. 84. Pacific Citizen, “Go for Broke!” April 28, 1957, 2. 85. Pacific Citizen, “NBC ‘Big Sho’ to feature Scenes from ‘Go for Broke’” March 31, 1951, 3. 86. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice, 276–77. 87. Fujii Sei v. State of California (1952) and Masaoka Haruye v. State of California (1952) made the Alien Land Law unenforceable. See Frank F. Chuman, The Bamboo People: The Law and Japanese-Americans (Chicago: Japanese American Research Project and Japanese American Citizens League, 1981), 203–223. 88. Kevin Allen Leonard, “‘Is That What We Fought For?’ Japanese Americans and Racism in California: The Impact of World War II,” Western Historical Quarterly 21, no. 4 (November 1990): 469–75. 89. Ibid., 478–81. 90. Nancy Nanami Nakasone-Huey, “In Simple Justice: The JapaneseAmerican Evacuation Claims Act of 1948” (Ph.D. diss., University of Southern California, 1986), 346. 91. Ibid., 185–89. 92. Ibid., 282. 93. Ibid., 256. 94. Ibid., 197. 95. Ibid., 214, 241–42. 96. Ibid., 203–4. 97. War Relocation Authority, The Evacuated People: A Quantitative Description (Washington, DC: GPO, 1946), 96–97. 98. Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 446. 99. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 87. 100. Ibid., 221–22. 101. Ibid., 223–27. In June 1949 Robert Cullum, executive secretary of JACL’s Committee for Equality in Naturalization, surveyed more than forty editorials, originating in fifteen states and the District of Columbia (one-quarter from California), and found that all supported the legislation. Cullum could not find a single editorial opposing the bill. 102. Ibid., 228. 103. Ibid., 231–32. 104. Ibid., 364. 105. Daniels, Asian America, 296. 106. Walter H. Judd, “A Tribute to the Japanese American Citizens League

476 Notes to Chapters 3 and 4 on Its 25th Anniversary,” August 2, 1955, Proceedings and Debates of the 84th Cong., 1st sess., Congressional Record (Washington, DC: GPO, 1955). 107. Ibid. 108. Hosokawa, “Better Americans,” 1. 109. Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 393. 110. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 11. 111. Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 443–45. 112. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 19. 113. Herbert Hoover to Dillon Myer, 22 March 1943, FBI 62-69030, cited in Drinnon, Keeper of Concentration Camps, 71. 114. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 102. chapter 4

1. Rosalie H. Wax, Doing Fieldwork: Warnings and Advice (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1971), 63–64. Rosalie H. Wax is formerly Rosalie Hankey. 2. Ibid., 70. 3. Ibid. 4. Ibid., 14. 5. Ibid., 371–72. 6. Ibid. 7. Individuals who were not researchers during the war have raised important criticisms about social scientists within the camps. Anthropologist Orin Starn has critically assessed the assumptions and conclusions of WRA researchers. I have drawn on Starn’s persuasive analysis of how researchers, despite good intentions, restricted discourse critical of mass removal, legitimated the incarceration, and promoted racial stereotypes of Japanese Americans. Further, I explore the impact of this research on internees and administrative policies, and investigate the way social scientists represented their research in the decades following the war. See Orin Starn, “Engineering Internment: Anthropologists and the War Relocation Authority,” American Ethnologist 13 (November 1986): 700–720. Some of my criticisms of researcher behavior repeat charges made by Peter T. Suzuki, an anthropologist and former internee. However, I part company with Suzuki in how I assess the motives of the researchers and the impact of their research. See Peter T. Suzuki, “A Retrospective Analysis of a Wartime ‘National Character’ Study,” Dialectical Anthropology 5, no. 1 (1980): 33–46; “Anthropologists in the Wartime Camps for Japanese Americans: A Documentary Study,” Dialectical Anthropology 6, no. 1 (August 1981): 23–60; and “The University of California Japanese Evacuation and Resettlement Study: A Prolegomenon,” Dialectical

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Anthropology 10, no. 3 (April 1986): 189–213. I analyze the political and cultural context for Suzuki’s bitter charges against wartime researchers in Chapter 8. 8. For a list of researchers who worked for the BSR and CAS, see Suzuki, “Anthropologists in the Wartime Camps,” 24. 9. Eliot Chapple, “Anthropological Engineering: Its Uses to Administrators,” Applied Anthropology 2, no. 2 (Spring 1943): 23–32. 10. For a listing of Japanese Americans affiliated with the JERS, see Suzuki, “The JERS: A Prolegomenon,” 192. 11. James Clifford, “Introduction: Partial Truths,” in Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, ed. James Clifford and George E. Marcus (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 2. 12. Edward H. Spicer, “Comments on the Testimony of Dr. Peter T. Suzuki Before the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians,” 14 November 1981, Rosalie H. Wax Collection, box 10, folder 21, p. 9, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley. 13. Ibid., 6. 14. Ibid. 15. Ibid. 16. Alexander H. Leighton, The Governing of Men: General Principles and Recommendations Based on Experience at a Japanese Relocation Camp (New York: Octagon Books, 1964; orig. pub. 1945, Princeton University Press), 379. 17. Ibid., 380. 18. Ibid., 381. 19. Spicer, “Comments on the Testimony of Dr. Peter T. Suzuki,” 4. 20. Leighton, The Governing of Men, 376. 21. Ibid., 377–78. 22. Ibid., 392. 23. Ibid., 392–93. 24. Ibid., 381. 25. Ibid., 382. 26. Ibid., 395–97. 27. Asael T. Hansen, “Community Analysis at Heart Mountain Relocation Center,” Applied Anthropology 5, no. 3 (Summer 1946): 15. 28. Ibid., 16. 29. Ibid., 18. 30. Ibid., 19. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid., 15. 33. Ibid., 19.

478 Notes to Chapter 4 34. John F. Embree, “Evacuee Resistances to Relocation,” Community Analysis Report No. 5, June 1943, cited in Edward H. Spicer, “The Use of Social Scientists by the War Relocation Authority,” Applied Anthropology 5, no. 2 (Spring 1946): 26. 35. Ibid., 23. 36. A. T. Hansen, “Heart Mountain Community Analysis Trend Report,” July 1944, cited in Spicer, “The Use of Social Scientists,” 30. 37. Hansen, “Heart Mountain Trend Report,” 19–20. 38. Ibid., 20. 39. Ibid., 25. 40. Ibid., 24. 41. Yuji Ichioka, “JERS Revisited: Introduction,” in Views from Within: The Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study, ed. Yuji Ichioka (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1989), 5–6; Francis McCollum Feeley, America’s Concentration Camps during World War II: Social Science and the Japanese American Internment (New Orleans: University Press of the South, 1999), 198–238. 42. Dorothy Swaine Thomas and Richard S. Nishimoto, The Spoilage: Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement during World War II (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1946), v. 43. Ibid., vi. 44. Ibid. 45. Morton Grodzins to Dorothy Thomas, 9 August 1945, Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study (hereafter cited as JERS), file W 1.06, 2 (Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley). See also Lieutenant John Hall and Morton Grodzins, telephone conversation, 13 October 1942, 5 p.m., 1–2, reproduced in America’s Concentration Camps: A Documentary History of the Relocation and Incarceration of Japanese Americans, 1944 and 1945; Japanese of Hawaii, vol. 8, ed. Roger Daniels (New York: Garland Publishing, 1989). 46. Grodzins to Thomas, 22 January 1945, JERS, file W 1.06, 1. 47. Grodzins to Thomas, 16 September 1943, JERS, file W 1.06, 1–3. 48. Thomas to Grodzins, 18 September 1943, JERS, file W 1.06, 1. 49. Grodzins to Thomas, 28 September 1943, JERS, file W 1.06, 1, 4. 50. Lieutenant John Hall and Morton Grodzins, telephone conversation, 2. 51. Morton Grodzins to John J. McCloy, 28 June 1943, 1, reproduced in America’s Concentration Camps, ed. Roger Daniels. 52. Grodzins to Thomas, 5 October 1943, JERS, file W 1.06, 1. See other letters reproduced in America’s Concentration Camps, ed. Roger Daniels. 53. Grodzins to Thomas, 7 May 1943, JERS, file W 1.06, 1. 54. Grodzins to Thomas, Friday evening, n.d., JERS, file W 1.06, 2.

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55. Grodzins to Thomas, 28 September 1943, JERS, file W 1.06. 5. 56. Grodzins to Thomas, Thursday evening, 7 October 1943, JERS, file W 1.06, 2. 57. Grodzins to Thomas, 12 May 1943, JERS, file W 1.06, 1. 58. John H. Provinse to Dorothy Thomas, 21 May 1942, JERS, supplement, carton 1, cited in Ichioka, “Introduction,” Views from Within, 14. 59. Dorothy Thomas to Richard S. Nishimoto, 27 April 1944, JERS, file W 1.25A, cited in Ichioka, “Introduction,” Views from Within, 14. 60. Memorandum of Agreement, 11 February 1943, JERS file K 8.80B, cited in Ichioka, “Introduction,” Views from Within, 15. 61. Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, ix. 62. Ibid. 63. Dorothy Thomas to Rosalie Hankey, 10 November 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. 64. Ibid., 4. 65. See Ichioka, Views from Within. Several researchers recount their experiences in camp during a two-day conference entitled Views from Within: The Japanese-American Wartime Internment Experience. Ichioka organized the event, held September 19–20, 1987, at the University of California, Berkeley. 66. S. Frank Miyamoto, “Reminiscences of JERS,” in Views from Within, ed. Ichioka, 144. 67. Ibid., 147–48. 68. Ibid., 155. 69. James M. Sakoda, “Reminiscences of a Participant Observer,” in Views from Within, ed. Ichioka, 232. 70. Ibid., 228. 71. Ibid., 228–29. 72. Ibid., 233. 73. Lane Ryo Hirabayashi, “Introduction: Why Read Nishimoto?” in Richard S. Nishimoto, Inside an American Concentration Camp: Japanese American Resistance at Poston, Arizona, ed. Lane Ryo Hirabayashi (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), xlvii. 74. Lane Ryo Hirabayashi and James Hirabayashi, “The ‘Credible’ Witness: The Central Role of Richard S. Nishimoto in JERS,” Views from Within, ed. Ichioka, 68. 75. Ibid., 76. For more on Tsuchiyama’s role in the JERS and the pressures that led her to resign in protest from the project in 1945, see Lane Ryo Hirabayashi, The Politics of Fieldwork: Research in an American Concentration Camp (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1999). 76. Hirabayashi, “Introduction: Why Read Nishimoto?” xlv.

480 77. 78. 79. 80. 81.

Notes to Chapter 4 Ibid., xxvii. Hankey to Thomas, 25 November 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. Hirabayashi, afterword to Resistance at Poston, 242. Ibid., xlv. Lane Ryo Hirabayashi and James Hirabayashi, “The ‘Credible’ Witness,”

69. 82. Ibid., 74. 83. Ibid., 73. 84. Ibid., 70. 85. Thomas to Hankey, 15 July 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. 86. Rosalie Hankey, “Twelve Years Later: An Analysis of Field Experience,” The American Journal of Sociology 63, no. 2 (September 1957): 140. 87. Wax, Doing Fieldwork, 64. 88. Ibid. 89. Ibid., 71. 90. Ibid. 91. Thomas to Hankey, 10 November 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 4. 92. Wax, Doing Fieldwork, 103. 93. Thomas to Hankey, 27 August 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. 94. Hankey to Thomas, 12 October 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. 95. Hankey to Thomas, 25 October 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. 96. Wax, Doing Fieldwork, 77. 97. Ibid., 78. 98. Ibid., 86. 99. Rosalie H. Wax, “The Destruction of a Democratic Impulse: An Exemplification of Certain Problems of a Benevolent Dictatorship,” Human Organization 12, no. 1 (Spring 1953): 11. 100. Ibid., 105. 101. Ibid., 113. 102. Ibid. 103. Rosalie Hankey to James Sakoda, 23 July 1946, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. 104. Wax, Doing Fieldwork, 156. 105. Thomas to Hankey, 9 December 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. 106. Hankey to Thomas, 17 December 1943, JERS, file W 1.07, 1. 107. Wax, Doing Fieldwork, 140. 108. Ibid., 168. 109. Ibid., 158. 110. Ibid., 169. I discuss the public criticism of Hankey’s “informing” against Tule Lake segregants in Chapter 8. 111. Ibid.

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112. Ibid. 113. For examples of the omission of Hankey’s name, see Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, 131n32, 138n43. Although other researchers were not acknowledged within the text, they at least were mentioned in the footnotes. JERS researchers are cited in the notes on pages 68, 89, 90, and 96. 114. Starn, “Engineering Internment,” 710. 115. Suzuki, “A Retrospective Analysis,” 45. 116. Leighton, The Governing of Men, 366. 117. Ibid., 6. 118. Ibid., 88, 233, 235. 119. Ibid., 349. 120. Ibid., 357. 121. Ibid. 122. Ibid., 359–60. 123. Spicer, “The Use of Social Scientists,” 35–36. 124. Ibid., 21. 125. Ibid., 24. 126. Ibid., 22. 127. Ibid., 24. 128. Ibid., 28. 129. Grodzins to Thomas, 9 August 1945, JERS, file W 1.06, 1. 130. Ibid., 3. 131. Ibid., 2. 132. Thomas to Grodzins, 18 August 1945, JERS, file W 1.06, 1. 133. Grodzins to Thomas, 29 August 1945, JERS, file W 1.06, 1. 134. Morton Grodzins to Charles Aikin, 12 October 1945, JERS, file W 1.06, 1–2. 135. Ibid., 2. 136. Aikin to Grodzins, 15 December 1945, JERS, file W 1.06, 1–2. 137. Ibid., 2–7. 138. Thomas to Grodzins, 24 July 1946, JERS, file W 1.00, 1. 139. Peter T. Suzuki, “For the Sake of Inter-University Comity: The Attempted Suppression by the University of California of Morton Grodzins’ Americans Betrayed,” in Views from Within, ed. Yuji Ichioka, 109–110. 140. New York Times, “Ousted Chicago Man Says Book Cost Job,” December 15, 1950. 141. Dorothy Thomas to Howard Graham, 2 March 1948, JERS, file W 1.00, 2. 142. Graham to Thomas, 28 February 1948, JERS, file W 1.00, 1; 26 March 1948, 1–2. 143. Ibid., 2–3. 144. Ibid., 4.

482 Notes to Chapter 4 145. Oliver Garceau to Dorothy Thomas, 4 April 1946, JERS, file W 1.00, 1. 146. Ibid. 147. Jacobus tenBroek, Edward N. Barnhart, and Floyd W. Matson, Prejudice, War and the Constitution (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1954), 185–210. 148. Dorothy Thomas to Edward Barnhart, 26 January 1952, JERS, file W 1.01, 1. 149. S. Frank Miyamoto, “Dorothy Swaine Thomas as Director of JERS: Some Personal Observations,” Views from Within, ed. Ichioka, 53. 150. Marvin K. Opler, review of The Spoilage: Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement during World War II, by Dorothy Swaine Thomas and Richard S. Nishimoto, American Anthropologist 50, no. 2 (1948): 309. 151. Nishimoto, Resistance at Poston, 241. 152. Ibid. 153. Ibid. 154. Donald E. Collins, Native American Aliens: Disloyalty and Renunciation of Citizenship by Japanese Americans during World War II (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1985), 11. 155. Ibid., 130. 156. Morton Grodzins, “Making Un-Americans,” American Journal of Sociology 60, no. 6 (May 1955): 581. 157. Thomas and Nishimoto, The Spoilage, 106. 158. Ibid. 159. S. Frank Miyamoto, “Dorothy Swaine Thomas,” 45. 160. Dorothy Swaine Thomas, Charles Kikuchi, and James Sakoda, The Salvage: Japanese-American Evacuation and Resettlement during World War II (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1952). 161. Ichioka, Views from Within, 12–13. 162. Charles Kikuchi, “Through the JERS Looking Glass: A Personal View from Within,” in Views from Within, ed. Ichioka, 193. 163. Ibid., 189. 164. Ibid., 191. 165. Thomas, Kikuchi, and Sakoda, The Salvage, 504. 166. Ibid., 563. See also 232, 263, and 297. 167. Harry H. L. Kitano, “The Effects of Evacuation on the Japanese Americans,” in Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, ed. Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano (Salt Lake City Utah, 1986), 155; Valerie Matsumoto, “Japanese American Women during World War II,” Frontiers 8, no. 1 (1984): 6, 10; Mei Nakano, Japanese American Women: Three Generations, 1890–1990 (Berkeley, CA: Mina Publishing Press; San Francisco: National Japanese American Historical Society, 1990), 10, 146.

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168. Thomas et al., The Salvage, 150. 169. Ibid., 177. 170. Ibid., 340. See also 360 and 454. 171. Testimony of Henry Tanaka, Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, Chicago, Illinois, September 22, 1981, RG 220, National Archives and Records Service. 172. Thomas et al., The Salvage, 473. 173. Ibid., 288. 174. Stephen S. Fujita and David J. O’Brien, Japanese American Ethnicity: The Persistence of Community (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991). 175. Thomas et al., The Salvage, 410. chapter 5

1. Edison Uno, “’42 Hysteria Led to Concentration Camps,” Pacific Citizen, December 20–27, 1974. 2. “Resume of Edison Uno,” 20 May 1969, Edison Uno Collection (hereafter cited as Uno Collection), box 38, folder 3 (University Research Library, University of California, Los Angeles). 3. Uno, “Hysteria.” 4. Edison Uno to Ray Uno, memorandum re: JACL elections, 23 May 1970, Uno Collection, box 40, folder 4. 5. Tom T. Shimasaki to Edison Uno, 28 May 1970, Uno Collection, box 40, folder 4. 6. Edison Uno diary, 8 July 1974, Uno Collection, box 79, folder 1. 7. Edison Uno, “What Warren Once Said about Japanese Americans,” Pacific Citizen, April 25, 1969. 8. Guy Wright, “Warren Still Mum on His Role as Evacuation Pusher,” Pacific Citizen, May 23, 1969. 9. “Earl Warren Apology,” Uno Collection, box 79, folder 5. 10. Harry K. Honda, “The Warren Era: 1891-1974,” Pacific Citizen, June 28, 1974. 11. Wayne Horiuchi, “Conscience of JACL,” Pacific Citizen, January 21, 1977; Bill Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice; History of the Japanese American Citizens League (New York: William Morrow, 1982), 341–42. 12. Sachi Seko, “Edison Uno,” Pacific Citizen, January 21, 1977. 13. Evelyn Nakano Glenn, Issei, Nisei, War Bride: Three Generations of Japanese American Women in Domestic Service (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1986), 85–87. 14. Kenji Ima, “Japanese Americans: The Making of ‘Good’ People,” in The

484 Notes to Chapter 5 Minority Report: An Introduction to Racial, Ethnic, and Gender Relations, ed. Anthony Gary Dworkin and Rosalind J. Dworkin, 2nd ed. (New York: CBS College Publishing, 1982), 269; William Petersen, “Success Story, JapaneseAmerican Style,” New York Times Magazine, January 9, 1966. 15. Petersen, “Success Story.” 16. Warren Furutani, “Opposite Sides of the Same Coin,” Pacific Citizen, December 23–30, 1977. 17. Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, Personal Justice Denied: Report of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (Washington, DC: GPO, 1982), 296. 18. Ima, “The Making of ‘Good’ People,” 286. 19. Furutani, “Opposite Sides of the Same Coin.” 20. Newsweek, “Success Story: Outwhiting the Whites,” June 21, 1971. 21. George Kobayashi, letters, Newsweek, July 19, 1971. 22. Ibid. 23. Mike Masaoka, “’69 Inaugurates New Pacific Era,” Pacific Citizen, December 19–26, 1969. 24. Bill Hosokawa, “Out of the Frying Pan,” Pacific Citizen, November 7, 1956. 25. John Modell, “The Japanese American Family,” Pacific Historical Review 37, no. 1 (February 1968): 67–81. 26. One hotel owner told Kazuo Ito: “In Portland . . . from time to time white guests came in, looked at our faces, said, ‘Jap!’ and left. But even though we were insulted, we kept on working silently.” Kazuo Ito, Issei: A History of Japanese Immigrants in North America, trans. Shinichiro Nakamura and Jean S. Gerard (Seattle: Executive Committee for the Publication of Issei, 1973), 527, cited in Kenji Ima, “Japanese Americans,” 280. See also Daisuke Kitagawa, Issei and Nisei: The Internment Years (New York: Seabury Press, 1967). 27. Ima, “The Making of ‘Good’ People,” 281. 28. Tetsuden Kashima, “Japanese American Internees Return, 1945 to 1955: Readjustment and Social Amnesia,” Phylon 41, no. 2 (Summer 1980): 113. 29. Eileen Sunada Sarasohn, ed., The Issei: Portrait of a Pioneer; An Oral History (Palo Alto, CA: Pacific Books, 1983). 30. Cherry Kinoshita, respondent, “Voices of Japanese American Redress: Responses to Pre-Conference Questions” (Voices of Japanese American Redress Conference, Los Angeles, July 8, 1997), 67, Roger Daniels Archive, courtesy of the author. 31. Testimony of Setsuko Matsunaga Nishi, House Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations (Judicary Committee), Civil Liberties Act of 1985 and the Aleutian and Pribilof Islands Restitution Act: Hearings on H.R. 442 and H.R. 2415, part 1, 99th Cong., 2d sess., April 28, 1986, 143–83.

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32. Don T. Nakanishi, “Seeking Convergence in Race Relations Research: Japanese-Americans and the Resurrection of Internment,” in Eliminating Racism, ed. Phyllis A. Katz and Dalmas A. Taylor (New York: Plenum Press, 1988), 167. 33. Donna K. Nagata, Legacy of Injustice: Exploring the Cross-Generational Impact of the Japanese American Internment (New York: Plenum Press, 1993), 35, 188. 34. Testimony of Ben Takeshita, CWRIC, San Francisco, California, August 11, 1981. 35. Amy Iwasaki Mass, “Psychological Effects of the Camps on Japanese Americans,” in Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, eds. Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1986), 160–61. 36. Noriko Sawada Bridges, author’s interview, San Francisco, May 10, 1990. 37. Ibid. 38. Testimony of Hiroshi Kashiwagi, CWRIC, San Francisco, August 12, 1981. 39. Kashima, “Japanese American Internees Return,” 113. 40. Voices Long Silent: An Oral Inquiry into the Japanese American Evacuation, ed. Arthur A. Hansen and Betty E. Mitson (Fullerton: Japanese American Project, California State University Oral History Program, 1974), 14. 41. Testimony of Setsuko Matsunaga Nishi, House Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations, 184. 42. Testimony of Ben Takeshita, CWRIC, San Francisco, August 11, 1981. 43. Testimony of Bebe Reschke, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 6, 1981. 44. Testimony of Mary Oda, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 4, 1981. 45. For overviews, see Harvard Sitkoff, The Struggle for Black Equality (New York: Hill and Wang, 1981); Taylor Branch, Parting the Waters: America in the King Years (New York: Touchstone, 1988); Aldon Morris, The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement (New York: Free Press, 1984); Clayborne Carson, In Struggle: SNCC and the Black Awakening of the 1960s (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981); and William H. Chafe, Civilities and Civil Rights: Greensboro, North Carolina, and the Black Struggle for Freedom (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980). 46. William L. Van Deburg, New Day in Babylon: The Black Power Movement and American Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992). 47. Bert Nakano, author’s interview, Garden, CA, July 8, 1993. 48. Wendy L. Ng, “The Collective Memories of Communities,” California State University at Long Beach Daily Forty-Niner, November 4, 1981, in Asian Americans: Comparative and Global Perspectives, ed. Shirley Hune, Hyung-chan Kim, Stephen S. Fugita, and Amy Ling (Pullman: Washington State University Press, 1991), 112.

486 Notes to Chapter 5 49. Nobu Miyoshi, “Identity Crisis of the Sansei and the American Concentration Camps,” Pacific Citizen, December 19–26, 1980. 50. Ibid. 51. Nagata, “Legacy of Injustice,” 57, 68, 208–9; Shamai Davidson, “The Clinical Effects of Massive Psychic Trauma in Families of Holocaust Survivors,” Journal of Marital and Family Therapy 6 (1980): 12–21. See also Robert Krell, “Holocaust Families: The Survivors and Their Children,” Comprehensive Psychiatry 20 (1979): 560–68; Robert M. Prince, “Second Generation Effects of Historical Trauma,” Psychoanalytic Review 72 (1985): 9–29. 52. Amy Uyematsu, “The Emergence of Yellow Power in America,” Gidra, October 1969. 53. Dale Minami, “Exploring the Past,” Pacific Citizen, December 24–31, 1976. 54. Evelyn Yoshimura, “How I Became an Activist and What It All Means to Me,” Amerasia Journal 15, no. 1 (Spring 1989): 109. Of course, Eugene Rostow had denounced the Supreme Court’s endorsement of internment in 1945. Chapter 6 discusses how both “liberal” and “radical” historians situated the racist aspect of internment within a context of greater duration, from the 1960s through to the 1980s. 55. Karen Umemoto, “On Strike!: San Francisco State College Strike, 1968–69: The Role of Asian American Students,” Amerasia Journal 15, no. 1 (Spring 1989): 3–41; Glenn Omatsu, “Editorial Forum: The ‘Four Prisons’ and the Movements for Liberation,” Amerasia Journal 15, no. 1 (Spring 1989): xiii–xxxi; William Wei, The Asian American Movement (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1993); Yen Le Espiritu, Asian American Panethnicity: Bridging Institutions and Identities (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992). 56. Yoshimura, “How I Became an Activist,” 108. 57. Pat Sumi, “U.S. War Crimes in the Philippines,” Gidra, July 1971. 58. Interview with Pat Sumi, in Roots: An Asian American Reader, ed. Amy Tachiki et al. (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1971), 257. 59. Alan Nishio, author’s interview, Los Angeles, July 10, 1993. 60. Ichiro Mike Murase, Little Tokyo: One Hundred Years in Pictures (Los Angeles: Visual Communications and Asian American Studies Central, 1983), 142; Little Tokyo Anti-Eviction Task Force, “Redevelopment in Los Angeles’ Little Tokyo,” Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, ed. Emma Gee (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1976), 327–33. 61. Glen Ikuo Kitayama, “Japanese Americans and the Movement for Redress: A Case Study of Grassroots Activism in the Los Angeles Chapter for the National Coalition for Redress/Reparations” (master’s thesis, University of California, Los Angeles, 1993).

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62. June Hibino, author’s interview, Los Angeles, July 14, 1993. 63. Isao Fujimoto, “The Failure of Democracy in a Time of Crisis: The War-Time Internment of Japanese Americans and Its Relevance Today,” Gidra, September 1969. 64. Chizu Iiyama, author’s interview, El Cerrito, CA, May 4, 1990. 65. Mei Nakano, author’s interview, Sebastopol, CA, September 8, 1990. 66. Ibid. 67. Manzanar Committee, “The Beginnings,” in The Manzanar Pilgrimage: A Time for Sharing (Los Angeles: Manzanar Committee, 1981), 8–9. 68. Edison Uno, “Manzanar—More Than a Memory,” Rafu Shimpo, January 12, 1970. 69. “Manzanar—the Continuing Struggle: An Interview with Sue Kunitomi Embrey,” in Voices Long Silent, eds. Hansen and Mitson, 165. 70. Uno, “More Than a Memory.” 71. Ibid. 72. Rev. Lloyd Wake, Pilgrimage address, December 27, 1969, reprinted in The Manzanar Pilgrimage: A Time for Sharing, 13. 73. Jim Matsuoka, author’s interview, Long Beach, CA, May 22, 1992. 74. Jim Matsuoka, Pilgrimage speech, December 27, 1969, reprinted in The Manzanar Pilgrimage: A Time for Sharing, 12. 75. Fred Hirasuna, “Sansei Will Never Realize Hell of Evacuated Nisei,” Pacific Citizen, February 6, 1970. 76. Ken Hayashi, “Another Way of Looking at Sansei,” Pacific Citizen, February 20, 1970. 77. Sue Kunitomi Embrey, letter to the editor, Pacific Citizen, March 6, 1970. 78. Edison Uno, “Not a Quiet American,” Pacific Citizen, March 20, 1970. 79. Sue Kunitomi Embrey, respondent, “Voices of Japanese American Redress”; Sue Kunitomi Embrey, author’s interview, Los Angeles, February 25, 1998. 80. For more on this Day of Remembrance program and the impact of activism in the Pacific Northwest, see Yasuko I. Takezawa, Breaking the Silence: Redress and Japanese American Ethnicity (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1995). 81. Hiroshi Kashiwagi, “A Meeting of Tule Lake” (1975 paper read at the Tule Lake Pilgrimage, Modoc County, Newell, CA, September 28, 1991). 82. Bill Hosokawa, Nisei: The Quiet Americans; The Story of a People (New York: William Morrow, 1969). 83. Shigeo Wakamatsu, foreword to East to America: A History of the Japanese in the United States, by Robert A. Wilson and Bill Hosokawa (New York: William Morrow, 1980), 12. 84. Ibid., 15.

488

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85. Merilynne Hamano, “Merit in Jr. JACL Enumerated,” Pacific Citizen, February 7, 1969. 86. David Miura, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, April 4, 1969. 87. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice, 325. 88. Alan Kumamoto, “The Changing JACL,” Pacific Citizen, March 28, 1969. 89. Pacific Citizen, “135 Nikkei Parade as Pickets While 300 Diners Hear Hayakawa,” March 7, 1969. 90. Rafu Shimpo, “Asian Americans for Peace March through Little Tokyo Saturday,” January 14, 1970. 91. Mike Masaoka, “JACL in the 1970s,” Pacific Citizen, January 2–9, 1970. 92. Bill Hosokawa to Edison Uno, 7 May 1969, Uno Collection, box 66, folder 1; Mike Masaoka to Edison Uno, 30 June 1969, Uno Collection. 93. Hokubei Mainichi, “Nisei: The Quiet Americans?” September 6, 1969. 94. Roy Sano, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, June 13, 1969. 95. Raymond Okamura to Howard Cady, 28 July 1969, Uno Collection. 96. Mineo Katagiri to William Morrow, 2 September 1969, Uno Collection. 97. Hokubei Mainichi, “Nisei: The Quiet Americans?” August 26, 1969. 98. Pacific Citizen, “A book for All to Get Record Straight on AJAs,” December 5, 1969. 99. Mike Masaoka, “Nisei: The Quiet Americans?” Pacific Citizen, January 23, 1970. 100. Hokubei Mainichi, “Nisei: The Quiet Americans?” September 6, 1969. 101. Bill Hosokawa to Jerry Enomoto, 9 September 1969, Uno Collection. 102. Rafu Shimpo, “Nisei: The Quiet Americans?” January 21, 1970. 103. Pacific Citizen, “JACL Distributes Hosokawa Book to Key Officials in Washington,” January 29, 1970. 104. Mike Masaoka, “Nisei: The Quiet Americans?” 105. Pacific Citizen, “200 Honor Hosokawa,” December 5, 1969. 106. Edwin O. Reischauer, foreword to Nisei: The Quiet Americans, xi–xii. 107. Hosokawa, epilogue to Nisei: The Quiet Americans, 494–97. 108. William Hogan, review of Nisei: The Quiet Americans, San Francisco Chronicle, December 4, 1969. 109. Dick Gima, review of Nisei: The Quiet Americans, Pacific Citizen, February 13, 1970. 110. Barron Beshoar, review of Nisei: The Quiet Americans, Denver Post, November 23, 1969. 111. George Ringwald, review of Nisei: The Quiet Americans, Rafu Shimpo, May 26, 1970; Mary Tani, review of Nisei: The Quiet Americans, Crossroads, December 5, 1969.

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112. Yuji Ichioka, review of Nisei: The Quiet Americans, Gidra, January 1970, reprinted in Roots: An Asian American Reader, 221–22. 113. Bruce Iwasaki, “Response and Change for the Asian in America: A Survey of Asian American Literature,” in Roots: An Asian American Reader, ed. Amy Tachiki et al., 92–93. 114. Frank Chin, introduction to Aiiieeeee! An Anthology of Asian-American Writers, ed. Frank Chin, Jeffrey Paul Chan, Lawson Fusao Inada, and Shawn Hsu Wong (Washington, DC: Howard University Press, 1983), xxvii–xxviii. 115. See, for example, Stephen H. Sumida, “Protest and Accommodation, Self-Satire and Self-Effacement, and Monica Sone’s Nisei Daughter,” in Multicultural Autobiography: American Lives, ed. James Robert Payne (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1992), 207–247. 116. Monica Sone, Nisei Daughter (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1979; orig. pub. 1953, Little Brown). Other examples of early Japanese American accounts of the camps include Mine Okubo, Citizen 13660 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1946); Toru Matsumoto, Beyond Prejudice: A Story of the Church and Japanese Americans (New York: Friendship Press, 1946); and Rev. Yoshiaki Fukuda, My Six Years of Internment: An Issei’s Struggle for Justice (San Francisco: Konko Church, 1990), translation of Yokuryu Seikatsu Rokunen (Okayama, Japan: Tamashima Kappansho, 1957). 117. T. W. Tanaka, review of Nisei Daughter, Chicago Sunday Tribune, February 1, 1953. 118. Georgianne Sampson, review of Nisei Daughter, New York Herald Tribune, February 1, 1953. 119. J. H. Jackson, “Monica Sone’s Nisei Daughter,” San Francisco Chronicle, January 20, 1953. 120. Takahashi Oka, review of Nisei Daughter, Christian Science Monitor, February 26, 1953. 121. Sone, Nisei Daughter, 238. 122. Testimony of Monica Sone, CWRIC, Chicago, September 22, 1981. 123. R. W. Henderson, “Journey to Washington,” Library Journal (May 1, 1967). 124. Sumida, “Protest and Accommodation,” 214–15. 125. J. J. Conlin, “Americans in Disguise,” Best Seller 31 (April 1, 1971): 9. 126. Marilyn Hoffman, “Moving Beyond Manzanar,” Christian Science Monitor, January 28, 1985. 127. Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston, presentation (author’s panel, Burlingame City Library, Burlingame, CA, April 29, 1990). 128. Anthony Friedson, “No More Farewells: An Author’s interview with Jeanne and John Houston,” Biography 7, no. 1 (1984): 54–55.

490

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129. Elaine H. Kim, Asian American Literature: An Introduction to the Writings and Their Social Context (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1982), 84. 130. Hoffman, “Moving Beyond Manzanar.” 131. Friedson, “No More Farewells,” 53. 132. Kim, Asian American Literature, 85. 133. Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston and James D. Houston, Farewell to Manzanar: A True Story of Japanese-American Experience during and after World War II Internment (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1973), 72–74. 134. Ibid., 72. 135. Ibid., 79, 114, 123. 136. Ibid., 61–63. 137. Friedson, “No More Farewells,” 50. 138. Katherine Anderson, review of Farewell to Manzanar, by Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston and James D. Houston, Library Journal (January 15, 1974): 227. 139. Lee Ruttle, review of Farewell to Manzanar, Pacific Citizen, January 4–11, 1974. 140. Rafu Shimpo, “Humanities Prize Worth $25,000 Won by Farewell to Manzanar,” July 10, 1976. 141. Pacific Citizen, “NBC-TV to Telecast Manzanar Story on Thursday, March 11,” March 5, 1976. 142. Sandra Stotsky, “Changes in America’s Secondary School Literature Programs,” Phi Delta Kappan 76, no. 8 (April 1995): 605. 143. Gael Muramoto, “Farewell to Manzanar Has Critics, Too,” Pacific Citizen, March 12, 1976. 144. Edison Uno, “Farewell,” Pacific Citizen, March 5, 1976. 145. Muramoto, “Farewell to Manzanar Has Critics, Too.” 146. Ibid. 147. Frank Chin, “Go for Broke! vs. Farewell to Manzanar,” Pacific Citizen, March 26, 1976. 148. Frank Chin, “Go for Broke! vs. Farewell to Manzanar: Part IV,” Pacific Citizen, April 16, 1976. 149. John Okada, No-No Boy (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1976; orig. pub. 1957, Charles E. Tuttle). 150. The Big Aiiieeeee! An Anthology of Chinese American and Japanese American Literature, ed. Jeffery Paul Chan et al. (New York: Penguin Books, 1991), 478–79. 151. Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, March 19, 1976. 152. Elaine and Karl Yoneda, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, April 9, 1976. 153. Paul M. Shinkawa, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, July 2, 1976.

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154. George Yasukochi, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, March 28, 1976. 155. Sachi Seko, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, April 16, 1976. 156. Jeanne Houston discussed these problems with Friedson and Hoffman. 157. Maxine Hong Kingston, The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Childhood among Ghosts (New York: Vintage Books, 1976); Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club (New York: Ivy Books, 1989); Lois-Ann Yamanaka, Blu’s Hanging (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997). For views on the controversy, see Frank Chin, “Come All Yee Asian American Writers of the Real and the Fake,” in The Big Aiiieeeee! 1–92; Sau-ling Cynthia Wong, “Autobiography as Guided Chinatown Tour? Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior and the Chinese American Autobiographical Controversy,” in Multicultural Autobiography: American Lives, ed. James Robert Payne (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1992), 248–79; and Mika Tanner, “The Real-Life Sequel to Blu’s Hanging,” AsianWeek, August 6–12, 1998, 1–4. 158. Raymond Okamura, “Farewell to Manzanar: A Case of Subliminal Racism,” in Counterpoint, ed. Emma Gee, 280–82. 159. Roger Daniels, The Politics of Prejudice: The Anti-Japanese Movement in California and the Struggle for Japanese Exclusion (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1962); Arthur A. Hansen and David A. Hacker, “The Manzanar Riot: An Ethnic Perspective,” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 2 (Fall 1974): 112–57. chapter 6

1. Raymond Okamura, “The Concentration Camp Experience from a Japanese American Perspective: A Bibliographic Essay and Review of Michi Weglyn’s Years of Infamy,” in Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, ed. Emma Gee (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1976), 27–30; Michi Weglyn, Years of Infamy: the Untold Story of America’s Concentration Camps (New York: William Morrow, 1976). 2. Allan Bosworth wrote to Weglyn protesting that he had told a similar story when he published his book in 1967. See Allan Bosworth to Michi Weglyn, n.d., Edison Uno Collection (hereafter cited as Uno Collection), box 78, folder 1 (University Research Library, University of California, Los Angeles); and Allan R. Bosworth, America’s Concentration Camps (New York: W. W. Norton, 1967). I would argue that except for using the term concentration camp in his title, Bosworth’s book does not differ much from earlier accounts that portrayed internment as a wartime mistake and emphasized internee loyalty and patriotism. 3. Okamura cited in Roger Daniels, The Politics of Prejudice: The AntiJapanese Movement in California and the Struggle for Japanese Exclusion

492 Notes to Chapter 6 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1962); and Arthur A. Hansen and David A. Hacker, “The Manzanar Riot: An Ethnic Perspective,” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 2 (Fall 1974): 112–57. See Raymond Okamura, “Farewell to Manzanar: A Case of Subliminal Racism,” Counterpoint, 283n5, 283n8; note 5 cites Daniels and note 8 cites Hansen and Hacker; Daniels is cited again in Raymond Okamura, “Iva Ikuko Toguri: Victim of an American Fantasy,” Counterpoint, 96n9. 4. Okamura, “The Concentration Camp Experience,” 30. 5. Edison Uno, “42 Hysteria Led to Concentration Camps,” Pacific Citizen, December 20–27, 1974. 6. Daniels, preface to The Politics of Prejudice, viii. 7. Roger Daniels, author’s interview, Indianapolis, April 4, 1998. 8. Stetson Conn, “Japanese Evacuation from the West Coast,” in The United States Army in World War II: The Western Hemisphere; Guarding the United States and Its Outposts, ed. Stetson Conn, Rose C. Engleman, and Byron Fairchild (Washington, DC: GPO, 1964). Daniels also read during his dissertation research a chapter by Conn published in Kent Roberts Greenfield, Command Decisions (Washington, DC: GPO, 1960). 9. Daniels, author’s interview. 10. Roger Daniels, Concentration Camps USA: Japanese Americans and World War II (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971), 56. 11. Ibid., xiv. 12. Ibid., 105. 13. Ibid., 108. 14. Stetson Conn, review of Concentration Camps USA: Japanese Americans and World War II, by Roger Daniels, Pacific Historical Review 61, no. 4 (November 1972): 548. 15. Roger Daniels, letter to the editor, Pacific Historical Review 62, no. 2 (May 1973): 268. 16. Roger Daniels to the Editor for the Oxford Companion to the United States History; Roger Daniels to the author, email, 20 November 1999. 17. Harry H. L. Kitano, Japanese Americans: The Evolution of a Subculture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1977). 18. Daniels, author’s interview. 19. Ivy Makabe Down, letter to the editor, Pacific Citizen, December 20–27, 1974. 20. “Manzanar—the Continuing Struggle: An Author’s interview with Sue Kunitomi Embrey,” in Voices Long Silent: An Oral Inquiry into the Japanese American Evacuation, ed. Arthur A. Hansen and Betty E. Mitson (Fullerton: Japanese American Project, California State University Oral History Program, 1974), 189.

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21. The Lost Years: 1942–1946, ed. Sue Kunitomi Embrey (Los Angeles: Manzanar Project/Moonlight Publications, 1972). 22. Ibid., 118; Douglas W. Nelson, “Heart Mountain: The History of an American Concentration Camp” (master’s thesis, University of Wyoming, 1970); Douglas W. Nelson, Heart Mountain: The History of an American Concentration Camp (Madison: State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1976). 23. Daniels, Concentration Camps USA, 129. 24. Gary Y. Okihiro, author’s interview, Honolulu, June 30, 1998. 25. Ibid. 26. Ibid. 27. Gary Y. Okihiro, “Religion and Resistance in America’s Concentration Camps,” Phylon 45, no. 3 (September 1984): 221. 28. Gary Y. Okihiro, “Tule Lake under Martial Law: A Study of Japanese Resistance,” Journal of Ethnic Studies 5, no. 3 (Fall 1977): 72. 29. Okihiro, author’s interview. 30. Gary Y. Okihiro, “Japanese Resistance in America’s Concentration Camps: A Re-evaluation,” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 1 (Fall 1973): 20–34. 31. Ibid. 32. Okihiro, “Religion and Resistance,” 233. 33. Arthur A. Hansen and David A. Hacker, “The Manzanar Riot: An Ethnic Perspective,” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 2 (Fall 1974): 112–57. Hansen also provides insightful analysis in his article “Cultural Politics in the Gila River Relocation Center, 1942–1943,” Arizona and the West 27, no. 4 (Winter 1985): 327–62. 34. Hansen and Hacker, “Manzanar Riot,” 141. 35. Ibid., 142. 36. Weglyn, Years of Infamy, 21. 37. Mary Y. Karasawa, “Michi and Me,” Pacific Citizen, February 6, 1976; Weglyn, Years of Infamy, 22. 38. Sachi Seko, “New York’s Nominee,” Pacific Citizen, July 9, 1976. 39. New York Daily News, “Michi Weglyn’s Years of Infamy,” July 22, 1976. 40. Ibid., 33–35, 39–52. 41. Mary Y. Karasawa, “Michi and Me.” 42. Arthur A. Hansen, review of Years of Infamy: The Untold Story of America’s Concentration Camps, by Michi Weglyn, Pacific Historical Review 82, no. 3 (June 1977): 765–66. 43. Gary Y. Okihiro, review of Years of Infamy, Amerasia Journal 4, no. 1 (Spring 1977): 168–69. 44. Ibid., 170. 45. Okihiro, author’s interview.

494 Notes to Chapter 6 46. “Years of Infamy Wins Accolades for Author Michi Weglyn,” Rafu Shimpo, August 9, 1976. 47. Paul Tsuneishi to Howard Cady, 15 May 1976, Uno Collection, box 78, folder 1. 48. William Hohri to Michi Weglyn, n.d., Uno Collection, box 78, folder 1. 49. Joy A. Yamauchi, “From the Editor,” Tozai Times, February 1998. 50. Michi Weglyn, letter to the editor, Hokubei Mainichi, May 19, 1976. 51. Kenji G. Taguma, “National Redress Activist, Author Michi Weglyn Dies,” Nichi Bei Times, April 30, 1999. 52. Clifford Uyeda, who chaired the JACL’s National Redress Committee, thanked Weglyn for making it impossible for Americans to “claim ignorance of the Evacuation inequity.” William Hohri, a harsh critic of the JACL’s redress campaign, shared Uyeda’s appreciation of Weglyn’s research. Hohri experienced a “quantum leap” when Weglyn’s book was published. It helped him realize internment was caused by “racism and duplicity at the highest levels of government.” Clifford Uyeda, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, July 16, 1976; William Hohri, “Dear Friends,” National Council for Japanese-American Redress (NCJAR) Newsletter, November 5, 1982, 1. 53. Testimony of Kiku Hori Funabiki. See also Testimony of Junji Kumamoto, Senate Subcommittee on Civil Service, Post Office, and General Services (Committee on Governmental Affairs), To Accept the Findings and to Implement the Recommendations of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians: Hearings on S. 2116, 98th Cong., 2d sess. (Washington, DC: GPO, 1983). 54. Weglyn, Years of Infamy, 270. 55. Ibid., 278–81. 56. William Hedgepeth, “America’s Concentration Camps: The Rumors and Realities,” Look, May 28, 1968, 85–90. 57. United States Statutes at Large 64 (1950), 1019, Emergency Detention Act, Section 103. 58. Ibid., 86. 59. Ibid., 86–90. 60. Pacific Citizen, “The Concentration Camp Rumor: Nisei Urges Repeal of 1952 McCarran Act to Bar Detention Camp Revival; JACL in Strong Reply,” September 8, 1967, 1. 61. Charles R. Allen, Concentration Camps, U.S.A. (Marzani & Munsell, 1966), 59. 62. Berkeley Barb, “Concentration Camps Ready as War Nears,” June 9–15, 1967, 3.

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63. L. F. Palmer Jr., “When Black Professional People Start Talking Like Rap Brown (and They Are),” Chicago Daily News, October 8, 1968. 64. Paul W. Valentine, “U.S. Negroes Shudder at Concentration Camp Rumors,” Sunday Gazette-Mail, February 25, 1968, 2A. 65. The Black Panther, “Concentration Camp,” July 12, 1969. 66. Raymond Okamura, letter to the editor re: the Sansei, Pacific Citizen, April 18, 1969, 6. 67. Raymond Okamura, “Background and History of the Repeal Campaign,” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 2 (Fall 1974): 77. 68. Pacific Citizen, “Nisei Urges Repeal of 1952 McCarran Act.” 69. Ibid., 1–2. 70. Mike Masaoka with Bill Hosokawa, They Call Me Moses Masaoka: An American Saga (New York: William Morrow, 1987), 304. 71. John Higham, introduction to Ethnic Leadership in America, ed. John Higham (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978). See articles in this collection for descriptions of battles between minority protesters and accommodationists. See also Deward E. Walker Jr., Conflict and Schism in Nez Perce Acculturation: A Study of Religion and Politics (Pullman: Washington State University Press, 1968). 72. Roy Nishikawa, “Is the JACL Dead?” Pacific Citizen, December 5, 1969, 3. 73. The initial ad hoc committee consisted of seven California JACL members from the chapter in Contra Costa County and those in the cities of Berkeley and Oakland. After the committee convinced these three chapters in the East Bay (across the Bay from San Francisco) to endorse a formal resolution, it learned JACL’s San Francisco and Seattle members had mounted independent repeal campaigns. The three groups then joined together. Okamura, “History of the Repeal,” 78. 74. Mike Masaoka, “JACL Campaign against Concentration Camps,” Pacific Citizen, March 7, 1969, 2. 75. Okamura, “History of the Repeal,” 83. 76. Kats Kunitsugu, “Confrontation in Silence,” Pacific Citizen, February 14, 1969, 6. 77. Jeffrey Matsui, “No Laughing Matter,” Pacific Citizen, February 14, 1969, 6. 78. Pacific Citizen, “135 Nikkei Parade as Pickets While 300 Diners Hear Hayakawa,” March 7, 1969; Okamura, letters to the editor re: the Sansei. For a conservative critique of Okamura’s messages, see Fred Y. Hirasuna and Tokio Yamamoto, letter to the editor re: the Sansei, Pacific Citizen, May 30, 1969, 4. 79. Raymond Okamura, “A Challenge to Nisei: Start Behaving Like Men, Women,” Pacific Citizen, May 16, 1969.

496 Notes to Chapter 6 80. “Teachers Realize AJA Community Not All Docile, of Diverse Views,” Pacific Citizen, May 9, 1969, 1. 81. National Liberation Caucus of the JACL, JACL National Liberation Newsletter, no. 1, July 15, 1970, Edison Uno Collection, box 40, folder 7. 82. Ibid., no. 2, July 16, 1970. 83. “Japanese Americans for Confrontation and Liberation” (position paper, n.d.), 3, Uno Collection, box 40, folder 7. 84. “Resolution on Political Prisoners,” n.d., Uno Collection, box 40, folder 7. 85. Mei Nakano, Japanese American Women: Three Generations, 1890–1990 (Berkeley, CA: Mina Publishing Press; San Francisco: National Japanese American Historical Society, 1990), 195. 86. Mei Nakano, author’s interview, Sebastopol, CA, September 8, 1990. 87. JACL Anti-Detention Camp Fund, “Concentration Camps in America?” State Landmark Program, individual files, no. 850, Manzanar Relocation Center files (hereafter cited as Manzanar files) (Sacramento: California Department of Parks and Recreation, Office of Historic Preservation). 88. House Committee on Un-American Activities, Guerrilla Warfare Advocates in the United States, 90th Cong., 2d sess., H. Doc. 1351 (Washington, DC: GPO, 1969). 89. Herb Robinson, “American Concentration Camp Rumors to Persist If Title II Remains,” Seattle Times, October 20, 1969. 90. Ibid. 91. Elizabeth B. Drew, “Reports: Washington,” Atlantic Monthly, May 1969, 11–12; Mike Masaoka, “Magazine Comments on Detention Camps,” Pacific Citizen, May 9, 1969, 2. 92. Pacific Citizen, “Title II Campaign: Heartening Responses,” September 17, 1971, 6. 93. Okamura, “History of the Repeal,” 83. 94. Dave Ushio, “Review House Tussle over Title II,” Pacific Citizen, October 1, 1971. 95. Okamura, “History of the Repeal,” 83. 96. Ibid., 89. 97. Pacific Citizen, “JACL Letter Backs S. 1872,” May 23, 1969, 8. 98. Mike Masaoka to Ray Okamura, Paul Yamamoto, and Edison Uno, memorandum re: Title II hearings, 6 March 1970, Uno Collection, box 43, folder 5. 99. Testimony of Jerry J. Enomoto, House Committee on Internal Security, Repeal of the Emergency Detention Act of 1950: Hearings on H.R. 3266, 91st Cong., 2d sess., March 24, 1970. 100. Statement of Raymond Okamura for the Japanese American Citizens

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League, House Committee on Internal Security, Repeal of the Emergency Detention Act of 1950: Hearings on H.R. 3266–3268, 91st Cong., 2d sess., March 24, 1970. 101. David Ushio, “Communist Dupes,” Pacific Citizen, September 24, 1971, 2. 102. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 305. 103. Ibid., 306. 104. “Inouye Paces Speedy Senate Action,” Pacific Citizen, September 14, 1971, 1. 105. “House Speaker Albert in tribute to Mike Masaoka,” Pacific Citizen, October 1, 1971, 1. 106. David Ushio, “Title II Comments,” Pacific Citizen, October 15, 1971. 107. Phil Ihara, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, October 22, 1971, 6. 108. Hokubei Mainichi, “Four Years of Determined Push Led by Ray Okamura—Hard Hitting One-Man Drive Bears Congressional Fruit,” September 18, 1971, reprinted in Pacific Citizen, October 22, 1971, 6. 109. Kaz Oshiki, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, October 27, 1976, 6. As the editor indicated, Oshiki failed to note that Okamura testified before the House Internal Security Committee. 110. Edison Uno, “Therapeutic and Educational Benefits (A Commentary),” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 2 (Fall 1974): 110. 111. Hiroshi Kanno, “Broader Implications of the Campaign (A Commentary),” Amerasia Journal 2, no. 2 (Fall 1974): 105–6. 112. Ibid., 106. 113. Richard Kleindienst to Senator James O. Eastland, 2 December 1969, reprinted in The Decision to Relocate the Japanese Americans, by Roger Daniels (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1975), 131–32. 114. Okamura, “History of the Repeal,” 89. 115. For more details on the landmark controversy, see Nadine Ishitani Hata, The Historic Preservation Movement in California, 1940–1976 (Sacramento: California Department of Parks and Recreation, Office of Historic Preservation, 1992), 168–72. 116. John H. Michael to Warren T. Furutani, 24 January 1972, Manzanar files. 117. Manzanar Committee, Original Text as Written and Submitted by the Manzanar Committee, Manzanar files. 118. Furutani to Michael, 19 May 1972, Manzanar files. 119. Michael to Furutani, 7 April 1972, Manzanar files. 120. Furutani requested that the plaque credit the role of the Manzanar Committee rather than the JACL. The Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee had assumed he was representing the JACL, and that the Manzanar Committee was a subgroup of the JACL. The Manzanar Committee, however, was an or-

498 Notes to Chapter 6 ganization in its own right. Further confusing the issue, Furutani was both the coordinator of the Manzanar Committee and the JACL’s community involvement national coordinator; Warren T. Furutani to John H. Michael, 19 May 1972, Manzanar files. 121. Minutes of the Meeting of the California Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee, October 27, 1972, Donner Memorial State Park, Manzanar files. 122. Manzanar Committee press release, November 4, 1972, Manzanar files. 123. Henry T. Tanaka to William Penn Mott, 13 November 1972, Manzanar files. 124. Beverlei Whiteside, “Battle over the Words of War,” Los Angeles HeraldExaminer, August 9, 1973. 125. Arthur A. Hansen to William Penn Mott, 5 January 1973, Manzanar files. 126. John H. Michael to Sue Kunitomi Embrey and Warren T. Furutani, 22 November 1972, Manzanar files. 127. Meeting in Director Mott’s Office, February 20, 1973, Manzanar files; William Penn Mott to Robert Moretti, 23 February 1973, Manzanar files. 128. Henry Taketa to John H. Michael, 8 November 1972, Manzanar files. 129. Shonin Yamashita to William Penn Mott, n.d., Manzanar files. 130. Lillian Baker, The Concentration Camp Conspiracy: A Second Pearl Harbor (Lawndale, CA: Americans for Historical Accuracy Publications, 1981), 1. 131. Ruth Yamazaki, “Evacuation: A Candid View,” Pacific Citizen, July 17, 1974, submitted by Lillian Baker to Russell W. Cahill, August 1, 1979, Manzanar files. 132. Lillian Baker to Robert Epstein, 20 August 1973, Manzanar files. 133. Alex Garcia to William Penn Mott, 1 March 1973, Manzanar files. 134. James Murakami, Manzanar, n.d., State Landmark Program individual files, no. 850-2, Tule Lake files (Sacramento: California Department of Parks and Recreation, Office of Historic Preservation). 135. Moretti to Mott, 2 March 1973, Manzanar files. 136. Sue Kunitomi Embrey, Manzanar Committee Chronology of Events, May 1973, Manzanar files. 137. R. Coke Wood, letter to the editor, Pacific Citizen, May 28, 1976, Manzanar files. According to Lillian Baker’s transcript of a later Landmarks Committee meeting, another member, Rev. Noel F. Moholy, also attributed the decision to “political machinations—going over the head of this Commission.” Lillian Baker, Excerpt from Taped Meeting of the California State Historical Resources Commission, November 6, 1976, Manzanar files. 138. William Penn Mott to Shonin Yamashita, 28 December 1973, Manzanar files.

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139. William S. Briner to Frank La Haye Metal Works, 20 March 1973, Manzanar files. 140. Rafu Shimpo, “Submit Text for Plaque at Tule Lake,” February 10, 1975. 141. Wes Doi and David Ushio to California Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee, 31 July 1975, Tule Lake files. 142. Eugene Itogawa to Knox Mellon, memorandum, 4 November 1975, Tule Lake files. 143. Raymond Okamura to Herbert Rhodes, 26 October 1975, Tule Lake files. 144. Lillian Baker to Herbert Rhodes, 15 October 1975, Tule Lake files. 145. Tule Lake State Historical Landmark, 16 March 1977, Tule Lake files. 146. Ben Takeshita, “A ‘No-No’ Segregee,” Pacific Citizen, July 27, 1979. 147. Roger Daniels, Asian America: Chinese and Japanese in the United States since 1850 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1988), 330. 148. Stanley I. Kutler, “Forging a Legend: The Treason of ‘Tokyo Rose,’” Wisconsin Law Review 6 (1980): 1341–82, and “At the Bar of History: Japanese Americans versus the United States,” American Bar Foundation Research Journal (Spring 1985): 361–73. See also Masayo Duus, Tokyo Rose: Orphan of the Pacific (New York: Kodansha International, 1979). 149. National JACL Resolution Adopted by the National Council, July 27, 1974, 23rd Biennial National Japanese American Citizens League Convention, Portland, Oregon, reprinted in National Committee for Iva Toguri, Iva Toguri (D’Aquino): Victim of a Legend (San Francisco: Japanese American Citizens League, 1975), 29. 150. Edison Uno, “Who Will Ask the Question?” Pacific Citizen, October 8, 1976. 151. Isami Arifuku Waugh, “The Trial of Tokyo Rose,” Bridge (February 1974): 5–12, 40–46. 152. Mike Masaoka to Mas Satow, memorandum re: Tokyo Rose deportation, 14 March 1956, Uno Collection, box 39, folder 1; Mas Satow to Mike Masaoka, memorandum re: Tokyo Rose deportation, 20 March 1956, Uno Collection; Abe Hagiwara to Mike Masaoka, memorandum re: Tokyo Rose deportation, 26 March 1956, Uno Collection. 153. William Hohri to Michi Weglyn, n.d., Uno Collection, box 78, folder 1. 154. John Juji Hada, “The Indictment and Trial of Iva Ikuko Toguri D’Aquino” (master’s thesis, University of San Francisco, 1973). 155. Clifford I. Uyeda, author’s interview, San Francisco, May 11, 1990. 156. Clifford I. Uyeda, “The Pardoning of ‘Tokyo Rose’: A Report on the Restoration of American Citizenship to Iva Ikuko Toguri,” Amerasia Journal 5, no. 2 (Fall 1978): 69–72. 157. National Committee for Iva Toguri, Iva Toguri (D’Aquino): Victim of a Legend.

500 Notes to Chapters 6 and 7 158. Uyeda, “The Pardoning of ‘Tokyo Rose,’” 90. 159. National Committee for Iva Toguri, Iva Toguri (D’Aquino): Victim of a Legend, 30–31. 160. Uyeda, “The Pardoning of ‘Tokyo Rose,’” 80–82. 161. Okamura, “Iva Ikuko Toguri,” 86. 162. National Committee for Iva Toguri, Iva Toguri (D’Aquino): Victim of a Legend, 4. 163. Okamura, “Iva Ikuko Toguri,” 86–90. 164. National Committee for Iva Toguri, Iva Toguri (D’Aquino): Victim of a Legend, 23. 165. Okamura, “Iva Ikuko Toguri,” 92–93. Okamura was quoting Larry Tajiri, “Nisei USA: Kawakita and Tokyo Rose,” Pacific Citizen, June 19, 1948. 166. Larry S. Tajiri, “Punishing a Legend,” Pacific Citizen, October 8, 1949. For other sympathetic accounts, see Pacific Citizen, “Jury, Verdict: Both Not Right,” October 8, 1949, and Larry S. Tajiri, “‘Tokio Rose’—Was She Really Guilty?” Pacific Citizen, January 13, 1956. 167. Rafu Shimpo, “Urge End to Myth That Convicted ‘Tokyo Rose,’ ” November 17, 1976. 168. Pacific Citizen, “Matsunaga Backs Iva’s Bid for Pardon,” May 7, 1976. 169. Uyeda, author’s interview. 170. Uyeda, “The Pardoning of ‘Tokyo Rose,’” 91. 171. Ibid., 83–87. 172. Bill Hosokawa, “The Hayakawa Connection,” Pacific Citizen, February 18, 1977. 173. Wayne Horiuchi, “Iva Toguri Case,” Pacific Citizen, May 7, 1976. 174. Wayne Horiuchi, “Pardon for Iva Toguri,” Pacific Citizen, February 11, 1977. 175. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice: History of the Japanese American Citizens League (New York: William Morrow, 1982), 339–41. 176. Mike Masaoka, “JACL 1970–72 Biennium Report,” June 26, 1972, Uno Collection, box 39, folder 9. chapter 7

1. S. I. Hayakawa, “Senator-Elect S. I. Hayakawa Expounds His Views on the Japanese American Relocation Experience,” Rafu Shimpo, December 27, 1976. 2. Bill Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice; History of the Japanese American Citizens League (New York: William Morrow, 1982), 347. 3. John Tateishi, author’s interview, San Francisco, March 16, 1998. 4. NCRR Banner, August 1987, 1.

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5. Clifford I. Uyeda, author’s interview, San Francisco, May 11, 1990. 6. Midwest District Council, “We’re Not Together,” Pacific Citizen, April 15, 1977, 9. 7. Edison Uno, “A Requital Supplication,” Edison Uno Collection (hereafter cited as Uno Collection), box 38, folder 3 (University Research Library, University of California, Los Angeles). 8. Edison Uno, letter to the editor, Hokubei Mainichi, June 30, 1970. 9. “Edison Uno to Henry Miyatake, 10 December 1975, Uno Collection, box 75, folder 3. 10. Edison Uno, “A Great Shame,” Pacific Citizen, October 10, 1975, 2. 11. Tateishi, author’s interview. 12. Ibid. By this time, Masaoka had resigned from the JACL and was working as a lobbyist. 13. Bill Hosokawa, “Redress Campaign, Good and Bad,” Pacific Citizen, November 28, 1980. 14. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice, 344–45. 15. Hashime Saito, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, March 5, 1976, 2. 16. Pacific Citizen, “Columbia Basin Plan,” April 28, 1976, 2; Ron Wakabayashi, author’s interview, Los Angeles, July 6, 1993. 17. Toyo Shimizu, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, June 4, 1976, 2. 18. Chuck Kato, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, April 2, 1976, 2. 19. Shosuke Sasaki, Mike Nakata, and Henry Miyatake, Evacuation Redress Committee, Seattle JACL Chapter, “An Appeal for Action to Obtain Redress for the World War II Evacuation and Imprisonment of Japanese Americans,” Edison Uno Collection, box 38, folder 3, 1–2. 20. Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice, 345. 21. Pacific Citizen, “Dean Speaks at Tri-District, ‘Seek Redress for Evacuees,’” September 19, 1975, 1. 22. Gail Nishioka, “Meeting John Dean III,” Pacific Citizen, August 1, 1976. 23. Bill Hosokawa, “John Dean on Redress,” Pacific Citizen, October 3, 1975, 2. 24. Phil Shigekuni, “93 Percent Responding to Survey on Reparations Check ‘Yes,’” Pacific Citizen, April 1, 1977, 1. 25. Pacific Citizen, “On Method of Redress,” January 6–13, 1978, 4. 26. Ibid. 27. Sasaki et al., “An Appeal for Action to Obtain Redress,” 5. 28. Mike Masaoka to Ed Yamamoto, 12 May 1976, Uno Collection, box 75, folder 5. 29. Mike Masaoka with Bill Hosokawa, They Call Me Moses Masaoka: An American Saga (New York: William Morrow, 1987), 321–22.

502 Notes to Chapter 7 30. JACL National Reparation Committee, “Six Proposals,” Pacific Citizen, December 9, 1977, 4. 31. Ibid. 32. Shigekuni, “93 Percent Check ‘Yes.’” 33. Pacific Citizen, “East Coast Nikkei Less Inclined for Individual Reparation Pay,” April 8, 1977, 1. 34. Kaz Oshiki and Mike Masaoka, “Reparations Project Questionnaire,” Pacific Citizen, March 18, 1977, 4. 35. Ibid. 36. William Hohri, Letters from Our Readers, Pacific Citizen, September 26, 1975, 2. 37. Tateishi, author’s interview. 38. Japanese American Citizens League National Committee for Redress, The Japanese American Incarceration: A Case for Redress (San Francisco: Japanese American Citizens League, 1978). 39. Japanese American Citizens League National Committee for Redress, “Redress Question and Answer Fact Sheet” (San Francisco: Japanese American Citizens League, 1979). 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid. 42. Tateishi, author’s interview; Clifford Uyeda, “Redress Campaign: A Brief Review,” Pacific Citizen, March 31, 1978. 43. John Tateishi, “The Japanese American Citizens League and the Struggle for Redress,” in Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, rev. ed., ed. Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991), 192. 44. Esther Scott and Calvin Naito, “Against All Odds: The Japanese Americans’ Campaign for Redress” (Cambridge, MA: Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University, 1990), 5–6. For more information on redress legislation and the commission proposal, see Mitchell T. Maki, Harry H. L. Kitano, and S. Megan Berthold, Achieving the Impossible Dream: How Japanese Americans Obtained Redress (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1999), 86–88; and Leslie T. Hatamiya, Righting a Wrong: Japanese Americans and the Passage of the Civil Liberties Act of 1988 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1993), 45. 45. Pacific Citizen, “Non-Nikkei Reactions to Redress Make Print,” September 14, 1979; Uyeda, author’s interview. 46. The Senate bill was approved by unanimous consent on May 22, 1980. The House approved the legislation by a vote of 279 to 109 on July 21, 1980. On

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July 31, 1980, President Jimmy Carter signed Public Law 96-317, which created the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians. 47. Hatamiya, Righting a Wrong, 91. 48. Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, Personal Justice Denied: Report of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (Washington, DC: GPO, 1982), 18–23. 49. Frank Abe and Karen Seriguchi, “Critique of Commission Approach,” Rikka 6, no. 3 (Autumn 1979): 40. 50. Japanese American Human Rights Violation Act, H.R. 5977, 96th Cong., 1st sess., Congressional Record 125, no. 167 (November 28, 1979). 51. Shosuke Sasaki, “Concerning Governmental Redress for Evacuation,” Hokubei Mainichi, January 29, 1980. 52. Testimony of William Hohri, RG 220, Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (hereafter cited as CWRIC), Washington, DC, July 16, 1981, CWRIC files, NARS. 53. Ibid. 54. William Hohri, Repairing America: An Account of the Movement for Japanese-American Redress (Pullman: Washington State University Press, 1984), 225. 55. William Hohri, “Democracy and Redress” (address, National Coalition for Redress/Reparations Conference, California State University, Los Angeles, November 15–16, 1980), courtesy of William Hohri. 56. Affidavit of William Hohri, January 17, 1984, William Hohri et al. v. United States, U.S. District Court, District of Columbia, Civil Action no. 83-0750. 57. William Hohri, author’s interview, Chicago, July 9, 1990. 58. Ibid. 59. Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga, author’s interview, San Francisco, June 28, 1990; Eddie Sato, author’s interview, Chicago, July 12, 1990. 60. Several essays on the conflict between a leadership of accommodation and a leadership of protest within different ethnic and racial groups can be found in Ethnic Leadership in America, ed. John Higham (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978). 61. Hohri, Repairing America, 46. 62. William Hohri, “Dear Friends,” National Council for Japanese American Redress, NCJAR Newsletter, October 15, 1981, 2. 63. William Hohri, “Dear Friends,” NCJAR Newsletter, November 3, 1979, 2; Testimony of William Hohri, March 18, 1980, U.S. Senate, Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians Act, Hearings before the Committee on Governmental Affairs, 96th Cong., 2d sess., 1980.

504 Notes to Chapter 7 64. William Hohri, “The Legacy of Joe Kurihara,” Rikka 6, no. 3 (Autumn 1979): 57. 65. Hohri, “Democracy and Redress.” 66. Testimony of William Hohri, CWRIC. 67. Hohri, Repairing America, 33. 68. William Hohri, “Dear Friends,” NCJAR Newsletter, September 15, 1982, 1. 69. Masaoka, They Call Me Moses, 2. 70. Hohri, Repairing America, 40. 71. Ibid., 45. 72. Ibid., 29. 73. For an opposing view of Kurihara, see Karl Yoneda, Ganbatte: Sixty-Year Struggle of a Kibei Worker (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1983), 135–38, 148. James Oda also bewailed how Sansei activists “created heroes of pro-Japan fascists” and “castigated the Nisei veterans as suckers.” See James Oda, Heroic Struggles of Japanese Americans: Partisan Fighters from America’s Concentration Camps (North Hollywood, CA: KNI, 1981), 102. Harry Y. Ueno, however, staunchly defends Kurihara’s actions in Manzanar Martyr: An Interview with Harry Y. Ueno, ed. Sue Kunitomi Embrey, Arthur A. Hansen, and Betty Kulberg Mitson (Fullerton: Japanese American Project, California State University Oral History Program, 1986), 53–61, 65–69. Eileen Tamura is currently completing a biography on Kurihara that may shed light on these different assessments. 74. Testimony of Tad Masaoka, CWRIC, San Francisco, August 13, 1981. 75. Ibid. 76. Testimony of Mike Masaoka, CWRIC, Washington, DC, July 16, 1981. 77. Uyeda, author’s interview. 78. Testimony of Ken Hayashi, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 4, 1981. 79. Testimony of Phil Shigekuni, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 5, 1981. 80. “Redress Reports,” Pacific Citizen, July 3, 1981. 81. Merry Omori, author’s interview, Evanston, Illinois, July 9, 1990. 82. Affidavit of William Hohri, Hohri et al. v. United States; Testimony of John Takashi Omori, CWRIC, Chicago, September 23, 1981. 83. John Tateishi, And Justice for All: An Oral History of the Japanese American Detention Camps (New York: Random House, 1984), 206. 84. Affidavit of William Hohri, Hohri et al. v. United States. 85. Affidavit of William Hohri, Hohri et al. v. United States. The suit’s original twenty-one causes of action identified violations of due process, equal protection, freedom of speech, and privacy rights. On August 8, 1983, the complaint was amended by adding “breach of fiduciary duty” as a twenty-second cause of

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action. The NCJAR charged the government with violating WRA promises to “exercise reasonable care to protect plaintiffs’ property from loss, destruction, and vandalism” and to “feed, house and otherwise care for plaintiffs adequately during their incarceration.” The plaintiffs alleged that the government “failed to provide adequate management, sales, insurance, or storage services, and warned plaintiffs that any property placed in defendant’s custody would be stored ‘at the risk of the own.’” After “driving plaintiffs from their homes,” the government “failed to protect plaintiffs’ property from known and foreseeable looting, vandalism, and waste, resulting in the destruction and loss of virtually all of plaintiffs’ property . . . Defendant’s failure to protect plaintiffs’ property breached duties of reasonable care owed to plaintiffs by defendant, breached implied and express promises by defendant to protect plaintiffs and their property during these actions, and violated plaintiffs’ statutory, constitutional, and common law rights.” 86. Affidavit of William Hohri, Hohri et al. v. United States. 87. Ibid. 88. Ibid. See also Peter Irons, Justice at War: The Story of the Japanese American Internment Cases (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983). 89. Ibid. 90. Affidavit of William Hohri, Hohri et al. v. United States. 91. Ibid. For information on the JACL’s support of segregation, see The Lim Report. The suit also charged that in 1944, the government passed legislation that allowed persons in time of war to renounce their U.S. citizenship. Under circumstances of “undue influence, duress, coercion, and the severe constitutional deprivations imposed on plaintiffs in the camps,” approximately 5,589 people became renunciants, of whom 1,100 were deported to Japan for repatriation. More than 4,000 renunciants attempted, for the most part successfully, to gain judicial invalidation of their renunciations. The suit also charged the government with deporting more than 4,700 internees involuntarily to Japan “without proper hearings” or any demonstration of the “dangerous” nature of these persons. 92. “Plaintiff ’s Supplemental Memorandum on the Statute of Limitations,” January 20, 1984, Hohri et al. v. United States. 93. “Department of Justice Memorandum to Dismiss,” May 16, 1983, Hohri et al. v. United States. 94. Ibid. NCJAR cited the Owen v. City of Independence decision as affirming that “a damage remedy against the offending party is a vital component of any scheme for vindicating cherished constitutional guarantees.” 95. “Response to Department of Justice Memorandum to Dismiss,” July 15, 1983, Hohri et al. v. United States.

506 Notes to Chapter 7 96. “Department of Justice Supplemental Memorandum on the Statute of Limitations,” January 20, 1984, Hohri et al. v. United States. 97. “Plaintiff ’s Supplemental Memorandum on the Statute of Limitations,” January 20, 1984, Hohri et al. v. United States. 98. Ibid. 99. Oberdorfer argued that although the government concealed the Munson Report, Ringle Report, Hoover Report, and the Federal Communications Commission letter to Biddle during the war, these documents were discussed in Martin Grodzins’s book published, and thus publicly available, in 1949. See Morton Grodzins, Americans Betrayed: Politics and the Japanese Evacuation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1949). Oberdorfer concluded that “diligent” plaintiffs could have used these documents to challenge the military necessity argument in the 1950s. Declaring that the Department of Justice memos, which came to light in 1982, did not justify tolling the statute of limitations, Oberdorfer declared, “In summary, the standard by which fraudulent concealment must be judged is not one of full disclosure but rather one of sufficient disclosure to allow the plaintiffs, through diligence, to state a claim.” Acknowledging that internees “have not been adequately compensated,” Oberdorfer stated that NCJAR’s research would assist the congressional campaign for redress: “The careful spadework which plaintiffs have done in the prosecution of their claims in court should contribute to making their argument to Congress more persuasive. And it may be that Congress will focus more closely on these claims once plaintiffs have exhausted their possible judicial remedies” (Memorandum of Louis F. Oberdorfer, May 17, 1984, Hohri et al. v. United States). 100. For NCJAR’s arguments countering Oberdorfer, see Appeal No. 845460, Hohri et al. v. The United States, United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, October 12, 1984. 101. Opinion No. 84-5460, Hohri et al. v. United States, United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, January 21, 1986. 102. Hohri, Repairing America, 218. 103. Ibid., 221. 104. Ibid., 223. 105. Maki et al., Achieving the Impossible Dream, 128. See also New York Times, May 18, 1984, and Washington Post, January 22, 1986. 106. Chizuko Omori, “NCJAR’s Journey,” NCJAR Newsletter, August 1988, 6. 107. Appeal No. 84-5460, Hohri et al. v. United States. 108. Hohri, Repairing America, 194. 109. “The Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians,” Rafu Shimpo, December 21, 1979.

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110. Pacific Citizen, “Guidelines: Personal Testimony, May 11, 1981,” May 29, 1981. 111. National Coalition for Redress/Reparations (NCRR flyer, n.d., Steering Committee Meeting, NCRR, Los Angeles, December 5, 1981), courtesy of Jim Matsuoka. 112. Getting Together, “Reparations—a Just Demand,” April 1978, 12. 113. Richard Katsuda, author’s interview, Los Angeles, July 15, 1993. 114. Testimony of Beth Shironaka, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 5, 1981. 115. Ibid. 116. Bert and Lillian Nakano, author’s interview, Gardena, CA, July 8, 1993. 117. Ibid. 118. Ibid. 119. George Iwao, author’s interview, San Francisco, September 12, 1990. 120. Alan Nishio, author’s interview, Los Angeles, July 10, 1993. 121. John Tateishi to JACL Chapter Presidents, 12 March 1982, courtesy of Jim Matsuoka. 122. Bert and Lillian Nakano, author’s interview. 123. Ibid. 124. Nishio, author’s interview. 125. Elizabeth Nishikawa, letter, NCRR Banner, April 1982, 5. 126. Pacific Citizen, “NC-WNPDC Mock Hearing Produces Tips on Testimony,” July 10, 1981, 1. 127. Rafu Shimpo, “Educators Endorse NCRR Goals,” May 14, 1981, 1. 128. Ibid. 129. Bert Nakano, “Reparations: Our Historic Victory,” East Wind 7, no. 1 (Spring/Summer 1989): 28. 130. NCRR Banner, December 1981, 3. 131. Testimony of June Hibino, CWRIC, San Francisco, August 12, 1981. 132. Testimony of George Wada, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 4, 1981. 133. Testimony of Tom Yutani, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 4, 1981. 134. Testimony of Mo Nishida, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 4, 1981. 135. Testimony of Dennis Nakamura, CWRIC, San Francisco, August 11, 1981. 136. Testimony of Roy Nakano, CWRIC, Los Angeles, August 4, 1981. 137. Testimony of Donna Kotake, CWRIC, San Francisco, August 11, 1981. 138. Donna K. Nagata, Legacy of Injustice: Exploring the Cross-Generational Impact of the Japanese American Internment (New York: Plenum Press, 1993), 214. 139. Testimony of Michael Yoshii, CWRIC, San Francisco, August 11, 1981; Discussion by Six Sansei, “The Sansei Experience,” U.S.–Japan Women’s Journal, English Supplement, no. 2 (1992): 91–92.

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140. Ibid., 83. 141. Ibid., 94. 142. Ibid., 36. 143. Ibid. 144. Frank Chin, “Unfocused L.A. Hearings: ‘A Circus of Freaks,’” Rafu Shimpo, August 21, 1981. 145. Ibid. 146. William Hohri, letter to the editor, Rafu Shimpo, September 8, 1981. 147. Mike Murase, letter to the editor, Rafu Shimpo, September 4, 1981. 148. Sue Kunitomi Embrey, letter to the editor, Rafu Shimpo, August 28, 1981. 149. NCRR, letter to the editor, Rafu Shimpo, September 4, 1981. 150. Takezawa, Yasuko I., Breaking the Silence: Redress and Japanese American Ethnicity (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), 164. 151. Phil Shigekuni, letter to the editor, Pacific Citizen, April 1, 1988. 152. Discussion by Six Sansei, 91–92. 153. Ibid., 2. 154. Ibid. 155. Miya Iwataki, “Sansei’s Feelings on CWRIC Hearings,” NCRR Banner, September/October 1981, 2. 156. Ibid. 157. Peter Irons, ed., Justice Delayed: The Record of the Japanese American Internment Cases (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1989), 5. 158. Irons, Justice at War, 95. 159. Ibid., 99. 160. Ibid., 85. 161. Ibid., 99. 162. Irons, Justice Delayed, 19–21. 163. Ibid., 25. 164. Dale Minami, “Coram Nobis and Redress,” in Daniels et al., Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, 201. 165. Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga, author’s interview, San Francisco, June 28, 1990. 166. Affidavit of Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga, January 17, 1984, Hohri et al. v. United States. 167. Irons, Justice Delayed, 388. 168. Affidavit of Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga, Hohri et al. v. United States. 169. “Opinion of the Court on the Petition,” Hirabayashi v. United States, United States District Court for the Western District of Washington, February 10, 1986, reprinted in Justice Delayed, Irons, 373. In rejecting the government’s argument that Hirabayashi should have attacked his conviction earlier, Judge

Notes to Chapters 7 and 8

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Voorhees referred to Herzig-Yoshinaga’s testimony about how difficult it would be for a layperson to locate this copy of the Final Report. chapter 8

1. Testimony of Yuji Ichioka, Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (hereafter cited as CWRIC), Los Angeles, August 6, 1981 (CWRIC files, National Archives and Records Service: Washington, DC, July 16, 1981). 2. E. T. Seguro, letter to the editor, Rafu Shimpo, November 12, 1982. 3. Raymond Y. Okamura, “The American Concentration Camps: A Cover-up through Euphemistic Terminology,” Journal of Ethnic Studies 10, no. 3 (Fall 1982): 95–108. 4. Raymond Y. Okamura, “‘The Great White Father’: Dillon Myer and Internal Colonialism,” Amerasia Journal 13, no. 2 (Fall 1986): 155–60; Richard Drinnon, Keeper of Concentration Camps: Dillon S. Myer and American Racism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). 5. William Hohri, “Documents Informant Activity by Camp Analysts,” New York Nichibei, October 8, 1981; Peter T. Suzuki, “Anthropologists in the Wartime Camps for Japanese Americans: A Documentary Study,” Dialectical Anthropology 6, no. 1 (August 1981): 23–60, and “The University of California Japanese Evacuation and Resettlement Study: A Prolegomenon,” Dialectical Anthropology 10, no. 3 (April 1986): 189–213; Edward Holland Spicer, “Comments on Testimony of Dr. Peter T. Suzuki before the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians,” November 14, 1981, Rosalie H. Wax Papers, box 10, folder 21 (Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley); an anthology based on papers presented at this 1987 conference was published in 1989. For multiple views of the JERS by former staff members and other researchers, see Views from Within: The Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study, ed. Yuji Ichioka (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1989). 6. Other scholars have criticized the assumptions, methods, and results of CAS and JERS researchers but recognized that many of these social scientists sincerely believed their investigations were in the best interest of both administrators and internees. See Orin Starn, “Engineering Internment: Anthropologists and the War Relocation Authority,” American Ethnologist 13 (November 1986), 700–720. For insight into an influential JERS investigator, see Richard S. Nishimoto, Inside an American Concentration Camp: Japanese American Resistance at Poston, Arizona, ed. Lane Ryo Hirabayashi (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995); and Lane Ryo Hirabayashi, The Politics of Fieldwork: Research in an American Concentration Camp (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1999).

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7. Frank Abe, “Former Renunciant Charges WW2 Scientist with Defamation,” Pacific Citizen, July 22–29, 1988. 8. Violet Kazue de Cristoforo, “A Victim of a Tule Lake Anthropologist,” (paper, Fifth National Conference of the Association for Asian American Studies, Pullman, Washington: Washington State University, March 24–27, 1988). 9. Rosalie H. Wax, Doing Fieldwork: Warnings and Advice (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1971), 140, quoted in de Cristoforo, “A Victim.” 10. De Cristoforo, “A Victim.” 11. Abe, “Former Renunciant.” 12. Bill Hosokawa, JACL: In Quest of Justice; History of the Japanese American Citizens League (New York: William Morrow, 1982), 16. 13. Ibid., 16–17. 14. Voices Long Silent: An Oral Inquiry into the Japanese American Evacuation, ed. Arthur A. Hansen and Betty E. Mitson (Fullerton: Japanese American Project, California State University Oral History Program, 1974); Eileen Sunada Sarasohn, The Issei: Portrait of a Pioneer; An Oral History (Palo Alto, CA: Pacific Books, 1983). 15. John Tateishi, And Justice For All: An Oral History of the Japanese American Detention Camps (New York: Random House, 1984), 181. 16. Ibid., 161. 17. Ibid., 173. 18. Ibid., 113–18. 19. Yuji Ichioka, “Beyond National Boundaries: The Complexity of JapaneseAmerican History,” Amerasia Journal 23, no. 2 (Fall 1997): viii; Yuji Ichioka, “The Meaning of Loyalty: The Case of Kazumaro Buddy Uno,” Amerasia Journal 23, no. 2 (Fall 1997): 45–71. 20. Ibid., 62–63. 21. Yuji Ichioka, conversation with the author, Los Angeles, November 4, 2000. 22. Examples of this incredible proliferation of first-person accounts during the 1980s include “The Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians—Selected Testimonies from the Los Angeles and San Francisco Hearings,” Amerasia Journal 8, no. 2 (Fall 1981): 53–105; Roger W. Axford, Too Long Silent: Japanese Americans Speak Out (New York: Media Publishing and Marketing, 1986); Bunya Fujimura, Though I Be Crushed: The Wartime Experiences of a Buddhist Priest (Los Angeles: Nembutsu Press, 1985); Richard Koichi Tanaka, America on Trial! Beginning of Japanese in America: Evacuation and Its Eff ects on Future Generations of Japanese Americans (New York: Carlton Press, 1987); and Mary Tsukamoto and Elizabeth Pinkerton, We the People: A Story of Internment in America (Elk Grove: Laguna Publishers, 1987).

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23. Dwight Chuman, “Invisible Citizens, Invisible History,” Hokubei Mainichi, March 1984. 24. Frank Chin, “The Last Organized Resistance: The Story of the Heart Mountain’s Fair Play Committee,” Rafu Shimpo Supplement, December 19, 1981. 25. Ibid. 26. Elaine and Karl Yoneda, “Farewell to Manzanar,” Pacific Citizen, April 9, 1976. Karl Yoneda and Harry Ueno presented very different memories of the Manzanar Riot within books and the ethnic press. See Karl Yoneda, Ganbatte: Sixty-Year Struggle of a Kibei Worker (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1983); and Sue Kunitomi Embrey, Arthur A. Hansen, and Betty Kulberg Mitson, Manzanar Martyr: An Interview with Harry Y. Ueno (Fullerton: Japanese American Project, California State University Oral History Program, 1986). For an example of their battle within the ethnic press, see Ueno’s letter to the editor, Rafu Shimpo, October 7, 1981, and Yoneda’s reply, Rafu Shimpo, October 22, 1981. 27. Michael Reese, “America’s Day of Infamy,” Newsweek, July 27, 1981. 28. Jane O’Reilly, “The Burden of Shame,” Time, August 17, 1981. See also Marita Hernandez, “Japanese-Americans Share Bitter Tales of Internment,” Los Angeles Times, August 17, 1984. 29. Pat Wada, “Two Fatherlands?” Hokubei Mainichi, September 30, 1983. 30. Clifford I. Uyeda, “ ‘Futatsu No Gokai,’ Or Japanese Americans Are Victims of Double Misunderstanding,” Hokubei Mainichi, September 29, 1983. 31. Teru Kanazawa, “A Question of Loyalty,” New York Nichibei, April 26, 1984, and Hokubei Mainichi, April 1984. 32. Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, Personal Justice Denied: Report of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (Washington, DC: GPO, 1982), 283–93. 33. Ibid., 245–52. 34. Comments of Arthur S. Flemming, Hugh B. Mitchell, and William M. Marutani, CWRIC, San Francisco, August 13, 1981. 35. Pacific Citizen, “All 9 Picked to Hear EO 9066 Redress,” February 27, 1981; Pacific Citizen, “Father Drinan Has a Strong Law Background,” June 26, 1981; Pacific Citizen, “Convention Debate on Reparations,” July 2, 1976. President Carter, the House of Representatives, and the Senate each appointed three members to the CWRIC. Carter chose Joan Bernstein, William Marutani, and Dr. Arthur S. Flemming. The House selected Arthur J. Goldberg, Dan Lungren, and Father Robert F. Drinan. The Senate named Edward W. Brooke, Hugh B. Mitchell, and Father Ishmael Vincent Gromoff. 36. Angus Macbeth, author’s interview, Washington, DC, March 24, 1998.

512 Notes to Chapter 8 37. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, viii. 38. Ibid., 18. 39. The Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians, Personal Justice Denied, Part II: Recommendations (Washington, DC: GPO, 1983), 8–10. 40. Macbeth, author’s interview, Washington, DC, March 26, 1988; Joan Bernstein, author’s interview, Washington, DC, March 26, 1998. 41. Bernstein, author’s interview. 42. Ibid. 43. William Marutani, author’s interview, Sacramento, California, May 17, 1998; Bernstein, author’s interview. 44. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, viii. 45. Marutani, author’s interview. 46. Office of Redress Administration News, Civil Rights Division, U.S. Department of Justice, December 1, 1998. 47. CWRIC, Personal Justice Denied, 305–314. 48. Macbeth, author’s interview. 49. Bernstein, author’s interview. 50. Harry H. L. Kitano and Roger Daniels, Asian Americans: Emerging Minorities (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1988), 74. 51. Pacific Citizen, July, 22–29, 1988. Harry H. L. Kitano and Roger Daniels note, “In a variety of measures—income, high school graduates, life expectancy, those living under conditions of poverty and on public assistance—the Japanese were doing better than whites . . . Of the employed males, the two most common occupational categories were ‘technical, sales, and administrative support,’ with 32 percent, and ‘managerial and professional specialty’ occupations, with 29 percent. The most popular female occupations were ‘technical, sales,’ with 46 percent, and administrative support occupations, including clerical, with 32 percent and ‘managerial and professional specialty,’ with 23 percent.” See Kitano and Daniels, Asian Americans, 74. 52. For more detailed accounts of the passage of redress legislation, see Calvin Naito and Esther Scott, “Against All Odds: The Japanese Americans’ Campaign for Redress” (Cambridge, MA: Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University, 1990); Leslie T. Hatamiya, Righting a Wrong: Japanese Americans and the Passage of the Civil Liberties Act of 1988 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1993); and Mitchell T. Maki, Harry H. L. Kitano, and S. Megan Berthold, Achieving the Impossible Dream: How Japanese Americans Obtained Redress (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1999). 53. Naito and Scott, 12. 54. Testimony of Joan Bernstein, June 20, 1984, Hearings before the Sub-

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committee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations of the Judiciary Committee, Japanese-American and Aleutian Wartime Relocation: Hearings on H.R. 3387, H.R. 4110, and H.R. 4322, 98th Cong., 2d sess., June 20, 1984, 30–31. 55. Testimony of Angus Macbeth, Hearings on H.R. 3387, June 20, 1984, 62–63. 56. Ibid., 64–65. 57. Testimony of David F. Trask, Hearings on H.R. 3387, June 20, 1984, 79–80. 58. Testimony of David Lowman, Hearings on H.R. 3387, June 27, 1984, 434–35. 59. Testimony of John J. McCloy, Hearings on H.R. 3387, June 21, 1984, 137; Testimony of Karl R. Bendetsen, Hearings on H.R. 3387, September 12, 1984, 680; Testimony of Dan Lungren, Hearings on H.R. 3387, June 23, 1984, 93. 60. Peter Irons, “Illusion and Reality: The ‘Magic’ Cables and the Wartime Internment of Japanese Americans,” Hearings on H.R. 3387, 922–36. FBI and the Office of Naval Intelligence records, which Lowman never examined, showed that the leaders of the Japanese espionage network were kept under surveillance for more than a year before the Pearl Harbor attack. In June 1941, the FBI arrested one Japanese immigrant, Toraichi Kono (a former valet and chauffeur to Charlie Chaplin) on espionage charges. Kono was accused of working with naval officer Itaru Tachibana and ex-convict Al Blake to pass the Imperial Japanese Navy information about the “American naval fleet berthed in Pearl Harbor.” Charges against Kono were later dropped, however, and he spent the war interned at Crystal City, Texas. “Magic” cables before Kono’s arrest refer to attempts to recruit Japanese American spies. But after the arrest of Tachibana and Kono in June 1941, not one of the Magic cables sent to Tokyo “made any mention of Japanese Americans, either as agents or sources of intelligence.” After investigating a “truck load of documents” seized from Tachibana’s hotel room and finding no evidence of Japanese American assistance, an FBI report concluded, “Japanese espionage efforts are centered around the Army and Navy attachés and exchange language students in the United States.” 61. Testimony of John A. Herzig, Hearings on H.R. 3387, September 12, 1984, 813–14. 62. Ibid., 802–3. 63. Testimony of Bendetsen, Hearings on H.R. 3387, 680–83. 64. Testimony of Herzig, Hearings on H.R. 3387, 802–3. 65. Donna Rise Omata to Congressman Sam B. Hall Jr., Hearings on H.R. 3387, September 22, 1984, 938. 66. Testimony of Bendetsen, Hearings on H.R. 3387, 682–84. 67. Testimony of Herzig, Hearings on H.R. 3387, 816, 858, 860. 68. Testimony of Macbeth, Hearings on H.R. 3387, 66–67.

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69. Kiku Hori Funabiki, author’s interview, San Francisco, May 4, 1990. 70. Testimony of Kiku Hori Funabiki, Hearings on H.R. 3387, September 12, 1984, 763–65. 71. Ibid., 784–89. 72. Funabiki, author’s interview. 73. Kiku Hori Funabiki to Congressman Sam B. Hall Jr., Hearings on H.R. 3387, additional material, H.R. 3877, September 28, 1984, 911–14. 74. Testimony of Lillian Baker, Senate Subcommittee on Administrative Practice and Procedure of the Judiciary Committee, World War II Civil Liberties Violations Redress Act, and the Reports of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians: Hearings on S. Rep. 1520, 98th Cong., 1st sess., July 27, 1983, 124–28. 75. Grassley illustrated these assumptions during his questioning of John Tateishi. See Testimony of John Tateishi, Hearings on S. Rep. 1520, 376–78. 76. Karl Yoneda, letter to the editor, Rafu Shimpo, May, 24, 1980, submitted as Doc. no. 15 by Lillian Baker, Hearings on S. Rep. 1520, 272. 77. Testimony of Mike Masaoka, House Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations of the Judiciary Committee, the Civil Liberties Act of 1985 and the Aleutian and Pribilof Islands Restitution Act: Hearings on H.R. 442 and 2415, 99th Cong., 2d sess., April 28, 1986, 579–60. 78. Grant Ujifusa, “The Same Car to Both Guys,” Pacific Citizen, January 2, 1988. 79. Hatamiya, Righting a Wrong, 108. 80. Ibid., 101-2. 81. Ibid., 136–43. In May 1985, the JACL’s national board decided to shift the organization’s efforts from public education to lobbying. The JACL’s Legislative Education Committee (LEC), which had been formed in 1982 to protect the JACL’s nonprofit IRS status, took control over the redress campaign. Between 1982 and 1985, the LEC had been in charge of raising funds for the campaign while leaders like John Tateishi actually directed strategy. However, Tateishi came under fire for taking a stand on U.S.–Japan relations and civil rights issues involving Asian Americans. A faction led by LEC chair Minoru Yasui accused him of undermining the campaign by taking attention away from redress. Fed up with the infighting and personal attacks, Tateishi resigned at the end of 1985. Yasui then seized the reins of power and selected Grant Ujifusa to lead the lobbying campaign in Congress. 82. Naito and Scott, “Against All Odds,” 15. 83. John Nichols, “All the Electioneering Facts You Want to Know,” National Journal, August 29, 1997. 84. Naito and Scott, “Against All Odds,” 15.

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85. Ibid., 18. 86. NCRR Banner, “NCRR’s Legislative Campaign,” August 1987, 1. 87. Sox Kitashima, author’s interview, San Francisco, August 13, 1990. 88. National Coalition for Redress/Reparations (brochure, NCRR, Los Angeles, n.d.), courtesy of Jim Matsuoka. 89. Pete Hironaka, Redress . . . NOT a Trivial Pursuit (San Francisco: Japanese American Citizens League Committee for Redress, 1984), Roger Daniels Archive, courtesy of the author. 90. Japanese American Citizens League Legislative Education Committee, Redress! The American Promise (Los Angeles: JACL Pacific Southwest District Council, 1986), 15–17. 91. Ibid., 6–7, 19–20. 92. Ujifusa, “The Same Car to Both Guys.” 93. Barbara Abrash, “Interview with Loni Ding,” Artist and Influence 11 (1992). 94. George Johnson, “Ujifusa Reveals ‘Behind the Scenes’ Look Behind Redress Success,” Pacific Citizen, August 19–26, 1988. Ujifusa states in this article that Mike Masaoka, who Matsunaga viewed as a “brother,” convinced the senator to “call in all his chips” for redress. 95. Hatamiya, Righting a Wrong, 113. 96. Naito and Scott, “Against All Odds,” 13. 97. Hatamiya, Righting a Wrong, 118. 98. Washington Post, September 18, 1987. The House Judiciary Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations approved the bill by voice vote on May 13. The subcommittee revised the bill by eliminating the educational trust fund and removing the section on Aleutian Islanders. The Governmental Affairs Committee passed the Senate version by unanimous voice vote after the Subcommittee on Federal Services, Post Office, and Civil Service held hearings in August. The Senate amended the bill to extend the payment period over five years. By that time, three-fourths of the Senate—seventy-five senators—were willing to serve as cosponsors. On January 6, 1987, Majority Leader Tom Foley, a Democrat from Washington, introduced the redress bill with 124 cosponsors. In the Senate on April 10, Matsunaga introduced S. 1009 with seventy-one cosponsors. 99. Testimony of Robert Matsui, 100th Cong., 1st sess., Congressional Record 133, no. 141 (September 17, 1987): H 7585. 100. Testimony of Norman Mineta, Congressional Record 133, no. 141: H 7584–85. While interned at Heart Mountain in Wyoming, Norman Mineta met fellow cub scout Alan Simpson. During a speech on behalf of the bill, the conservative Republican recounted meeting Mineta when his troop explored the terrain just outside Heart Mountain’s barbed wire. As Senate minority whip, Simpson

516

Notes to Chapter 8

had cosponsored redress legislation but opposed monetary payments. Declaring internment “the gravest of injustices,” Simpson admitted, “I have trouble with the money.” Nonetheless he pledged to support “the final product” because the sooner “we close [the] wound [of internment] and suture it with love and understanding and affection, we will be better off.” 101. Testimony of Ronald Dellums, Congressional Record 133, no. 141: H 7594. 102. Testimony of Steny Hoyer, Congressional Record 133, no. 141: H 7580. 103. Testimony of Ron Packard and Samuel Stratton, Congressional Record 133, no. 141: H 7581, H 7567. For a description of the Helms amendment, see Hatamiya, Righting a Wrong, 71. 104. Testimony of Harry Reid, Proceedings and Debates of the 100th Cong., 2d sess., Congressional Record 134, no. 50 (April 20, 1988): S 4331. 105. Testimony of Sidney Yates, Congressional Record 133, no. 141: H 7582. 106. Ujifusa, “The Same Car to Both Guys.” 107. Testimony of Patrick Swindall, Congressional Record 133, no. 141: H 7578. 108. The House passed H.R. 442 by a vote of 243 to 141, without any major amendments. In the Senate, S. 1009 passed by a vote of 69 to 27 on April 20. The two bills were then sent to a conference committee for reconciliation. The measures differed on three major points—eligibility, appropriation restrictions, and the inclusion of redress for Aleutian Islanders. The House bill vested payments from the date the act became law. The heirs of individuals who died before Congress appropriated funds would thus still receive compensation. The Senate, on the other hand, limited eligibility to internees alive at the time of appropriation. Also, the Senate capped the money appropriated each year and set no restrictions on the time span for making payments. The House provided no limits on appropriation and required the completion of payments within ten years. Finally, the House version made no mention of Aleutian Islanders, whereas the Senate called for individual payments of $12,000. Encouraging compromise from members of both houses, Barney Frank, as part of the conference committee, helped redress surmount this last congressional hurdle. The committee retained the Senate provision on Aleutian Islanders and the House stipulation on vested payments. Also, the committee agreed to complete payments within ten years, but it limited appropriation to no more than $500 million in any given year. The Senate unanimously passed the conference report by voice vote on July 27. The House accepted the conference bill by a vote of 257 to 156 on August 4. The final bill providing a public apology and individual payments of $20,000 to surviving internees was then sent to President Reagan for his signature. 109. Naito and Scott, “Against All Odds,” 24. 110. Ibid.

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111. Besides Kean, Ujifusa contacted Gary Bauer, Richard Wirthlin, Ed Rollins, and Secretary of Education William Bennett, whom Ujifusa had known since their college days at Harvard. See Ujifusa, “The Same Car to Both Guys.” 112. Naito and Scott, “Against All Odds,” 26. 113. Ujifusa, “The Same Car to Both Guys.” 114. Naito and Scott, “Against All Odds,” 27. 115. Patterning himself after Reagan, George H. W. Bush also proposed only $20 million for 1990. On July 25, 1989, the House approved $50 million for 1990. Far less than the act’s limit of $500 million, this appropriation would have compensated only 2,500 of the oldest eligible internees. The Senate then eliminated any appropriation for redress payments. 116. The Senate voted 74 to 22 on September 29, 1989, to make redress an entitlement program. The House approved the plan on October 26, 1989, by a vote of 249 to 166. On November 8 the final bill was sent to President George H. W. Bush. It became law when he signed it on November 21, 1989. 117. Ronald J. Ostrow, “First Nine Japanese World War II Internees Get Reparations,” Los Angeles Times, October 10, 1990, A1. 118. Clifford I. Uyeda, “Redress Campaign: A Brief Review,” Pacific Citizen, September 16, 1988, 5. 119. Gordon Nakagawa, “Redress: More Work in the Midst of Victories,” NCRR Banner, May 1986. 120. Ujifusa, “The Same Car to Both Guys”; George Johnston, “Ujifusa Reveals ‘Behind the Scenes’ Look Behind Redress Success,” Pacific Citizen, August 19–26, 1988; Shigeya Kihara “Nisei Loyalty and the Success of Redress,” Pacific Citizen, August 19–26, 1988; Harry Honda, editorial: “Memorial Day, Nisei Vets and Redress,” Pacific Citizen, May 20, 1988; Bill Hosokawa, “Nisei Servicemen’s Record Remembered,” Pacific Citizen, June 3, 1988. chapter 9

1. Sachi Seko, “A Time to Heal the Nisei Psyche,” Pacific Citizen, July 22–29, 1988. 2. Clifford I. Uyeda, “JACL Dissidents: Postponed, but Unresolved,” Pacific Citizen, September 2, 1988. 3. Presidential Select Committee of the Japanese American Citizens League, “Report on Resolution 7 to the JACL National Council at the 31st Biennial Convention” (San Diego, CA, June 17–22, 1990), 3. 4. Hokubei Mainichi, “JACL Resolution Recognizes Draft Resisters,” June 22, 1990. 5. Chandra Talpade Mohanty, “Cartographies of Struggle: Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism,” in Third World Women and the Politics

518 Notes to Chapter 9 of Feminism, ed. Chandra Talpade Mohanty, Ann Russo, and Lourdes Torres (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1991), 3. 6. The NBC documentary Guilty by Reason of Race begins by showing Edison Uno at this exhibit. Also in 1972, the California Historical Society sponsored the exhibit Months of Waiting, 1942–1945, about art created within the camps. 7. Michael McCone, preface to Executive Order 9066: The Internment of 110,000 Japanese Americans, edited by Maisie Conrat and Richard Conrat, rev. ed. (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1992). 8. Maisie and Richard Conrat, foreword to Executive Order 9066, rev. ed., 1992. 9. Don T. Nakanishi, preface to Executive Order 9066, 1972 (also in rev. ed., 1992). 10. Mitchell T. Maki, Harry H. L. Kitano, and S. Megan Berthold, Achieving the Impossible Dream: How Japanese Americans Obtained Redress (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1999), 158–59. 11. Roger Kennedy to Judy Wubnig, 20 March 1987, Smithsonian Institution Archives (hereafter cited as SIA), record unit 94-112, box 2. 12. Robert C. Post and Arthur P. Molella, “The Call of Stories at the Smithsonian Institution: History of Technology and Science in Crisis,” Journal of the International Committee for the History of Technology 3 (1997): 44–74. For more information on controversies surrounding museum exhibits, see History Wars: The Enola Gay and Other Battles for the American Past, ed. Edward T. Linenthal and Tom Englehardt (New York: Metropolitan Books, 1996); Philip Nobile, ed., Judgment at the Smithsonian (New York: Marlowe, 1995); Laura Hein and Mark Selden, eds., Living with the Bomb: American and Japanese Cultural Conflicts in the Nuclear Age (Armonk, New York: M. E. Sharpe, 1997); Edward T. Linenthal, Preserving Memory: The Struggle to Create America’s Holocaust Museum (New York: Viking 1995); Didier Maleuvre, Museum Memories: History, Technology, Art (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999); Steven C. Dubin, Displays of Power: Memory and Amnesia in the American Museum (New York: New York University Press, 1999); Amy Henderson and Adrienne L. Kaeppler, eds., Exhibiting Dilemmas: Issues of Representation at the Smithsonian (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1997); and Ivan Karp and Steven D. Lavine, eds., Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991). 13. Maki et al., Impossible Dream, 159; Tom Crouch, author’s interview, Washington, DC, March 20, 1998. 14. Roger Kennedy to Harold D. Langley, memorandum, 16 September 1982, SIA, record unit 94-112, box 5. 15. Crouch, author’s interview.

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16. Edward C. Ezell, letter to the editor, Rafu Shimpo, May 1, 1985, in SIA, record unit 94-112, box 5. 17. The other members were Eric Saul, director of the Presidio Army Museum; retired general Andrew Goodpaster; Emma-Jo Davis, army chief curator of the Center of Military History; John Langellier, director of the Fort Leavenworth Museum; Michael Vice, Historical Office of the Corps of Engineers; and William Emerson, director of the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Library and Museum. 18. Kiku Hori Funabiki to Roger Kennedy, 9 June 1986, Kiku Hori Funabiki Archive (hereafter cited as KFA), courtesy of the author. 19. Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga to Kiku Hori Funabiki, 14 June 1986, KFA. 20. Ibid. 21. Sue Kunitomi Embrey to Tom Crouch, 15 August 1986, KFA. 22. Tom Crouch to Sue Kunitomi Embrey, 21 August 1986, KFA. 23. Tom Crouch, “With Liberty and Justice for All: Japanese Americans and the United States Constitution,” n.d., KFA. 24. James Omura to Tom Crouch, 12 January 1987, KFA. 25. Roger Daniels to Tom Crouch, 6 March 1987, Roger Daniels Archive (hereafter cited as RDA), courtesy of the author. 26. Crouch, author’s interview. 27. Daniels to Crouch, 18 April 1987, RDA. 28. Michi Weglyn to Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga, 5 June 1986, KFA. 29. Harry K. Honda, “On ‘Japanese Americans and the U.S. Constitution,’” Pacific Citizen, October 16, 1987. 30. Abrash, Barbara. “Interview with Loni Ding.” Artist and Influence 11 (1992), reprinted from Hatch-Billops Collection, http://documentaryisneverneutral.com/word/intloniding.html. 31. Daniels to Crouch, 27 March 1987, RDA. 32. Tom Crouch to Michi Weglyn, 1 July 1986, SIA record unit 94-112, box 4. 33. Tom Crouch to Raymond Okamura, 6 June 1986, KFA. 34. Raymond Okamura, “Bicentennial of the Constitution,” Hokubei Mainichi, May 8, 1986; Raymond Okamura, “The Wrong Slant,” Pacific Citizen, May 9, 1986. 35. Violet Kazue de Cristoforo, letter to the editor, Pacific Citizen, May 30, 1986. 36. Joe Y. Kurata, letter to the editor, Hokubei Mainichi, June 7, 1986. 37. Mary Battiata, “Smithsonian’s Constitution Controversy: Show on Japanese Americans’ Internment Protested by Vets,” Washington Post, March 16, 1987. 38. Lillian Baker, Friday Forum, Washington Times, June 12, 1987. Other letters criticizing the Smithsonian for sponsoring the exhibit include Herbert Hansen to Tom Crouch, 26 October 1987, SIA, record unit 94-112, box 2; Edgar

520 Notes to Chapter 9 Dolmena to Tom Crouch, 25 May 1987, SIA; and Bert Webber to Tom Crouch, 27 March 1987, SIA. 39. Tom Crouch to Lillian Baker, 15 July 1991, SIA, record unit 97-168, box 3. 40. Crouch to Baker, 9 February 1994, SIA, record unit 94-112, box 4. 41. Elizabeth Kastor, “Remembrance of Sorrows Past: The Smithsonian’s Hard Look at World War II Internment of Japanese Americans,” Washington Post, October 1, 1987. 42. Harry K. Honda, “Nikkei Crowd Jams Smithsonian Exhibit, Pacific Citizen, October 9, 1987; Ken Miller, “Smithsonian Exhibit’s Relevancy Endures for Japanese Americans,” Gannett News Service, August 31, 1990. The Smithsonian told the Gannet News Service it estimated nearly two thousand visitors attended the opening of the exhibit. 43. Honda, “On ‘Japanese Americans and the U.S. Constitution.’ ” 44. Ken Miller, “Smithsonian Exhibit’s Relevancy.” 45. Clifford I. Uyeda to Roger Kennedy, Edward Ezell, and Tom Crouch, 25 August 1986, KFA. 46. Clifford I. Uyeda, U.S. Detention Camps Photo Exhibit (San Francisco: National Japanese American Historical Society, 1989), 3–5. 47. Ibid., 9, 22–23, 28–29. 48. Kiku Hori Funabiki to Eric Saul, 1 July 1986, KFA. 49. Mei Nakano to Roger Kennedy, 4 June 1986, KFA. 50. Minutes of the JACL Women’s Concerns Committee, May 30, 1986. 51. Mei Nakano to Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga, 7 August 1986, KFA. 52. Lia Shigemura, “Women’s Committee,” Pacific Citizen, April 8, 1983. 53. Mei Nakano, “Who We Are, What We Are and Why,” Hokubei Mainichi, June 25, 1987. 54. Mei Nakano and Kiku Hori Funabiki, Day of Remembrance: The Impact of the Detention Experience on Japanese American Women (Oakland, CA: Oakland Museum, February 24, 1990), 2. 55. Mei Nakano, Japanese American Women: Three Generations, 1890–1990 (Berkeley, CA: Mina Press; San Francisco: National Japanese American Historical Society, 1990), 177. As a result of the Immigration Act of 1924, which ended Japanese immigration, many Issei men were unable to find wives or have children who might ultimately care for them as they became elderly and infirm. 56. J. K. Yamamoto, “Historic Exhibit on JA Women Opens at Oakland Museum,” Hokubei Mainichi, February 22, 1990. 57. Ibid. 58. Emma Gee, “Issei Women,” in Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, ed. Emma Gee et al. (Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1976), 59–64; Valerie Matsumoto, “Japanese American Women

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during World War II,” Frontiers 8, no. 1 (1984): 6–14; Valerie Matsumoto, “Nisei Women and Resettlement during World War II,” in Making Waves: An Anthology of Writings by and about Asian American Women, ed. Asian Women United of California (Boston: Beacon Press, 1989), 115–26; Valerie Matsumoto, Farming the Home Place: A Japanese American Community in California, 1919–1982 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993); Dana Y. Takagi, “Personality and History: Hostile Nisei Women,” in Reflections on Shattered Windows: Promises and Prospects for Asian American Studies, ed. Gary Y. Okihiro, Shirley Hune, Arthur A. Hansen, and John M. Liu (Pullman: Washington State University Press, 1988), 184–92; Sylvia Junko Yanagisako, Transforming the Past: Tradition and Kinship among Japanese Americans (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1985); Evelyn Nakano Glenn, Issei, Nisei, War Bride: Three Generations of Japanese American Women in Domestic Service (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1986); Nobuya Tsuchida, ed., Asian Pacific American Experiences: Women’s Perspectives (Minneapolis: Asian–Pacific American Center, University of Minnesota, 1982). 59. Mei Nakano to Ron Wakabayashi, 14 April 1986, KFA. 60. Rosalyn Tonai, Strength and Diversity: Japanese American Women 1885–1990 (Oakland, CA: Oakland Museum, March–April 1990), 1. 61. Ibid., 2. 62. Ibid. 63. Ibid. 64. Ibid., 4. 65. Ibid. 66. Day of Remembrance Presentation: The Impact of the Detention Experience on Japanese American Women (Oakland, CA: Oakland Museum, February 24, 1990), 2. 67. Patricia War Biederman, “Telling the Other Half of the Story: An AwardWinning Exhibit on Three Generations of Japanese American Women Comes to Los Angeles,” Los Angeles Times, March 18, 1994. 68. Tonai, Strength and Diversity, 4. 69. Nakano, Three Generations, 1890–1990, 2. 70. King-Kok Cheung, “The Woman Warrior versus the Chinaman Pacific: Must a Chinese American Critic Choose between Feminism and Heroism?” in Conflicts in Feminism, ed. Marianne Hirsch and Evelyn Fox Keller (New York: Routledge, 1992), 234–51; Sylvia Junko Yanagisako, “Transforming Orientalism: Gender, Nationality, and Class in Asian American Studies,” in Naturalizing Power: Essays in Feminist Cultural Analysis, ed. Sylvia Junko Yanagisako and Carol Delaney (New York: Routledge, 1995), 275–98. 71. Nakano, Three Generations, 1890-1990, 163, 165, 169. 72. Ibid., 178.

522 Notes to Chapter 9 73. Grace Shibata, “Okaasan (Portrait of an Issei Mother),” in Japanese American Women: Three Generations, 1890–1990, 95. 74. Japanese American National Museum (Los Angeles: Japanese American National Museum, n.d.), 1, courtesy of Bruce Kaji. 75. Japanese American National Museum press release (Los Angeles: Japanese American National Museum, n.d.). 76. Japanese American National Museum, n.d., 3. 77. Ibid. 78. Karen Ishizuka, author’s interview, Los Angeles, February 22, 1998. 79. Ibid. 80. Ibid. 81. Ibid. 82. David Yoo, “Captivating Memories: Museology, Concentration Camps, and Japanese American History,” American Quarterly 48, no. 4 (December 1996): 696. 83. Honda, “On ‘Japanese Americans and the U.S. Constitution.’ ” 84. Ishizuka, author’s interview. 85. Lon Yuki Kurashige, “America’s Concentration Camps: Remembering the Japanese American Experience,” Journal of American History 83, no. 1 (June 1996): 161; Ishizuka, author’s interview. 86. Milt Sheft, Dan Ginsburg, Preston Reese, and Geoffrey Black, America’s Concentration Camps: Remembering the Japanese American Experience: Comment Book (Los Angeles: Japanese American National Museum, 1994), courtesy of Karen Ishizuka. 87. Thomas Nishida and Ron Shumokey, Comment Book. 88. Irene Hirano to Friends, Colleagues and Supporters, fax, 4 February 1998, courtesy of Karen Ishizuka. 89. Diane H. Dayson to Karen Ishizuka, fax, 20 January 1998, courtesy of Karen Ishizuka. 90. Ishizuka to Dayson, fax, 27 January 1998, courtesy of Karen Ishizuka. 91. Diane H. Dayson to Irene Hirano, fax, 4 February 1988, courtesy of Karen Ishizuka. 92. JANM to Dear Friends, 9 February 1998, courtesy of Karen Ishizuka. 93. Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga to Karen Ishizuka, 6 February 1998, courtesy of Karen Ishizuka. 94. JANM to Dear Friends. 95. Roger Daniels to the author, 28 January 2000. 96. Daniel Inouye to Bruce Babbitt, 5 February 1998, courtesy of Karen Ishizuka. 97. Irene Hirano and Karen Ishizuka to Friends, Colleagues, and Supporters, fax, 17 February 1998, courtesy of Karen Ishizuka.

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98. Somini Sengupta, “What Is a Concentration Camp? Ellis Island Exhibit Prompts Debate,” New York Times, March 8, 1998. 99. Linda Goetz Holmes, letter to the editor, New York Times, March 10, 1998. 100. David A. Harris, letter to the editor, New York Times, March 13, 1998. 101. Robert Shaffer, letter to the editor and Allan Appel, letter to the editor, New York Times, March 10, 1998. Shaffer would go on to publish an article on the NAACP’s criticism of internment. See Robert Shaffer, “Cracking the Consensus: Defending the Rights of Japanese Americans during World War II,” Radical History Review 72 (Fall 1998): 84–120. 102. New York Times, editorial: “Word for Suffering,” March 10, 1998. 103. Somini Sengupta, “Accord on Term ‘Concentration Camp,’ ” New York Times, March 10, 1998. 104. As a volunteer for a local San Jose exhibit in 1992, I witnessed first hand many discussions and debates about the experiences that should or should not be included in a small exhibit. 105. Annie Nakao, “Japanese American Memorial Debate,” San Francisco Examiner, July 7, 2000. 106. The foundation was renamed the NJAM Foundation in 1993. 107. The National Japanese American Memorial Foundation (hereafter cited as NJAMF), “A Historical Perspective,” http://www.njamf.com. See also Pacific Citizen Supplement, “The National Japanese American Memorial Foundation (NJAMF),” February 6–19, 1988. 108. NJAMF, “A National Memorial to Patriotism: The Japanese American Experience” (Washington, DC: NJAMF, 2000), 4, courtesy of Cherry Tsutsumida; NJAMF, “For Immediate Release,” June 14, 2000, 1, courtesy of Cherry Tsutsumida. 109. Robert Stanton to Rita Takahashi, 12 July 2000, JAvoice.com, http:// www.javoice.com/nps.html. 110. For examples, see Jacqueline Newmyer, “Japanese-American Vets Honored,” San Jose Mercury News, June 22, 2000; and Ian Shapira, “A Last Battle Won for 22 Asian Americans Given Medal of Honor,” Washington Post, June 22, 2000. Congress passed a 1996 amendment by Senator Daniel Akaka that waived the army’s customary three-year time limit on its consideration of medal awardees, and authorized an investigation by the Defense Language Institute of army records. 111. Gregg K. Kakesako, “Honor Overdue,” Honolulu Star-Bulletin, June 21, 2000; Kakesako, “Hawaii’s Surviving Soldiers Receive Their Due” and “Recalling the Strength and Honor of Hawaii’s World War II Veterans,” Honolulu StarBulletin, June 22, 2000. 112. “Remarks by the President at Ceremony Honoring Asian American Medal of Honor Recipients,” White House press release, June 21, 2000. Clinton’s

524 Notes to Chapter 9 speech also forgot the MIS and misstated the 442nd’s motto “Go for Broke” as “Go or Broke.” 113. Nakao, “Japanese American Memorial Debate.” 114. Ibid. 115. For a sample of the numerous accounts available in the ethnic press, see http://www.resisters.com/news.htm. This site provides links to a series of articles, including Sam Chu Lin, “JACL Votes to Apologize to Nisei Resisters of World War II,” Rafu Shimpo and AsianWeek, July 7, 2000, http://www.resisters. com/news/sam_resisters_resolution.htm; Martha Nakagawa, “N2K Conference Apologizes to Resisters, Asks JACL to Do Same,” Pacific Citizen, May 5–11, 2000, http://www.resisters.com/news/interfaith_pc.htm; Rita Takahashi, “NPS Getting Heat for Japanese American National Memorial: Controversy over Inscription Rages On,” June 9, 2000, http://www.javoice.com/takahashi.html. 116. As of September 9, 2000, the following articles had appeared in the Washington Times: “Dissident Faction Assails ‘Blindly Patriotic’ Creed; Seeks Writer’s Removal from Memorial Slated to Honor Japanese-Americans,” June 9, 2000; “The Debate over Japanese-American Memorial Continues,” June 20, 2000; “Masaoka’s Inclusion on Monument Angers Some,” July 10, 2000; and “Masaoka Recognition Will Remain,” July 21, 2000. 117. Andrew DeMillo, “Japanese Americans Spar over Message on Memorial” Seattle Times, June 15, 2000. 118. Judy Tachibana, “59-year-old Dispute Still Simmering for Japanese Americans,” Sacramento Bee, March 8, 2000. 119. Herbert A. Sample, “War over Word on WWII Memorial,” Sacramento Bee, June 5, 2000. 120. Rita Takahashi, “58 Year Smoldering Issue Ignites over Japanese American National Museum,” August 2, 2000, http://www.javoice.com/takahashi2. html; JAvoice.com, “A Japanese American Memorial for All,” http://www.javoice. com/home; Resisters.com, About Us, http://www.resisters.com/aboutus.htm. 121. William Hohri, “An Introduction to The Lim Report,” http://www. javoice.com/limreport/introduction.htm. 122. Uyeda, “JACL Dissidents.” 123. JACL, “Report on Resolution 7.” 124. “Draft Resisters,” Hokubei Mainichi. 125. JAvoice.com, “The Facts Disclosed in the ‘Lim Report,’” http://www .javoice.com. 126. PBS.org, “Who Writes History?” http://www.pbs.org/itvs/conscience/ who_writes_history/index.html. 127. Resisters.com, News Update: Saturday, June 24, 2000, http://www .resisters.com/updates_2004.htm; Hohri, “The Lim Report.”

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128. Resisters.com, News, http://www.resisters.com/news.htm. 129. Robert Ito, “Concentration Camp or Summer Camp? A New Generation of Revisionists Tries to Put a Happy Face on the Japanese American Relocation Camps,” MoJo Wire, September 15, 1998. 130. Resisters.com, Study Center, http://www.resisters.com/study.htm. 131. Resisters.com, Documents, http://www.resisters.com/docs.htm. 132. Frank Abe to the author, September 22, 2000; Resisters.com, News Update: Thursday, August 5, 1999, http://www.resisters.com/updates_1999.htm. 133. National Asian American Telecommunications Association, Media Fund Projects in the News, Center for Asian American Media, http://www.asianamericanmedia.org. 134. PBS.org, Discussion, http://www.pbs.org/pov/pov1999/rabbitinthemoon/ remembering/index.html. 135. EA, “We Need Works Like RITM” (October 12, 1999), Karl Nobuyuki, “Biased Perspective” (July 7, 1999), and Erin Pullen, “My View” (January 6, 1999), http://www.pbs.org/tvraceinitiative/rabbitinthemoon (all accessed in 2000). 136. Mas Dobashi, “Estelle Ishigo: Internee 14744,” Tozai Times, August 1990. 137. Patricia Brennan, “Lise Yasui: The Home Movies That Became an Oscar,” Washington Post, March 26, 1989. 138. National Park Service (cultural resources site), “Report to the President: Japanese-American Internment Sites Preservation,” http://www.cr.nps.gov/ history/online_books/internment/report3.htm. 139. Ibid. epilogue

1. Bill Nichols, “Slavery: Should a Nation Apologize?” USA Today, June 18, 1997. 2. Elazar Barkan, The Guilt of Nations: Restitution and Negotiating Historical Injustices (New York: W. W. Norton, 2000). Sociologist Nicholas Tavuchis analyzes the linguistic, psychological, and interpersonal dimensions of apologetic discourse in Mea Culpa: A Sociology of Apology and Reconciliation (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991). Roy L. Brooks provides an anthology of various reparation campaigns in When Sorry Isn’t Enough: The Controversy over Apologies and Reparations for Human Injustice (New York: New York University Press, 1999). 3. Robert R. Weyeneth, “The Power of Apology and the Process of Historical Reconciliation,” Public Historian 23, no. 3 (Summer 2001): 9. 4. Los Angeles Times, “The Nation,” August 7, 1988. 5. Eric K. Yamamoto, “What’s Next?: Japanese American Redress and African American Reparations,” Amerasia Journal 25, no. 2 (Fall 1999): 8.

526 Notes to Epilogue 6. Rosanna Ruiz, “Professor Presses Reparations” and “Coalition Plans to Appeal Dismissal of Slavery Compensation Suit, ” Houston Chronicle, May 8, 2002. 7. Randall Robinson, “Restatement of the Black Manifesto,” Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, September 9, 2001. 8. Irwin Block, “Repay Debt to Black Slaves, Scholar Says: Reparations for Descendants Could Top $400 Billion,” Gazette (Montreal, Quebec), March 20, 2001. 9. John Conyers Jr., “Why Congress Needs to Act on Slavery,” Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, September 9, 2001. 10. House Subcommittee on the Constitution, Civil Rights, and Civil Liberties (Judiciary Committee), Commission to Study Reparation Proposals for AfricanAmericans Act: H.R. 40, 105th Cong., 1st sess., January 7, 1997. 11. Jeff Jacoby, “All the President’s Apologies,” Times-Picayune, May 27, 1997. 12. Katharine Q. Seelye, “Clinton Comment on Slavery Draws a Republican’s Ire,” New York Times, March 28, 1998. 13. Zachary R. Dowdy and William Douglas, “Slave Reparations Take Stage: U.S. Payments Issue May Dominate at U.N. Conference on Racism,” Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, August 27, 2000. 14. Diane Cardwell, “Seeking Out a Just Way to Make Amends for Slavery: The Idea of Reparations for Blacks Is Gaining in Urgency, but a Knot of Questions Remain, Like: Which Blacks?” New York Times, August 12, 2000. 15. Staff, “Reparations Debate Heats Up: Push for Slavery Compensation Enters Political Mainstream,” Houston Chronicle, August 12, 2002. 16. Lori Rotenberk, “Slavery Reparations Lawsuit Dismissed: Families Had Argued That Firms Benefited,” Boston Globe, January 27, 2004. 17. William Hohri, “Voices of Japanese American Redress: Responses to PreConference Questions” (Voices of Japanese American Redress Conference, Los Angles, July 8, 1997), Roger Daniels Archive, courtesy of the author. 18. National Coalition for Redress/Reparations, “Internment and the Constitution” (NCRR workshop, October 20, 1990). 19. Yamamoto, “What’s Next?” 15. 20. Hitoshi H. Kajihara (July 14, 1997), Fred Hirasuna (August 3, 1997), Bill Hosokawa (July 28, 1997), “Voices of Japanese American Redress.” 21. For more on this topic, see Eric K. Yamamoto, Interracial Justice: Conflict and Reconciliation in Post–Civil Rights America (New York and London: New York University Press, 1999). 22. Clifford I. Uyeda, “Another ‘Relocation,’” Pacific Citizen, November 19, 1982. 23. NCRR Banner, “Navajo Rally,” September 1986.

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24. Aiko Herzig-Yoshinaga (July 25, 1997), Chizu Iiyama (July 15, 1997), William Hohri (July 8, 1997), “Voices of Japanese American Redress.” 25. Nichi Bei Times, “Campaign for Justice Forms a Northern California Chapter,” March 28, 2000. 26. Jason Ma, “Reparations Suit Dismissed,” AsianWeek, November 25, 1999. 27. Nichi Bei Times, “Campaign for Justice.” 28. Honolulu Star-Bulletin, editorial: “Japanese Latin American Internees Deserve Full Redress,” October 7, 2006. 29. Campaign for Justice, History, “Escalating to an International Court,” http://www.campaignforjusticejla.org/history. 30. Japanese American Citizens League (JACL), “Report to the JACL Board of Directors” (Committee on Self-Determination/Sovereignty, Honolulu, September 17, 1993); Sam Chu Lin, “JACL Votes to Apologize to Nisei Resisters of World War II,” Rafu Shimpo, July 7, 2000. 31. Pat Omandam, “3 OHA Trustees Support Inouye in Trask Tumult,” Honolulu Star-Bulletin, November 25, 1999. 32. Ida Yoshinaga and Eiko Kosasa, “Local Japanese Should Understand Inouye’s Real Agenda,” Honolulu Advertiser, February 6, 2000. 33. Clifford I. Uyeda, “Korean Residents of Japan” (June 20, 1984), “Search for Common Ground: Minorities in Japan and the U.S.” (June 2, 1990), “The Challenge of Racism in Japan and the U.S.: An Asian American Response” (April 8, 1990), “Beyond Boundaries: Building Bridges” (February 22, 1992), JACL Golden Gate Chapter Newsletter. 34. Ken McLaughlin, “Japan War Crimes Resolution Losing Ground,” San Jose Mercury News, July 15, 1999. 35. Sam Chu Lin, “Congressman Mike Honda to Visit China,” AsianWeek, August 3–9, 2001. 36. Julie Chao, “Forgotten War Survivors Sue Japan for Damages,” San Francisco Examiner, December 1, 1996; Christopher Reed, “Family of POW Makes Appeal to Aso ‘Honor,’” Japan Times, June 20, 2006. 37. NCRR, “Internment and the Constitution.” 38. Ronald L. Soble, “Judge Hits U.S. Use of Old Law in Attempt to Deport 8 Immigrants” (April 28, 1987), 1, and “FBI Didn’t Get Enough Data to Prosecute in Arab Case” (February 6, 1987), Los Angeles Times; Michael Shehadeh, “The Latest New ‘War on Terrorism,’” CounterPunch, December 3, 2002, 3. 39. NCRR, “Internment and the Constitution.” 40. Soble, “Judge Hits U.S. Use of Old Law,” 1. 41. Testimony of Norman Y. Mineta, House Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations (Judiciary Committee), Legislation to Implement

528

Notes to Epilogue

the Recommendations of the Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians: Hearings on H.R. 442, 100th Cong., 1st sess., April 29, 1987, 56. 42. Mitchell T. Maki, Harry H. L. Kitano, and S. Megan Berthold, Achieving the Impossible Dream: How Japanese Americans Obtained Redress (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1999), 216. 43. Nihonmachi Outreach Committee press statement, NOC Newsletter, January 31, 1991. 44. Time–CNN Poll by Harris Interactive, September 27, 2001, http:// www.harrisinteractive.com/news/allnewsbydate.asp?NewsID=369. 45. Norman Y. Mineta, “Facing the Tests of History,” Executive Speeches 16, no. 3 (December 2001): 33–37. 46. Karina Rollins, “No Compromise on Terror, ” American Enterprise 14, no. 11 (January–February 2003): 21. 47. Jane Brunner, letter to the editor, San Francisco Chronicle, December 8, 2001. 48. Takeshi Nakayama, “Little Tokyo Honors Terrorist Victims with Candlelight Vigil,” Rafu Shimpo, September 29, 2001. 49. Ibid. 50. Teresa Watanabe, “Déjà Vu, After Pearl Harbor,” Los Angeles Times, June 8, 2003. 51. Rev. Greg Kimura, “Remember Lessons of Interment,” Anchorage Daily News, March 5, 2003. 52. Stephen J. Schulhofer, “At War with Liberty: Post 9-11, Due Process and Security Have Taken a Beating,” American Prospect 14, no. 3 (March 2003): 8. 53. Adam Liptak, “For Jailed Immigrants, a Presumption of Guilt,” New York Times, June 3, 2003. 54. Eric Lichtblau, “Ashcroft Seeks More Power to Pursue Terror Suspects,” New York Times, June 6, 2003. 55. David Cole, “Enemy Aliens and American Freedoms: Experience Teaches Us That Whatever the Threat, Certain Principles Are Sacrosanct,” Nation 275, no. 9 (September 23, 2002): 20. 56. TalkLeft, reprinted email: “Calling for the Removal of Ashcroft,” November 15, 2002, http://www.talkleft.com/story/2002/11/15/539/30751. 57. Rev. C. Nozomi Ikuta, “Another Lesson of War,” Plain Dealer, February 19, 2003.

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536 Bibliography Clifford, James, and George E. Marcus, eds. Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986. Collins, Donald E. Native American Aliens: Disloyalty and Renunciation of Citizenship by Japanese Americans during World War II. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1985. Conn, Stetson. “Japanese Evacuation from the West Coast.” In The United States Army in World War II: The Western Hemisphere; Guarding the United States and Its Outposts, edited by Stetson Conn, Rose C. Engleman, and Byron Fairchild. Washington, DC: U. S. Government Printing Office, 1964. Connell, Thomas. America’s Japanese Hostages: The World War II Plan for a Japanese Free Latin America. Westport, CT: Praeger, 2002. Conrat, Maisie, and Richard Conrat, eds. Executive Order 9066: The Internment of 110,000 Japanese Americans. San Francisco: California Historical Society, 1972; Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1992. Coombs, F. Alan. “Congressional Opinion and War Relocation, 1943.” In Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, edited by Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1986. Cornell, Stephen. “That’s the Story of Our Life.” In We Are a People: Narrative and Multiplicity in Constructing Ethnic Identity, edited by Paul Spickard and W. Jeffrey Burroughs. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2000. Creef, Elena Tajima. Imaging Japanese America: The Visual Construction of Citizenship, Nation, and the Body. New York: New York University Press, 2004. Crost, Lyn. Honor by Fire: Japanese Americans at War in Europe and the Pacific. Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1994. Danieli, Yael. “Families of Survivors and the Nazi Holocaust: Some Short- and Long-Term Effects.” In Stress and Anxiety, edited by Charles D. Spielberger, Irwin G. Sarason, and Norman Milgram. Vol. 8. Washington, DC: Hemisphere, 1982. ———. “Treating Survivors and Children of Survivors of the Nazi Holocaust.” In Post-traumatic Therapy and Victims of Violence, edited by Frank M. Ochberg. New York: Brunner/Mazel, 1988. Daniels, Roger. Asian America: Chinese and Japanese in the United States since 1850. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1988. ———. Concentration Camps, North America: Japanese in the United States and Canada during World War II. Melbourne, FL: Krieger, 1981. ———. Concentration Camps USA: Japanese Americans and World War II. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971. ———. The Decision to Relocate the Japanese Americans. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1975.

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538 Bibliography Elleman, Bruce A. Japanese-American Civilian Prisoner Exchanges and Detention Camps, 1941–45. London: Routledge, 2006. Embrey, Sue Kunitomi, Arthur A. Hansen, and Betty K. Mitson, eds. Manzanar Martyr: An Interview with Harry Y. Ueno. Fullerton: Japanese American Project, California State University Oral History Program, 1986. Espiritu, Yen Le. Asian American Panethnicity: Bridging Institutions and Identities. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992. Evans, Sara. Personal Politics: The Roots of Women’s Liberation in the Civil Rights Movement and the New Left. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1979. Fabre, Genevieve, and Robert O’Meally, eds. History and Memory in AfricanAmerican Culture. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994. Farber, David R. Chicago ’68. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988. ———, ed. The Sixties: From Memory to History. Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1994. Feeley, Francis McCollum. America’s Concentration Camps During World War II: Social Science and the Japanese American Internment. New Orleans: University Press of the South, 1999. Figley, Charles R. Trauma and Its Wake: The Study and Treatment of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. New York: Brunner/Mazel, 1985. Figley, Charles R., and Seymour Leventman. Strangers at Home: Vietnam Veterans since the War. New York: Praeger, 1980. Foucault, Michel, and Donald F. Bouchard, eds. Language, Counter Memory, Practice. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980. Franklin, John Hope, and August Meier, eds. Black Leaders in the Twentieth Century. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1982. Friedlander, Saul. A Conflict of Memories? New York: Leo Baeck Institute, 1988. ———. History and Psychoanalysis. New York: Holmes & Meier, 1978. ———. Memory, History, and the Extermination of the Jews of Europe. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993. ———. Probing the Limits of Representation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992. ———. Some Aspects of the Historical Significance of the Holocaust. Jerusalem: Institute of Contemporary Jewry, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1977. ———. When Memory Comes. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1979. Frisch, Michael. A Shared Authority: Essays on the Craft and Meaning of Oral and Public History. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990. Fuchs, Lawrence. The American Kaleidoscope: Race, Ethnicity, and the Civic Culture. Hanover, NH, and London: Wesleyan University Press, 1990. Fujimura, Bunya. Though I Be Crushed: The Wartime Experiences of a Buddhist Priest. Los Angeles: Nembutsu Press, 1985.

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542 Bibliography Houston, Jeanne Wakatsuki. Beyond Manzanar: Views of Asian American Womanhood. Santa Barbara, CA: Capra Press, 1985. Houston, Jeanne Wakatsuki, and James D. Houston. Farewell to Manzanar: A True Story of Japanese-American Experience during and after World War II Internment. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1973. Ichinokuchi, Tad, ed. John Aiso and the M.I.S.: Japanese-American Soldiers in the Military Intelligence Service, World War II. Los Angeles: Military Intelligence Service Club of Southern California, 1988. Ichioka, Yuji. Before Internment: Essays in Prewar Japanese American History. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006. ———. The Issei: The World of the First Generation Japanese Immigrants, 1885– 1924. New York: Free Press, 1988. ———. Review of Nisei: The Quiet Americans; The Story of a People, by Bill Hosokawa. In Roots: An Asian American Reader, edited by Amy Tachiki et al. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1971. ———, ed. Views from Within: The Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1989. Ima, Kenji. “Japanese Americans: The Making of ‘Good’ People.” In The Minority Report: An Introduction to Racial, Ethnic, and Gender Relations, edited by Anthony Gary Dworkin and Rosalind J. Dworkin. 2nd ed. New York: CBS College Publishing, 1982. Inada, Lawson Fusao, ed. Only What We Could Carry: The Japanese American Internment Experience. San Francisco: California Historical Society, 2000. Irons, Peter. Justice at War: The Story of the Japanese American Internment Cases. New York: Oxford University Press, 1983. ———, ed. Justice Delayed: The Record of the Japanese American Internment Cases. Middleton, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1989. Ishigo, Estelle. Lone Heart Mountain. Los Angeles, CA: Anderson, Ritchie and Simon, 1972. Ishizuka, Karen L. Lost and Found: Reclaiming the Japanese American Incarceration. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2006. Ito, Kazuo. Issei: A History of Japanese Immigrants in North America. Translated by Shinichiro Nakamura and Jean S. Gerard. Seattle: Executive Committee for the Publication of Issei, 1973. Iwasaki, Bruce. “Response and Change for the Asian in America: A Survey of Asian American Literature.” In Roots: An Asian American Reader, edited by Amy Tachiki et al. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1971. James, Thomas. Exile Within: The Schooling of Japanese Americans, 1942–1945. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987.

Bibliography 543 Jayawardena, Kumari. Feminism and Nationalism in the Third World. London: Zed Press, 1986. Jones, Jacqueline. Labor of Love, Labor of Sorrow: Black Women, Work, and the Family from Slavery to the Present. New York: Basic Books, 1985. Kadohata, Cynthia. The Floating World. New York: Viking Press, 1989. Kammen, Michael. Mystic Chords of Memory: The Transformation of Tradition in American Culture. New York: Vintage, 1991. Kane, Michael B. Minorities in Textbooks. Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1970. Kaneshiro, Takeo, comp. Internees: War Relocation Center Memoirs and Diaries. New York: Vantage Press, 1976. Karp, Ivan, and Steven D. Lavine, eds. Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991. Kashima, Tetsuden. Buddhism in America: The Social Organization of an Ethnic Religious Institution. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1977. ———. Judgment without Trial: Japanese American Imprisonment during World War II. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2003. Kikuchi, Charles. The Kikuchi Diary: Chronicle from an American Concentration Camp; The Tanforan Journals of Charles Kikuchi, edited by John Modell. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1973. ———. “Through the JERS Looking Glass: A Personal View from Within.” In Views from Within: The Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study, edited by Yuji Ichioka. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1989. Kikumura, Akemi. Promises Kept: The Life of an Issei Man. Novato, CA: Chandler & Sharp Publishers, 1991. ———. Through Harsh Winters: The Life of a Japanese Immigrant Woman. Novato, CA: Chandler & Sharp Publishers, 1981. Kim, Elaine H. Asian American Literature: An Introduction to the Writings and Their Social Context. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1982. Kingston, Maxine Hong. The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Childhood among Ghosts. New York: Vintage Books, 1976. Kintsch, Walter. The Representation of Meaning in Memory. Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1974. Kitagawa, Daisuke. Issei and Nisei: The Internment Years. New York: Seabury Press, 1967. Kitano, Harry H. L. “The Effects of Evacuation on the Japanese Americans.” In Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, edited by Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1986. ———. Japanese Americans: The Evolution of a Subculture. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1977.

544 Bibliography Kitano, Harry H. L., and Roger Daniels. Asian Americans: Emerging Minorities. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1988. Kitayama, Glen. “John Lesesne DeWitt.” In Japanese American History: An A–Z Reference from 1868 to the Present, edited by Brian Niiya. Los Angeles: Japanese American National Museum, 1993. Kivisto, Peter, and Dag Blanck, eds. American Immigrants and Their Generations: Studies and Commentaries on the Hansen Thesis after Fifty Years. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1990. Knaefler, Tomi Kaizawa. Our House Divided: Seven Japanese American Families in World War II. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1991. Kurashige, Lon. Japanese American Celebration and Conflict: A History of Ethnic Identity and Festival, 1934–1990. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002. LaCapra, Dominick. History and Memory after Auschwitz. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998. ———. Representing the Holocaust: History, Theory, Trauma. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994. Langer, Lawrence L. Admitting the Holocaust: Collected Essays. New York: Oxford University Press, 1995. ———. Holocaust Testimonies: The Ruins of Memory. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1991. Lehman, Anthony L. Birthright of Barbed Wire: The Santa Anita Assembly Center for the Japanese. Los Angeles: Westernlore Press, 1970. Leighton, Alexander H. The Governing of Men: General Principles and Recommendations Based on Experience at a Japanese Relocation Camp. New York: Octagon Books, 1964; orig. pub. 1945, Princeton University Press. Levine, Gene N., and Colbert Rhodes. The Japanese American Community: A Three Generation Study. New York: Praeger, 1981. Lewis, David. King: A Critical Biography. New York: Praeger, 1970. Lifton, Robert. Death in Life: Survivors of Hiroshima. New York: Vintage Books, 1969. Linenthal, Edward T. Preserving Memory: The Struggle to Create America’s Holocaust Museum. New York: Viking 1995. ———. Sacred Ground: Americans and Their Battlefields. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1991. Linenthal, Edward T., and Tom Englehardt, eds. History Wars: The Enola Gay and Other Battles for the American Past. New York: Metropolitan Books, 1996. Lipsitz, George. Time Passages: Collective Memory and American Popular Culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1990. Lipstadt, Deborah E. Denying the Holocaust: The Growing Assault on Truth and Memory. New York: Maxwell Macmillan International, 1993.

Bibliography 545 Loewen, James W. Lies Across America: What Our Historic Sites Get Wrong. New York: New Press, 1999. Loftus, Elizabeth F. Eyewitness Testimony. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979. Loftus, Elizabeth F., and Katherine Ketcham. The Myth of Repressed Memory: False Memories and Allegations of Sexual Abuse. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994. Lowe, Lisa. Immigrant Acts: On Asian American Cultural Politics. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1996. Lowenthal, David. The Past Is a Foreign Country. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Lukes, Timothy J., and Gary Y. Okihiro. Japanese Legacy: Farming and Community Life in California’s Santa Clara Valley, with a foreword by Norman Mineta. Cupertino, CA: California History Center, De Anza College, 1985. Maki, Mitchell T., Harry H. L. Kitano, and S. Megan Berthold. Achieving the Impossible Dream: How Japanese Americans Obtained Redress. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1999. Maleuvre, Didier. Museum Memories: History, Technology, Art. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999. Manzanar Committee. “The Beginnings.” In The Manzanar Pilgrimage: A Time for Sharing, edited by the Manzanar Committee. Los Angeles: Manzanar Committee, 1981. “Manzanar—the Continuing Struggle: An Interview with Sue Kunitomi Embrey.” In Voices Long Silent: An Oral Inquiry into the Japanese American Evacuation, edited by Arthur A. Hansen and Betty E. Mitson. Fullerton: Japanese American Project, California State University Oral History Program, 1974. Marable, Manning. Race, Reform and Rebellion: The Second Reconstruction in Black America, 1945–1982. Jackson: University of Mississippi, 1984. Marling, Karal Ann, and John Wetenhall. Iwo Jima: Monuments, Memorials, and the American Hero. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991. Masaoka, Mike, with Bill Hosokawa. They Call Me Moses Masaoka: An American Saga. New York: William Morrow, 1987. Mass, Amy Iwasaki. “Psychological Effects of the Camps on Japanese Americans.” In Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, edited by Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1986. Matsumoto, David Mas. Country Voices: The Oral History of a Japanese American Family Farm Community. Del Rey, CA: Inaka Countryside Publications, 1987. Matsumoto, Toru. Beyond Prejudice: A Story of the Church and Japanese Americans. New York: Friendship Press, 1946.

546 Bibliography Matsumoto, Valerie. Farming the Home Place: A Japanese American Community in California, 1919–1982. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993. Matsumoto, Valerie. “Nisei Women and Resettlement during World War II.” In Making Waves: An Anthology of Writings by and about Asian American Women, edited by Asian Women United of California, 115–26. Boston: Beacon Press, 1989. Matsuoka, Jack. Camp II, Block 211: Daily Life in an Internment Camp. San Francisco: Japan Publications, 1974. Matsuoka, Jim. “Little Tokyo, Searching the Past and Analyzing the Future.” In Roots: An Asian American Reader, edited by Amy Tachiki et al. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1971. McCone, Michael. Preface to Executive Order 9066: The Internment of 110,000 Japanese-Americans, edited by Maisie Conrat and Richard Conrat. Rev. ed. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1992. McGlone, Robert E. “Rescripting a Troubled Past: John Brown’s Family and the Harpers Ferry Conspiracy.” In Memory and American History, edited by David Thelen. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989. McClain, Charles, ed. The Mass Internment of Japanese Americans and the Quest for Legal Redress. New York: Garland Publishing, 1994. McWilliams, Carey. Prejudice: Japanese Americans; Symbols of Racial Intolerance. Boston: Little, Brown, 1944. ——— What about Our Japanese Americans? New York: Public Affairs Committee, 1944. Meier, August, and Elliot Rudwick. CORE: A Study in the Civil Rights Movement. New York: Oxford University Press, 1973. Memmi, Albert. The Colonizer and the Colonized. New York: Orion Press, 1965. Middleton, David, and Derek Edwards, eds. Collective Remembering. Newbury Park, CA: Sage Publications, 1990. Milkman, Ruth, ed. Women, Work, and Protest: A Century of U.S. Women’s Labor History. Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1985. Minami, Dale. “Coram Nobis and Redress.” In Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, edited by Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1986. Mirikitani, Janice. Shedding Silence. Berkeley, CA: Celestial Arts, 1987. Mitson, Betty E. Looking Back in Anguish: Oral History and Japanese American Evacuation. New York: Oral History Association, 1974. Miyakawa, Edward. Tule Lake. Waldport, OR: House by the Sea Publishing, 1979. Miyamoto, S. Frank. “Reminiscences of JERS.” In Views from Within: The Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study, edited by Yuji Ichioka. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1989.

Bibliography 547 Mohanty, Chandra Talpade. “Cartographies of Struggle: Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism.” In Third World Women and the Politics of Feminism, edited by Chandra Talpade Mohanty, Ann Russo, and Lourdes Torres. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1991. Morimoto, Toyotomi. Japanese Americans and Cultural Continuity: Maintaining Language and Heritage. New York: Garland Publishing, 1997. Morris, Aldon. The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement. New York: Free Press, 1984. Muller, Eric L. Free to Die for Their Country: The Story of the Japanese American Draft Resisters in World War II. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Munoz, Carlos. Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement. London: Verso Publishers, 1989. Mura, David. Turning Japanese: Memoirs of a Sansei. New York: Pantheon, 1991. Murase, Ichiro Mike. Little Tokyo: One Hundred Years in Pictures. Los Angeles: Visual Communications and Asian American Studies Central, 1983. Murayama, Milton. All I Asking for Is My Body. San Francisco: Supa Press, 1975. Murray, Alice Yang, ed. What Did the Internment of Japanese Americans Mean? Boston and New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2000. Myer, Dillon S. Uprooted Americans: The Japanese Americans and the War Relocation Authority during World War II. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1971. Nagata, Donna K. Legacy of Injustice: Exploring the Cross-Generational Impact of the Japanese American Internment. New York: Plenum Press, 1993. Nakanishi, Don T. “Seeking Convergence in Race Relations Research: JapaneseAmericans and the Resurrection of Internment.” In Eliminating Racism, edited by Phyllis A. Katz and Dalmas A. Taylor. New York: Plenum Press, 1988. Nakano, Mei. Japanese American Women: Three Generations, 1890–1990. Berkeley, CA: Mina Publishing Press; San Francisco: National Japanese American Historical Society, 1990. Nakano, Takeo Ujo. Within the Barbed Wire Fence: A Japanese Man’s Account of His Internment in Canada. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1971. Neher, Andre. The Exile of the Word: From the Silence of the Bible to the Silence of Auschwitz. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1981. Neisser, Ulric, and David A. Jopling, eds. The Conceptual Self in Context: Culture, Experience, Self-Understanding. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Neisser, Ulric, and Eugene Winograd, eds. Remembering Reconsidered: Ecological and Traditional Approaches to the Study of Memory. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Nelson, Douglas W. Heart Mountain: The History of an American Concentration Camp. Madison: The State Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1976.

548 Bibliography Ng, Wendy L. “The Collective Memories of Communities.” In Asian Americans: Comparative and Global Perspectives, edited by Shirley Hune, Hyung-Chan Kim, Stephen S. Fugita, and Amy Ling. Pullman: Washington State University Press, 1991. ———. Japanese American Internment during World War II: A History and Reference Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2002. Nishimoto, Richard S. Inside an American Concentration Camp: Japanese American Resistance at Poston, Arizona. Edited by Lane Ryo Hirabayashi. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995. Nobile, Philip, ed. Judgment at the Smithsonian. New York: Marlowe, 1995. Nora, Pierre, ed. Realms of Memory: The Construction of the French Past. Vol. 1. Conflicts and Divisions. English language edition edited and with a foreword by Lawrence D. Kritzman. Translated by Arthur Goldhammer. 3 vols. New York and Chichester, West Sussex: Columbia University Press, 1996. Oda, James. Heroic Struggles of Japanese Americans: Partisan Fighters from America’s Concentration Camps. North Hollywood, CA: KNI, 1981. Odo, Franklin. No Sword to Bury: Japanese Americans in Hawaii during World War II. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2004. Ogawa, Dennis M., and Evarts C. Fox, Jr. “Japanese Internment and Relocation: The Hawaii Experience,” in Japanese Americans: From Relocation to Redress, edited by Roger Daniels, Sandra C. Taylor, and Harry H. L. Kitano. Rev. ed. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991. Okada, John. No-No Boy. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1976; orig. pub. 1957, Charles E. Tuttle. Okamura, Raymond. “The Concentration Camp Experience from a Japanese American Perspective: A Bibliographic Essay and Review of Michi Weglyn’s Years of Infamy.” In Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, edited by Emma Gee, 27–30. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1976. ———. “Farewell to Manzanar: A Case of Subliminal Racism.” In Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, edited by Emma Gee. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1976. ———. “Iva Ikuko Toguri: Victim of an American Fantasy.” In Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America, edited by Emma Gee. Los Angeles: University of California Asian American Studies Center, 1976. Okazaki, Suzie Kobuchi. Nihonmachi, a Story of San Francisco’s Japantown. San Francisco: SKO Studios, 1985. Okihiro, Gary Y. Cane Fires: The Anti-Japanese Movement in Hawaii, 1865–1945. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1991.

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550 Bibliography Rosenzweig, Roy, and David Thelen. The Presence of the Past: Popular Uses of History in American Life. New York: Columbia University Press, 1998. Rousso, Henry. The Vichy Syndrome: History and Memory in France since 1944. Translated by Arthur Goldhammer. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991. Rovere, Richard. The American Establishment and Other Reports, Opinions, and Speculations. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1962. Ruiz, Vicki L., and Ellen Carol DuBois, eds. Unequal Sisters: A Multicultural Reader in U.S. Women’s History. 3rd ed. New York and London: Routledge, 2000. Saito, Natsu Taylor. From Chinese Exclusion to Guantanamo Bay: Plenary Power and the Prerogative State. Boulder: University of Colorado Press, 2007. Sanchez, George J. Becoming Mexican American: Ethnicity and Acculturation in Chicano Los Angeles, 1900–1943. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. Sarasohn, Eileen Sunada, ed. The Issei: Portrait of a Pioneer; An Oral History. Palo Alto, CA: Pacific Books, 1983. Schell, Jonathan. The Time of Illusion. New York: A. A. Knopf, 1976. Schudson, Michael. Watergate in American Memory: How We Remember, Forget and Reconstruct the Past. New York: Basic Books, 1992. Seale, Bobby. Seize the Time: The Story of the Black Panther Party and Huey P. Newton. New York: Random House, 1970. Shibata, Grace. “Okaasan (Portrait of an Issei Mother).” In Japanese American Women: Three Generations, 1890–1990, edited by Mei Nakano. Berkeley, CA: Mina Publishing Press; San Francisco: National Japanese American Historical Society, 1990. Shibutani, Tamotsu. The Derelicts of Company K: A Sociological Study of Demoralization. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1978. Shimabukuro, Robert Sadamu. Born in Seattle: The Campaign for Japanese American Redress. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001. Simpson, Caroline Chung. An Absent Presence: Japanese Americans in Postwar American Culture, 1945–1960. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001. Sitkoff, Harvard. The Struggle for Black Equality. New York: Hill and Wang, 1981. Slackman, Michael. Target: Pearl Harbor. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press/ Arizona Memorial Museum Association, 1990. Small, Melvin, and William D. Hoover, eds. Give Peace a Chance: Exploring the Vietnam Antiwar Movement. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1992. Sone, Monica. Nisei Daughter. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1979; orig. pub. 1953, Little, Brown. Spicer, Edward H., Asael T. Hansen, Katherine Luomala, and Marvin K. Opler. Impounded People: Japanese-Americans in the Relocation Centers. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1969.

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564 Bibliography Honolulu Star-Bulletin Houston Chronicle Houston Press Gazette (Montreal, Quebec) Gidra JAVoice.com (Japanese American Voice) Library Journal Look Los Angeles Herald Examiner Los Angeles Times Milwaukee Journal Sentinel MoJo Wire Nation National Coalition for Redress/Reparations (NCRR) Banner National Council for Japanese American Redress (NCJAR) Newsletter National Council for Japanese American Redress (NCJAR) Press Release National Japanese American Memorial Foundation (njamf.org) National Journal New York Daily News New York Herald Tribune New York Nichi Bei New York Times New York Times Magazine Newsweek NOC Newsletter Pacific Citizen PBS.org Phi Delta Kappan Pittsburgh Post-Gazette Plain Dealer Pittsburgh Post-Gazette Rafu Shimpo Resisters.com Rikka Sacramento Bee San Francisco Chronicle San Francisco Examiner San Francisco News San Jose Mercury News Sansei Legacy Project Newsletter

Bibliography 565 Saturday Evening Post Seattle Times Sunday Gazette-Mail TalkLeft.com Time Times-Picayune Tozai Times U.S. Newswire Washington Post Washington Times World Herald v i i i . pe r s on a l i n t e r v i e w s t a pe r e c or de d b y t h e au t hor a n d de p o s i t e d at t h e c e n t e r f or t h e s t u dy of pa c i f ic wa r m e mor i e s , u n i v e r s i t y of c a l i f or n i a , s a n t a c ru z

Adachi, Patty. Chicago, Illinois, July 11, 1990. Araki, Nancy. Los Angeles, California, February 22, 1998. Bernstein, Joan. Washington, DC, March 26, 1998. Bridges, Noriko Sawada. San Francisco, California, May 10, 1990. Ching, Hung Wai. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 25, 1998. Crouch, Tom. Washington, DC, March 20, 1998. Daniels, Roger. Indianapolis, Indiana, April 4, 1998. Embrey, Sue. Los Angeles, California, February 25, 1998. Esaki, Alice. Chicago, Illinois, July 11, 1990. Fujiyoshi, Ron. San Jose, California, May 23, 1990. Funabiki, Kiku Hori. San Francisco, California, May 4, 1990. Herzig-Yoshinaga, Aiko. San Francisco, California, June 28, 1990 Hibino, June. Los Angeles, California, July 14, 1993. Hohri, William. Chicago, Illinois, April 26, 1992. Hokama, Alice. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 30, 1998. Hori, Tow. San Jose, California, September 5, 1990. Hoshida, Sandra. Honolulu, Hawaii, July 2, 1998. Iiyama, Chizu. El Cerrito, California, May 4, 1990. Inouye, Daniel. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 29, 1998. Irons, Peter. Santa Clara, California, February 21, 1998. Ishizuka, Karen. Los Angeles, California, February 22, 1998. Iwao, George Chiyoji. Los Angeles, California, September 12, 1990. Iwataki, Miya. Los Angeles, California, July 15, 1993. Kaji, Bruce. Los Angeles, California, February 23, 1998. Kaneko, Bill. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 26, 1998.

566 Bibliography Katsuda, Richard. Los Angeles, California, July 15, 1993. Kitashima, Sox. San Francisco, California, September 12, 1990. Kitsuse, Nelson. Chicago, Illinois, July 10, 1992. Locke, Jennifer. Washington, DC, March 20, 1998. Macbeth, Angus. Washington, DC, March 24, 1998. Marutani, William. Sacramento, California, May 17, 1998. Matsui, Robert. Sacramento, California, August 25, 1998. Matsunaga, Owen. Honolulu, Hawaii, July 2, 1998. Matsuoka, Jim. Long Beach, California, May 22, 1990. Mineta, Norman. Washington, DC, March 23, 1998. Monkawa, David. Los Angeles, California, July 15, 1993. Morimitsu, Art. Chicago, Illinois, July 11, 1990. Nakahata, John. Washington, DC, March 26, 1998. Nakanishi, Don. Los Angeles, California, February 24, 1998. Nakano, Bert. Gardena, California, July 8, 1993. Nakano, Lillian. Gardena, California, July 8, 1993. Nakano, Mei. Sebastopol, California, September 8, 1990. Niiya, Brian. Honolulu, California, June 22, 1998. Niizawa, Judy. Sunnyvale, California, October 24, 1990. Nishio, Alan. Los Angeles, California, July 10, 1993. Nishioka, Charles. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 25, 1998. Nishioka, Elsie. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 25, 1998. Nozawa, George. Menlo Park, California, March 3, 1991. Ochi, Kay. Los Angeles, California, July 14, 1993. Odo, Franklin. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 25, 1998. Okihiro, Gary. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 30, 1998. Okura, Pat. Bethesda, Maryland, March 26, 1998. Omori, Merry Fujihara. Evanston, Illinois, July 19, 1990. Ono, Susumu. Honolulu, Hawaii, July 1, 1998. Ozaki, Sam and Haru Ozaki. Chicago, Illinois, July 12, 1990. Sato, Eddie. Chicago, Illinois, July 12, 1990. Takahashi, Rita. San Francisco, California, March 18, 1998. Tasaka, Allicyn Hikida. Honolulu, Hawaii, July 1, 1998. Tateishi, John. San Francisco, March 16, 1998. Toda, Mary. Washington, DC, March 24, 1998. Tokiwa, Rudy. Sunnyvale, California, October 24, 1990. Tono, Jack. Chicago, Illinois, July 10, 1990. Tsukiyama, Fuku. Honolulu, Hawaii, July 2, 1998. Tsukiyama, Ted. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 25, 1998. Tsutsumida, Cherry. Washington, DC, March 24, 1998.

Bibliography 567 Umemoto, Karen. Los Angeles, California, July 6, 1993. Uyeda, Clifford. San Francisco, California, May 11, 1990 and May 18, 1998. Uyeda, Kenneth. Honolulu, Hawaii, June 24, 1998. Wakabayashi, Ron. Los Angeles, California, July 6, 1993. Wandzura, Rochelle. Arlington, Virginia, March 26, 1998. i x . u n p u b l i s h e d s ou r c e s

Day of Remembrance Presentation: The Impact of the Detention Experience on Japanese American Women. Oakland Museum, Oakland, California, February 24, 1990. Fair Play Committee. “Fair Play Committee Press Release.” Heart Mountain, Wyoming, March 20, 1944. Courtesy of George Nozawa. Funabiki, Kiku Hori. Day of Remembrance Presentation. Oakland Museum, Oakland, California, February 24, 1990. Courtesy of Kiku Hori Funabiki. Hohri, William. “Democracy and Redress.” Address. National Coalition for Redress/Reparations Conference. California State University, Los Angeles, November 15–16, 1980. Houston, Jeanne Wakatsuki. Author’s Panel Presentation. Burlingame City Library, Burlingame, California, April 29, 1990. Japanese American Citizens League (JACL). “Report to the JACL Board of Directors.” Committee on Self-Determination/Sovereignty, September 17, 1993. Kashiwagi, Hiroshi. “A Meeting of Tule Lake.” Paper, dated 1975, read at the Tule Lake Pilgrimage. Modoc County, Newell, California, September 28, 1991. Kazue de Cristoforo, Violet. “A Victim of a Tule Lake Anthropologist.” Paper. Fifth National Conference of the Association for Asian American Studies. Pullman, Washington, March 24–27, 1988. Kubota, Naomi. “Letter to the Commission.” March 20, 1981. Courtesy of Jim Matsuoka. Kurihara, Joseph Y. “Niseis and the Government.” June 1, 1943. Courtesy of Kiku Hori Funabiki. Lim, Deborah K. “Research Report Prepared for the Presidential Select Committee on JACL Resolution 7,” 1990. Los Angeles Community Coalition on Redress/Reparations. January 1980 minutes. Courtesy Jim Matsuoka. Nakagawa, Cressey. “Pearl Harbor and the Japanese Internment.” Japanese American Citizens League Panel Discussion, December 3, 1991. Nakano, Mei, and Kiku Hori Funabiki. “Day of Remembrance: The Impact of the Detention Experience on Japanese American Women.” Oakland Museum, Oakland, California, February 24, 1990.

568 Bibliography National Coalition for Redress/Reparations. NCRR brochure. NCRR, Los Angeles, n.d. Courtesy of Jim Matsuoka. National Coalition for Redress/Reparations. NCRR flyer, n.d. Steering Committee Meeting, NCRR, December 5, 1981. Courtesy of Jim Matsuoka. Niizawa, Judy. “Fiftieth Anniversary of Executive Order 9066 Calendar of Events Prepared by JACL National Headquarters.” January 17, 1992. Courtesy of Judy Niizawa. ———. “Remarks at a Day of Reflection and Unity in San Jose.” February 22, 1981. Courtesy of Judy Niizawa. Northern California-Western Nevada-Pacific District Council Japanese American Citizens League. “Tri District Conference Resolution sponsored by the Women’s Concerns Committee.” April 19, 1985. Courtesy of Mei Nakano. Northern California-Western Nevada-Pacific District Council Japanese American Citizens League Women’s Concerns Committee. “1986–1987 Japanese American Resource Directory.” Courtesy of Kiku Hori Funabiki. ———. “JACL Women’s Concerns Committee.” Courtesy of Mei Nakano. Okamoto, Kiyoshi. Memo. Heart Mountain, Wyoming, March 26, 1944. Courtesy of George Nozawa. Omori, Merry Fujihara. Presentation. Chicago, Illinois, August 24, 1982. Courtesy of Merry Fujihara Omori. Presidential Select Committee of the Japanese American Citizens League. “Report on Resolution 7 to the JACL National Council at the 31st Biennial Convention.” San Diego, California, June 17–22, 1990. Tamura, Eileen. “The Question of Joe: Identity, Citizenship Renunciation, and the Incarceration of Japanese Americans during World War II.” July 10, 1998. Courtesy of Eileen Tamura. Tateishi, John. “Letter to JACL Chapter Presidents.” March 12, 1982. Courtesy of Jim Matsuoka. Tonai, Rosalyn. Flyer. Strength and Diversity: Japanese American Women 1885– 1990. Oakland Museum, Oakland, California, March–April 1990. Tule Lake 1991 Pilgrimage Evaluations. Courtesy of the author.

Index

Page numbers in italics indicate material in figures. 9-11 (September 11, 2001), aftermath of, 443–52 60 Minutes (CBS), 282, 446 100th Infantry Battalion, 99, 112, 115, 371, 392, 423 100th/442nd Veterans Association, 325 442nd Regimental Combat Team: citations, 116, 125, 424; exhibit on, 385–87, 400, 407; formation of, 97–116; glorification of, 3, 17, 263, 264, 368–69, 371; heroic records of, 115–16; history of, 386–87, 420; JACL public relations campaign and, 124–26, 128–31, 134; Lost Battalion and, 116; Medal of Honor recipients, 423; redress and, 377; reference to, 303, 305, 372–73; at training, 126; veterans of, 387, 392 1399th Engineer Construction Battalion, 115 ABC Committee, 444 Abe, Frank, 337–38, 426, 429, 430 Abu-Lughod, Lila, 455n2 activism, 196, 197, 206, 207, 211, 367 Adamic, Louis, 181 AFL-CIO, 367 African Americans, 349; activists, 201, 206–7, 252, 302; civil rights movement and, 201, 203; discrimination against, 200; movement for reparations, 436–39; Title II repeal and, 252; Tuskegee Syphilis Study and, 434

Agricultural Conservation and Adjustment Administration, 57 Aikin, Charles, 175–76 A.J.R., 72, 442 Alaska, 300. See also Aleutian and Pribilof Islands; Aleuts Alaskan Native Claims Act, 349 Albert, Carl, 264 Alcatraz, occupation of 188 Aleutian and Pribilof Islands, 300 Aleuts, 300, 349–50, 366, 515n98, 516n108 Alien Border Control Committee, 444 Alien Land Laws, 21, 105, 129, 130, 475n87 Alien Registration Bureau, 28 Allen, Charles R., Jr., 252, 255 Almanac of American Politics, 366 Al Qaeda, 450 Amache, Colorado, 187 Amache Reunion, 295 Amanos, Mitsuyo, 405 Amerasia Journal, 241, 266, 336 American Association of University Women, 50 American Bar Association, 367 American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), 109, 130, 255, 282, 329, 440 American Committee for Protection of the Foreign Born, 263 American Communist Party, 109, 262 American Enterprise (journal), 446 American in Disguise (Okimoto), 221, 223 Americanization, 84, 89, 106, 111, 129, 139, 235, 246

569

570

Index

American Jewish Committee, New York, 417–18 American Legion, 22, 76, 96, 102, 281 American Loyalty League, 105 Americans Betrayed (Grodzins), 174–76 Americans for Democractic Action, 282 America’s Concentration Camps (exhibit): debates over title, 413–18; display of Heart Mountain barracks, 410; internee participation, 410–11; Jewish American community in New York and, 413, 415–41; memories of internment and, 412; positive reviews of, 409–12, 411; visitors’ reactions to, 412–13. See also Japanese American National Museum A More Perfect Union (exhibit), 1, 397, 400, 410; advisory committee, 387–98, 406, 519n17; Congress and, 389; controversy, 11, 384, 385, 518n12; criticism of, 388, 394, 397, 410, 519n38, 520n38; Japanese American activists and, 390, 397, 406; Japanese American veterans and, 386, 388, 392–93, 396; media coverage of, 394; military emphasis of, 385–87, 392–93, 396–98; opening events, 392, 395–96; plans for exhibit, 384–89 Anchorage Daily News, 449 Anderson, Katherine, 226 And Justice for All (Tateishi), 340, 342 anthropologists. See researchers Anti-Axis Committee, 123 anti-Japanese sentiment: anti-Japanese legislation, 139; in newspapers, 110; in Peru, 352; in political activism, 76; sexism and, 22; WWII and, 18–51 antiwar movement: influence on redress movement, 302, 314; Japanese American activists in 185, 189, 200, 204–5, 207, 259, 294, 303, 330 Appel, Allan, 417 Applied Anthropology (journal), 148, 170 Arab and Muslim Americans, 265, 443–52 Arai, Clarence, 105 Araki, Nancy, 396 Arlington National Cemetery, 128 Army, U.S., 26, 236 Army Intelligence, 26 Arnold, Laurence, 39, 43 Ashcroft, John, 450–51 Asian American Political Alliance (AAPA), 263, 314; at University of California,

Berkeley, 255–56; at University of Southern California, 257 Asian Americans, 195, 354; activists, 442; male-centered history of, 404; Medal of Honor recipients, 423; writers, 229, 230, 491n157; “yellow power” movement and, 203 Asian Americans for Action, New York, 256, 330 Asian American studies, 206, 220, 228, 232, 240–41, 244 Asian studies, 322 assembly centers, 52, 58, 60, 155; harsh conditions, 144; reports on, 143, 156; usage of the term, 238 assimilation. See Americanization; “model minority” image Associated Press, 445 Association for Asian American Studies, 1988 conference, 337–38 Atlantic Monthly, 261 Babbitt, Bruce, 416–17, 424 Bainbridge Island, WA, 25, 60 Bainbridge Review (newspaper), 24–25 Baker, Lillian, 13, 272–73, 277, 325, 363–65, 394, 498n137 Bancroft Library, 56 Barkan, Elazar, 434 Barnhart, Edward, 178 Bataan Death March, 288, 394 Bauer, Gary, 517n111 Bay Area Attorneys for Redress, 329 Becerra, Xavier, 441 Bendetsen, Karl R.: conspiracy of, 308, 332; history of internment and, 156, 178, 236; media support for, 330; military necessity and, 17, 20, 29–36, 45–46, 51; postwar accusation against, 308; redress and, 355; redress hearings and, 350, 357–60 Bennett, Charles, 367–68 Bennett, William, 517n111 Berkeley Barb, 252 Bernstein, Joan, 349, 353, 355, 511n35 Beshoar, Barron, 219 Besig, Ernest, 329 Best, Raymond, 91–92 Best Seller, 223 Biddle, Francis, 16, 35–37, 44, 47, 79, 236 Bill of Rights, 36–38, 49–51, 76, 102, 118–19, 260, 370

Index Black, Geoff rey, 412 Black, Hugo, 49 Black Manifesto, 437 Black Panther Party, 215, 252, 255, 259 Blair, Tony, 434 Blake, Al, 513n60 Bloom, Leonard, 465n29 Bodnar, John, 11–12 Bosnia, 418 Boston University, 214 Bosworth, Allan R., 234, 491n2 Boy Scouts, 89 Bridges, Noriko Sawada, 397, 398, 403 Brier, Stephen, 11 Briganti, Steve, 413 Brooke, Edward, 349, 511n35 Brown, D. M., 122 Brown, Gordon, 141 Brown, H. Rap, 252 Brown v. Board of Education, 136 Brundidge, Harry, 279 Brunner, Jane, 447 Buddhist Mission of North America, 25 Bureau of Sociological Research (BSR): influence on camp policies, 148; Japanese American researchers, 145; research in camps, 142–48, 169–70, 184, research methods, 144–47 Burling, John, 45, 48–49 Burnea, Myron E., 138 Bush, George H. W., 378, 517n111 Bush, George W., 445 Business Week, 219 Bussey, Woodrow W., 436 Cady, Howard, 216, 217 California Department of Parks and Recreation, 277 California Historical Landmarks Advisory Committee, 268–71, 273–74, 276, 497–98n120 California Historical Society, 384, 418, 518n6 California State Legislature, 274 Cambodia, 259, 418 Campaign for Justice: Redress Now for Japanese Latin Americans, 440–41 Camp Shelby, Mississippi, 126 Carmichael, Stokely, 252 Carnegie Corporation, 214 Carr, E. H., 240 Carr, Ralph, 59

571

Carter, John Franklin, 33, 37 Casey, Robert J., 87 Caughey, John W., 276 CBS (Columbia Broadcasting System), 210, 282, 446 Cellar, Emanuel, 264 Center for Internee Rights, Miami, 442 Central America. See Japanese Latin Americans Chandler, Albert B., 75–77 Chandler Committee, 75, 83, 97 Chang, Gordon, 459n32 Chang, Kimberly A., 455n2 Chavez, Cesar, 215 Cheney, Dick, 375 Cherin, Milton, 176 Cherokee redress movement, 436 Cheung, King-Kok, 404 Chicago Seven, 259 Chicago Sunday Tribune, 221 Children of the Detention Camps (exhibit), 419 Chin, Frank, 221, 223, 227–28, 325–26, 491n157 Chin, Vincent, 354 China, 195, 206 Chinese American Citizens Alliance, 260–61 Chinese Americans, FBI surveillance of, 260 Christian Science Monitor, 222 Chuman, Dwight, 325, 343 Churches of Christ, National Council of, 282 Citizens Committee for Constitutional Liberties, 252 citizenship, 59, 118, 119; Issei ineligibility for, 22, 401; Nisei renunciation of U.S. citizenship, 118, 166–67, 179–80, 283, 338, 356; reinterpretation of renunciation, 246–47, 342 Civilian Conservation Corps, 74 Civil Liberties Act (1988): impact on other redress movements, 435–39; in National Japanese American Memorial, 421; passage of, 2, 334–35; signing of, 328, 377–78, 382, 396 Civil Liberties Public Education Fund, 429, 430 civil rights movement: African Americans and, 207, 253, 485n4; Asian Americans in, 205; influence on public views of intern-

572 Index ment, 55; influence on redress movement, 302; influence on revisionist scholarship, 235, 240; Japanese Americans and, 138, 186, 189, 200, 205, 207; women’s activism and, 404. See also Title II Clark, Chase, 59 Clark, Mark, 35, 135 Clark, Ramsey, 244 Cleveland Plain Dealer (newspaper), 261, 452 Clifford, James, 143 Clinton, Bill, 330, 423–24, 434, 437 Cochran, Johnnie, 438 Coelho, Tony, 365 Coffee, John, 27 Cold War laws, 132–33, 137. See also Internal Security Act; Title II Cole, David, 450 College of San Mateo, 190 Collins, Wayne, 295 Color of Honor (fi lm), 371 Colson, Elizabeth, 145 Combined Asian American Resource Project, 227 Come See the Paradise (fi lm), 433 commemoration programs, 212. See also Day of Remembrance programs; pilgrimages Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians (CWRIC): 1981 hearings, 248, 289, 303–4, 306, 315, 322–23, 326, 333, 394, 408; creation of, 311, 502–3n46; hearings after 1981, 348–49, 350, 358, 380; Herzig-Yoshinaga and, 332; history of internment and, 334, 347–48; recommendations to Congress and President, 351–53, 356; redress and, 13, 15, 20, 143, 197, 222, 300, 356–57, 437, 441, 502n44, 511n35; research on internment, 148, 465n28 Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Latin Americans of Japanese Descent, 441 Committee Against Nihonmachi Evictions (CANE), 205 Committee for a Fair and Accurate Japanese American Memorial, 424–26 Committee for National Morale, 142 Common Council for American Unity, 57 Common Ground (magazine), 57–58, 83 Communism, 195, 206; Japanese American Communists, 317, 344–45; and Japanese Americans, 263, 291; and McCarthyism, 252

Community Analysis Section (CAS), 123, 143–44, 154, 184; Japanese American researchers, 145; and positive history of WRA, 169–70; postwar criticism of, 336; relationship with internees, 149; relationship with the camp administration, 149– 51; research methods, 148–50, 153, 168 concentration camp, 69; debates over the term, 277, 389–90, 413, 415–18; definition and usage of the term, 6–7, 234, 238, 276–77, 389–90, 392, 406–7, 408–9, 414, 491n2; in documents, 22, 26, 49; examples of, 417–18; objection to the term, 268, 272, 352, 389, 406, 412–13; reference to Nazi extermination camps, 7, 237–38, 269, 390 “Concentration Camps” scholarship, 236– 47, 389. See also revisionist histories Concentration Camps, U.S.A. (Allen), 252, 255 Concentration Camps USA: Japanese Americans and World War II (Daniels), 236–37 Congress, 42, 128–30, 133, 136, 217, 255, 261, 296; 9-11 and, 450; House of Representatives, 131, 136, 334–53, 364; Japanese American members of, 262, 298, 334–35, 353, 371, 379, 392, 442; redress and, 296, 299–301, 334–35, 342, 348, 354, 380, 383, 441; redress claims against Japan and, 442; redress legislation and, 312, 350, 516n108; reparations for slavery and, 437; Senate, 135, 250, 334, 354, 361, 364; Title II and, 262–63, 265–67 Congressional Medal of Honor, 408, 423 Congressional Record, 59, 374 Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO), 38, 236 Conlin, J. J., 223 Conn, Stetson, 236–37, 492n8 Conrat, Maisie, 384–85 Conrat, Richard, 384–85 Conroy, Hilary, 102 Conscience and the Constitution (fi lm), 426, 429 Constitution: 1990 workshop on, 443, 444; A More Perfect Union and, 395; bicentennial of, 384, 386, 393–94; critical veiws of, 386, 397; internment and, 178, 235, 310–11, 313, 369, 372, 375, 378, 395. See also Bill of Rights Consulate General of Japan, 34 Conversations: Before the War/After the War (fi lm), 409

Index 573 Conyers, John, 437 coram nobis, 328, 380. See also National Council for Japanese American Redress, class action lawsuit Cornell, Steven, 11 Corporation for Public Broadcasting, 429 Cosmopolitan (magazine), 279 Costello, John, 84, 87 Couch, William Terry, 176 Counterpoint: Perspectives on Asian America (anthology), 232–33, 282, 491–92n3 Cozzens, Robert, 92–93 Cranston, Alan, 365 Crisis, The (NAACP magazine), 51, 417 Crossroads (periodical), 219 Crouch, Tom, 1, 386–87, 389–92, 394–95, 406 Crystal City DOJ Internment Camp, Texas, 187–88, 352, 394, 513n60 Cullum, Robert, 475n101 CWRIC. See Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians Daniels, Roger: on A More Perfect Union, 391–92; “Concentration Camps” scholarship and, 234, 236–40, 244, 246, 389, 491n3, 492n3; history of internment and, 231–34, 236–38, 276, 307, 430, 470n4, 512n51; JANM and, 409, 416; oral historian, 232; personal background, 236; on Toguri pardon campaign, 279 Davis, Elmer, 86 Davis, Maxine, 83 Day of Remembrance programs, 9, 187, 212, 324, 429, 487n80 Days of Waiting (fi lm), 432 Dayson, Diane, 413, 417 Dean, John, 293 de Cristoforo, Violet Kazue, 337–38, 393, 405 Dellums, Ron, 373 Dembitz, Nanette, 46 Department of Agriculture, 359 Department of Defense, 358 Department of Health and Human Services, 349 Department of Interior, 131, 434 Department of Justice: Alien Border Control Committee, 444; Arab and Muslim Americans and, 444, 446–47, 450; detention centers, 6, 7, 74, 165, 245, 316, 352, 434, 449–50; disgreement with DeWitt, 308; Internal Security Division, 252; list

of subversive organizations, 263; NCJAR lawsuit and, 309; postwar detention camps, 250, 252, 254; redress and, 375; Supreme Court and, 311; Title II and, 261, 293; Toguri and, 279; war records, 328; WWII and, 21, 29, 31, 35, 44–51, 133, 155, 166–67 Department of State, 33 Department of War: exclusion orders, 93, 337; Final Report and, 308, 332; removal of Japanese Americans, 15, 21, 29, 35, 37–39, 45, 49, 75, 115; researchers’ views of, 155, 173; in revisionist histories, 236, 308 deportation, 38, 76, 444 Des Moines Register (newspaper), 424 detention centers. See under Department of Justice; see also under FBI DeWitt, John L: internment and, 26, 36–38, 52, 59, 76–77, 117, 156, 178, 236, 288, 332; postwar accusation against, 308; proposal for exclusion of Germans and Italians, 337; recommendation for internment, 20, 358; redress and, 357; view of Japanese Americans, 12, 20, 360, 446 DeYoung Museum, San Francisco, 384 Dialectical Anthropology (journal), 337 Dies, Martin, 27 Dies Committee. See House Committee on Un-American Activities Ding, Loni, 371 discrimination. See racism “disloyals,” 80, 163, 180. See also “No-No’s” Doi, Shig, 340–41 Doing Fieldwork (Wax), 140, 141, 164, 166, 337 Douglas, William O., 47 Down, Ivy Makabe, 238–39 Downey, Sheridan, 27 draft, 76, 97, 119 draft resisters, 302, 341, 343, 347, 366, 373, 383, 389, 391, 398, 404, 408; JACL resolution for apology to, 420, 424, 426, 428–29; JACL’s postwar depiction of, 383. See also Fair Play Committee; “No-No’s”; Okamoto, Kiyoshi Dred Scott v. Sanford, 237 Drinan, Robert, 349, 353, 511n35 Drinnon, Richard, 336, 464n7 Egypt, 447 Eisenhower, Dwight D., 137, 348 Eisenhower, Milton S., 56, 111–12, 153, 155–56

574 Index Ellis Island, New York, as WWII detention facility, 413 Ellis Island Museum, 406, 413–14, 418 Embree, John F., 71–72, 150, 157, 170–71 Embrey, Sue Kunitomi: A More Perfect Union and, 396; community activist, 208–9, 211–12, 239, 244, 326; on “concentration camp” scholarship, 389–90; criticism of Farewell to Manzanar, 227; Manzanar Committee and, 269–70, 273–74 Emergency Detention Act, 336 Emi, Frank, 120, 430 Emmons, Delos, 28 Encyclopaedia Britannica, 46 Endo, Mitsuye, 44 enemy aliens, 21, 27–29, 35, 316–317 Ennis, Edward, 44–45, 48–49 Enomoto, Jerry, 217, 263 Escape from Manzanar (fi lm), 227 ethnic pride movement, 200, 302 ethnic studies, 190, 203–204, 215, 253, 314 ethnography, 143. See also researchers Eto, Take, 405 euphemisms, 58, 69, 234, 351–52, 389–90, 409, 414 Evacuated People (WRA), 64 evacuation, 52, 58, 60; of Aleuts, 300, 349– 50, 366, 515n98, 516n108; as euphemism, 234, 351, 408–9; of Japanese Americans (see internment). See also Executive Order 9066 Evacuation Claims Act (1948), 105, 130–33, 309–11 evacuation order, 40–41, 256 Evans, Daniel, 285 exclusion orders, 43–46, 89, 93, 308 Executive Committee of the Asian Coalition for Equality in Seattle, 216 Executive Order 9066, 30, 40–41; compliance with, 108–9; exhibit (1972), 384–85; impact on Japanese American community, 94, 131, 295; internment and, 52, 86, 347; in revisionist histories, 236; revocation of, 285, 369; signing of, 37–38, 153, 212 exhibits on internment, 383, 384–86, 396. See also America’s Concentration Camps; A More Perfect Union; Strength and Diversity Ezell, Ed, 387 Fact-Finding Committee, 95 Fahy, Charles, 49

Fair Play Committee, 119–20, 149, 408, 430 Fallows, Frank, 264 Family Gathering (fi lm), 432–33 Farewell to Manzanar (Houston and Houston), 187, 223–31 FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation): 9-11 and, 444; evidence against Japanese American sabotage, 19, 21, 24, 26, 32–39, 48–49; in internment camps, 73, 145, 149, 165, 328; interrogation of Arab Americans, 444; JACL cooperation with, 121–23, 138, 424; L.A. Eight and, 444; postwar surveillance and incarceration, 252; reports undermining government’s justification for internment, accessibility of, 310; researching FBI documents, 236; roundup of Japanese Americans, 107, 187, 318, 433, 449, 513n60; Title II and, 260; Uyeda and, 281. See also Hoover, J. Edgar Federal Circuit Court of Appeals, 311–12 Federal Communications Commission (FCC), 19, 30, 48–49, 310 Federal Reserve Board, 60, 297 Fielder, Kendall J., 39 fieldwork. See Bureau of Sociological Research; Community Analysis Section; Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study Fifth Amendment Takings Clause, 309–10. See also National Council for Japanese American Redress, class action lawsuit Final Report (DeWitt), 20–21, 43–51, 62–63, 308, 331 Fine, Glenn A., 450 First Amendment, 293 Fisher, Adrian, 15 Fisher, Galen, 39 Fiske, Harlan, 47 Flemming, Arthur, 348–49, 353, 511n35 Foley, Thomas, 365, 515n98 Fong, Hiram, 223 Ford, Gerald, 284–85, 369 Ford, Leland, 26 Foreign Aff airs (periodical), 101 Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, 344 Foucault, Michel, 6 Frank, Barney, 364–65, 370, 379, 516n108 Frederick, Francis S., 71 Free Congress Foundation, 446 Freed, Ann, 143 Freedom of Information Act, 51, 236, 449 Freudenheim, Tom, 415

Index

575

Fried, Charles, 311–12 Friedson, Anthony, 491n156 From Many Lands (Louis), 181 Fudenna, Margene, 403 Fujii Sei v. State of California, 475n87 Fujimoto, Isao, 206 Fujita, Stephen, 184 Funabiki, Kiku Hori, 248, 360–62, 388, 389, 397–98, 400, 403 Furutani, Warren, 192, 207–8, 212, 215, 268–70 Futatsu no Sokoku (Yamazaki), 347

Grodzins, Morton, 154–56, 160, 173–74, 176–78, 237, 506n99 Gromoff, Ishmael Vincent, 349, 511n35 Groves, Julian McAllister, 455n2 Grower-Shipper Vegetable Association, 23, 85 Guevara, Che, 215 Guilty by Reason of Grace (fi lm), 518n6 Gulf Wars and Arab Americans, 440, 444–50 Gullion, Allen W., 16, 35, 236 Guterson, David, 433

Gabrielson, W. A., 39 Garceau, Oliver, 178 Garcia, Alex, 273–74 German Americans, 361, 377 Germany: East Germany, 434; Holocaust and, 39, 323, 415, 418; internment of German nationals in the United States, 413; Luxembourg Agreements (1952), 434; Nazi death camps, 389–90; pro-Nazi activity in the United States, 337; restitution for Holocaust, 297; West Germany, 297 Gidra (newspaper), 203, 204, 206 Gila River, Arizona, 61, 70, 71, 140–41, 160, 164–66, 181–82, 253, 402 Gill, Colorado, 127 Gillis, John R., 10 Gima, Dick, 219 Ginsburg, Dan, 412 Ginsburg, Ruth Bader, 311 Girl Reserves, 89 Glenn, Evelyn Nakano, 189–90, 400 Glenn, John, 365 Glickman, Dan, 364 Global Alliance for Preserving the History of World War II, 442 Go for Broke! (fi lm), 128–29, 227 Go for Broke (veteran’s organization), 386–87, 396, 400 Go for Broke Foundation, 421, 523n106 Goldberg, Arthur, 15, 349, 351, 353, 392, 511n35 Goodman, James, 11 Gossett, Ed, 134 Goto, June Masuda, 376–77 Graham, Howard Jay, 176–77 Gramm, Phil, 364 Gramm-Rudman-Hollings bill, 354, 377 Grassley, Charles E., 363 Graves, Fred J., 71

habeas corpus, 36, 307 Hachiya, Frank, 116, 369 Hacker, David A., 231–32, 240–44 Hada, John, 281 hakujin, 69, 306 Hall, John M., 46, 478n45 Hall, Sam, 354–57, 359–61, 363–64 Hall, Tony, 437 Hamano, Merilynne, 214 Hamide, Khader, 443–44 Hankey, Rosalie. See Wax, Rosalie Hankey Hansen, Arthur A., 231–44, 246, 270–71, 340, 491–92n3, 493n33 Hansen, Asael T., 148–53, 170 Harris, David, 417 Hata, Nadine Ishitani, 427, 497n115 Hawaii: Hawaiian sovereignty movement, 441–42; internment and, 24, 28, 39, 87, 245; Native Hawaiians, 441–42; NJAHS exhibit in, 403 Hawke, Ethan, 433 Hayakawa, S. I.: conservative educator and politician, 215, 228, 257–58, 284–85, 301, 443; criticism of redress, 287–88, 363–65; views of internment, 287 Hayase, Susan, 444–45 Hayashi, Brian, 459n32 Hayashi, Ken, 306 Hayward, California, 52 hazukashi, 199 Heart Mountain, Wyoming, 68, 118; CAS researchers at, 148–51; closure of, 148; draft resistance at, 304, 426, 429 (see also Fair Play Committee); Ishigo at, 432; protests at, 120, 239 Heart Mountain Sentinel (newspaper), 119, 430 Hedgepeth, William, 250 Helms, Jesse, 374

576 Index Henderson, R. W., 223 Herald-Dispatch (newspaper), 261 Hershatter, Gail, 8 Herzig, Jack, 307, 312, 357–60 Herzig-Yoshinaga, Aiko: as activist-scholar, 248, 427, 439–40, 508n169, 509n169; JANM exhibit and, 415–16; as redress activist, 307, 312, 330–33; Smithsonian exhibit and, 387–92 Hibino, June, 205–6, 314, 320 Hicks, Scott, 433 Higham, John, 495n71, 503n60 Hirabayashi, Gordon, 44, 51, 228, 328, 332, 344, 368, 396, 432 Hirabayashi, Lane Ryo, 160, 179, 415, 459n32, 479nn73–75, 509n6 Hirabayashi v. United States, 45–46, 169, 332, 452, 508–9n169 Hirano, Irene, 414, 416 Hirasuna, Fred, 210–12, 439 Hironaka, Pete, 368 Hiroshima, Japan, 204, 347 history: of Africa and slavery in America, 242; construction of, 6; and fiction, 230; historian’s role and, 1, 5; of internment (see internment, history of); of military necessity, 15–51; of Nisei loyalty, 137; radical history (see revisionist histories); reinterpretation of, 203; of resistance 2, 60, 124, 128, 138–39, 231, 240, 366, 397, 398, 420, 430–31, 434, 455n2; of WWII, 220 History and Memory: For Akiko and Takeshige (fi lm), 433 History of the Provost Marshal’s Office, 28 Hobsbawm, Eric, 10 Ho Chi Minh, 215 Hoff man, Marilyn, 491n156 Hogan, William, 219 Hohri, William: 1981 redress hearings and, 303–4; comment on resistance, 395; endorsement of African American redress movement, 438–39; JACL critic, 427, 429, 494n52; and NCJAR lawsuit, 302–4, 312; new histories of internment and, 336; as redress activist, 4, 13, 247, 279–80 Hohri et al. v. United States, 312, 504n85, 505n85 Hokubei Mainichi (newspaper), 216, 266, 335–36, 393 Hollifield, Chet, 136 Holman, Rufus C., 75 Holmes, Linda Goetz, 417

Holocaust: concentration camp and, 7, 237–38, 269, 390; internment and, 175, 202, 258, 297, 314; memory and representation of, 10, 456n18; reference to, 39, 323, 415, 418; reparations for victims, 434, 437; restitution for, 297 Honda, Harry, 380, 395 Honda, Mike, 442 Honolulu Advertiser (newspaper), 28, 441 Honolulu Star-Bulletin (newspaper), 423 Hood River, Oregon, 369 Hoover, J. Edgar, 26, 34, 37–38, 42, 260–61 Hopis, 440 Horiuchi, Wayne, 285 Hosokawa, Bill: admission of JACL’s mistakes, 339–40; criticism of, 213–16, 219–20, 230, 232; defense of Masaoka, 424; defense of “model minority” image, 219; history of internment and, 195, 213–15, 216–20, 230, 232, 253, 339; JACL leader and historian, 43, 121, 128, 133, 138, 213, 439, 473n55; on postwar redress movements, 285, 291, 295, 380; on Title II, 255; on Toguri’s pardon, 284–85 House Committee on Un-American Activities, 82–84, 87, 96–97, 102, 121, 260, 359 House Internal Security Committee, 263–64 House Judiciary Committee, 132, 134, 450 House Naval Affairs Committee, 76 House Resolution 442, 372, 374, 377, 512n52, 516n108 House Resolution 4110, 353 House Rules Committee, 264 House Select Committee. See Tolan Committee House Subcommittee on Administrative Law and Governmental Relations, 354–55, 359–60, 364, 372, 515n98 Houston, James D., 223–25, 228–29. See also Farewell to Manzanar Houston, Jeanne Wakatsuki, 223–25, 227– 29. See also Farewell to Manzanar Houston Press (newspaper), 125 Howard, Harry Paxton, 51 Hoyer, Stan, 373 Hughes, Langston, 57–58 Human Organization (journal), 168 Hutchins, Robert, 176 Hyde, Henry, 375 Ichioka, Yuji, 220, 333, 342, 471n15, 479n65, 509n5

Index 577 Ichord, Richard, 263–64 Ickes, Harold, 57, 389–90 Idaho, 59 Ihara, Phil, 265 Iiyama, Chizu, 206, 255, 398–400, 405, 440 Iiyama, Ernie, 206 Ima, Kenji, 196 Immigration Act (1924), 134–35, 520n55 Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS), 280, 352, 443–44, 447 Imura, Haruo, 473n55 Independent Television Service, 429 Inouye, Daniel, 221, 223, 365; entitlement program and, 377–78; JANM exhibit and, 416–17; redress and, 298–300, 441; redress legislation and, 366, 371, 377; Title II and, 262, 264 Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, 441 Internal Security Act (1950), 250, 254, 263. See also Title II International Ladies Garment Workers Union, 50 International Longshoremen’s Warehousemen’s Union, 236 internment: call for selective removal, 38; causes of, 269; comparison to incarceration of 1960s activists, 252–53; compensation for, 13; criticism of, 21, 50, 117, 118, 182; debate about the term and relocation centers, 6–8, 238, 272; defense of, 58, 359; generational tension during, 72; of German and Italian nationals, 31, 356; history of (see internment, history of); Japanese American economic losses, 465n28; of Japanese Latin Americans, 352–53; justification for, 15–21, 32, 34, 43–44, 47, 49–51; legality of, 31, 33, 37, 49–50, 52, 363; military necessity of, 19, 44, 45, 48–55; official history of, 43–46; opposition to, 37–39, 44, 50; plans for removal, 30–34; postwar depictions of, 13; postwar reference to, 264; public support of, 51; racism and, 17–21, 27; recommendations against, 37; reports disputing necessity, 35; Title II and, 259; trauma and, 294; WRA depictions of, 53 internment, history of: 1960s and 1970s, 185 (see also revisionist histories); in 1980s (see new histories of internment); in 1990s, 383; in arts, 382, 383, 402–3, 432; autobiographies and, 220, 221, 383, 489n116; challenge to single representation, 333,

421; commemorative programs, 187; community discussions and, 403; comparison to other historical events, 314, 321, 434, 447; comparison with Vietnam War, 204; congressional histories, 366; conservative interpretations of, 335; education and, 188, 383, 403, 407, 412–13, 415, 416–17, 430; ethnic press, 366; in exhibits, 383, 384–86, 396; in fi lm, 383, 403, 409, 410, 418–19, 420–21, 429, 431–34; gender and, 404–5; history of suffering, 186, 213, 343; impact of redress hearings on, 333, 398; Internet and, 381, 383, 419–20, 426; JACL’s representation of, 235, 239, 320; Japanese American perspective of, 233, 322, 333, 423; in literature, 187, 223–31, 403, 409, 418, 433, 491n157; for mainstream audiences, 384, 419; in mainstream media, 334, 342, 420; Masaoka and, 215–16, 335, 419; misrepresentation of, 355; monuments and, 383, 419–42; multiple perspectives of, 342–43, 384, 419, 420, 426, 510n22; NCRR portrayal of, 320; “official” histories, 350; oral history (see oral history); of patriotism and assimilation, 185–86; in photographs, 384–85, 395–96, 397, 401, 410, 411–12; positive history of, 194, 288, 320 (see also “model minority” image); and postwar activism, 185–87, 320; preservation of, 418; in the press, 261; public history, 388; redress movement on, 332; revisionist history (see revisionist histories); Sansei and, 408; of silence and shame, 197–99, 201, 217, 343; trauma and, 294; women’s history, 397–406, 434; WRA representation of, 235, 239 internment camps: block layout, 65; closure of, 93, 148; custody statistics, 64; draft resistance at, 74, 76, 123, 147, 231, 242–44; on exhibit, 402, 410; governance, 67; harsh conditions of, 61, 65, 66; Issei in, 145, 149–51, 164, 167, 171, 180, 405; leave clearance from, 465n29; locations of, 62–63; protests and strikes, 73, 91–92, 97, 120, 166, 179, 239; relationship between internees and administration, 170–71; research in camps (see Bureau of Sociological Research; Community Analysis Section; Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study) internment orders. See evacuation order; Executive Order 9066

578 Index interviews. See oral history inu (informers), 72–74, 100, 117 Iranians, 443 Irons, Peter, 51, 308, 312, 328–29, 357 IRS (Internal Revenue Service), 294 Ishigo, Estelle, 432 Ishii, Amy, 199 Ishikawa, George, 120 Ishio, Phil, 395 Ishizuka, Karen, 406–7, 408, 411, 413–16 Issei: camp researchers and, 164; community leadership, loss of, 123, 147; as enemy aliens, 35, 316; FBI roundup of, 107, 187, 318, 433, 449; financial loss of, 193; as ineligible for naturalization, 105, 133–35, 254, 356, 401, 520n55; in internment camps, 145, 149–51, 164, 167, 171, 180, 405; JACL and, 431; loyalty questionnaire and, 79; loyalty to the United States, 90, 114; resettlers, 181, 182, 323; views of internment, 14, 196, 434, 459n32; views on Manzanar landmark campaign, 271–72; women, 90–91, 150–51, 401–2 Issei and Nisei (Kitagawa), 220–21 “Issei Oral History Project,” 196 Italians in the United States, detention of, 31, 337, 361, 413 Ito, Kazuo, 196, 484n26 Ito, Nakao, 402 Ito, Robert, 430 Itogawa, Eugene M., 276 Iva Toguri (D’Aquino) (booklet), 281 Iwama, Frank, 269, 271, 273 Iwao, George, 317 Iwataki, Bruce, 220–21 Iwataki, Miya, 327 Iwate, Tatsumi, 127 Iwo Jima, 288 Jackson, J. H., 222 Jackson, Robert, 49 JACL. See Japanese American Citizens League JACL: In Quest of Justice (Hosokawa), 339 Japan: atrocities committed during WWII, 417, 442: colonialism, 434; invasion of Aleutian and Pribilof Islands, 300; Japanese Americans and, 354; “magic” cables and, 513n60; Nisei in, 279, 293–94, 342, 347–48; postwar relations with the United States, 133, 295, 354; redress claims against, 442–44

“Japan bashing,” 195, 354 Japanese American Citizens League (JACL): 1968 National Convention, 256; accommodation to internment, 108, 301; Ad Hoc Anti-Detention Committee, 256, 262, 265–66, 495n73; Alaska chapter, 449; Anti-Axis Committee, 123; AntiDetention Camp Fund, 259; campaign for Nisei military service, 112, 123–24, 139, 424; campaign to revoke Executive Order 9066 and, 285; celebration of successful resettlement, 184, 272; challenge to, 213, 215, 313–14, 425; in civil rights movement, 136; Congressional lobbies, 135, 217–18, 234, 251, 334–35, 364, 366–67, 514n81; conservatism of, 254, 262, 280, 292; cooperation with government, 25, 106–8, 121–23, 130, 134, 186, 217, 428, 431; cooperation with WRA, 72, 100, 103–4, 111; criticism of, 108–10, 117–18, 120, 123–24, 137, 290, 299, 301, 303–4, 390, 426–28, 431–32, 441; dissidents within, 214–15, 251, 255, 258, 301, 425, 427; District Youth Council, 214, 256; Eastern District Council, 201, 296; Emergency Defense Council, 121; Ethnic Concerns Committee, 214, 217; gender discrimination within, 398–99; Golden Gate chapter, 382–83; historical landmark campaigns and, 268–71, 274–76; history of, 105, 339; history of internment and, 105, 185–86, 188, 194, 211, 214, 232, 258, 288, 419; internment and, 3, 12, 24–25, 39, 115; National Committee for Redress (NCR), 297, 368; National Committee to Abolish the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities, 262–63; national monument, 419; Northern California– Western Nevada District Council, 122, 256, 276–77; Okamura and, 254–55; Old Guards of, 255, 257, 286, 291–93, 295, 304; Pacific Southwest District, 215; Pacific Southwest Reparations Committee, 295; political support of, 136–37; Presidential Select Committee, 428; promotion of positive Nisei image, 136, 213, 231, 234, 251, 281; protest against, 124–26, 216; public relations campaign, 124–32; redress movement and, 133, 288, 298; representation of Japanese American community, 101, 106–7, 116, 119, 120, 121, 124, 139, 390–92; resolution for apology to “NoNo’s,” 383, 427–28, 430; San Francisco

Index 579 chapter, 257; Sansei members of, 255–56; Title II and, 251, 256, 261–62, 264–67, 281; Toguri pardon campaign and, 280, 281, 283; Women’s Concerns Committee, 398; Young Turks of, 215, 257, 314 Japanese American Committee for Democracy, 25 Japanese-American Courier (newspaper), 281 Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study (JERS): analysis of evacuation, 173–78; cooperation with WRA, 155–57; dissent from researchers, 479n75; history of internment and, 172–76; Japanese American researchers, 143, 157–58, 160–62, 181; objectivity/neutrality of researchers, 143, 153–59, 166; postwar criticism of, 240, 337, 509nn5–6; relationship with WRA, 153–54, 168; researchers in internment camps, 140, 143, 161–64, 166; research methods and objectives, 153–54, 165, 181–82 Japanese American internment. See internment Japanese American National Museum (JANM), 384, 406–11, 414, 416, 418, 430. See also America’s Concentration Camps Japanese American Research Project, 51 Japanese American Resource Project, 213–14, 217 Japanese Americans: The Evolution of a Subculture (Kitano), 238 Japanese American Voice, 430. See also JAvoice.com Japanese American Women, Three Generations, 1890–1990 (Nakano), 404–6 Japanese language school, 111, 118 Japanese Latin Americans, 245, 352, 419, 434; redress movement and, 293–95, 440–41 Japanese Methodist Church, 39 Japanese Peruvian Oral History Project, 440–41 Japanese Women for Justice (Hawaii), 441 JAvoice.com (Japanese American Voice), 426–29 Jerome, Arkansas, 61, 316 JERS. See Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study John Paul II (pope), 434 Johnson, Edwin C., 76 Johnson, Van, 128–29 Joint Immigration Committee (California), 22

Jordan, David Starr, 88 Journal of American History, 101, 241 Journal of Ethnic Studies, 336 Journey to Washington (Inouye), 221, 223 Judd, Walter H., 134, 136–37 Kaji, Bruce, 407–8 Kajihara, Hitoshi, 439 Kakesako, Gregg, 423 Kanazawa, Teru, 345–46 Kanno, Hiroshi, 267 Karasawa, Mary, 245 Kashima, Tetsuden, 196, 199 Kashiwagi, Hiroshi, 198, 212–13 Kashu Mainichi (newspaper), 271 Kassebaum, Nancy, 371 Kastenmeier, Robert, 264, 266 Katagiri, Mineo, 216 Kato, Chuck, 292 Katsuda, Richard, 315, 448 Kawaguchi, Tom, 340, 387–88 Kawai, Nobu, 119–20 Kawaminami, Jim, 325 Kawamoto, Jon, 324 Kean, Thomas, 376 Keeper of Concentration Camps (Drinnon), 336 Kemp, Jack, 375 Kennedy, John F., 137 Kennedy, Roger, 385–86, 388–89, 394–95, 397 Kennedy, T. Blake, 120 keto, 165 Kibei, 19, 80, 93, 117, 317, 359; accused of disloyalty, 363; in internment camps, 145, 180; resettlers, 181; in revisionist histories, 242; in Tule Lake, 158–59 Kido, Saburo, 25, 105–10, 121, 126 Kihara, Shige, 380 Kikuchi, Charles, 181 Kikumura, Akemi, 5 Kimball, Solon T., 69 Kimura, Greg, 449–50 Kindness, Thomas, 355, 359–61, 365 King, Martin Luther, Jr., 250 Kingston, Maxine Hong, 229 Kinoshita, Cherry, 196 Kitagawa, Daisuke, 220–21 Kitahara, Yuri, 209 Kitano, Harry H. L., 182, 238, 276, 502n44, 512n51 Kitashima, Sox, 367

580 Index Kitayama, Glen Ikuo, 205, 459n33, 460n13 Kleindienst, Richard, 261, 267 Knox, Frank, 23, 52 Kobayashi, George, 193–94 Kochiyama, Mary, 258, 263 Kono, Toraichi, 513n60 Korea: colonization of, 442; communism and, 136, 195; Japanese American soldiers in, 306, 317, 408; Korean War, 199, 252, 281 Korean American, 5 Korematsu, Fred, 44, 51, 168, 295, 328–31, 344, 368, 432 Korematsu v. United States, 47, 49–50, 86, 364, 452 Korty, John, 226, 228, 230 Kosaka, Eiko, 441 Kotake, Donna, 323 Kroeber, Alfred, 163 Krug, Julius A., 131 Kudoh, Youki, 433 Kumamoto, Junji, 494n53 Kunitsugu, Kats, 257 Kurashige, Lon, 522n85 Kurata, Joe, 393 Kurihara, Joseph, 117–18, 304, 307, 504n73 Kuroki, Ben, 90, 120, 430 Kuropas, Myron B., 285 Kurosawa Akira, 339 Kurose, Hattie, 160 Kutler, Stanley, 280 Kuwayama, Kelly, 396 L.A. Eight, 444 Lange, Dorothea, 42, 75, 384 Langley, Harold, 386–87 Laremont, Richard Rene, 437 LaViolette, Forrest, 176 Lea, Clarence, 27 Leach, Archer, 31 League of Revolutionary Struggle, 317 League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), 106, 471n5 Lee, Clark, 279 legacy of internment: 9-11 and, 443–45; apologies, international proliferation of, 433–44; debate over, 420; impact on other redress campaigns, 436–39; reconciliation within community, 382–83 Leighton, Alexander, 144–48, 169 Leonard, Kevin, 130 Leupp Isolation Center, Arizona, 397 Liberty Magazine, 83 Library Journal, 226

Library of Congress, 46, 245 Life (magazine), 389 Lim, Deborah K., 427 Lim Report, The, 427–28, 429, 505n91 Lind, William, 446 Lippmann, Walter, 36, 38 Little Tokyo, Los Angeles, 184, 205, 321, 407, 448 Little Tokyo People’s Rights Organization (LTPRO), 205, 316 Look Magazine, 250–51 Los Angeles: JANM exhibit in, 403–13; Japanese American community in, 184, 205, 321, 407, 448; Jewish American community in, 409; NCRR community hearings in, 321; protest against redevelopment in, 9, 316 (see also Little Tokyo People’s Rights Organization); redress hearings in, 306, 315, 318, 325, 333, 349 Los Angeles Community Redevelopment Agency, 407 Los Angeles County Natural History Museum, 407 Los Angeles Times, 24, 47, 77, 192, 273, 358; review on JANM exhibits, 403; on Title II, 261 Lost Battalion, 116, 125–27, 129, 134, 367 Lost Years, 1942–1946, The (Embrey), 239 Louisville Times (newspaper), 26 Lowman, David, 357–58, 365 Lowry, Mike, 301 loyalty: demonstration of, 25, 36, 38–39, 44– 46, 48, 89, 132; history of, 137, 194, 342, 347, 383, 420, 423; JACL promotion of, 104, 107, 125–26, 188, 335; loyalty hearings, 52; media depiction of, 345; multiple views of, 382; Nisei military service and, 17, 77, 80, 90, 99, 100–101, 104, 114, 120; praise for, 80, 139, 374, 375; redress and, 335, 363, 364, 368, 370–71, 383, 423; reinterpretation of, 404–5 “loyalty questionnaire,” 3, 77, 148, 159, 340, 356, 392, 433 Lungren, Dan, 349, 351, 357, 511n35 Macbeth, Angus, 16, 349, 350, 355, 360 MacLeish, Archibald, 32 “magic” cables, 357–59, 380, 513n60 Makabe, Wilson, 374 Malcolm X, 258, 316, 321 Mann, John, 282 Manzanar, California: administration, 68; camp conditions, 65; cemetery monument

Index at, 209; in exhibit, 402; as historical landmark, 268–69, 275; historical landmark campaign, 271–76, 278, 389, 497n115; internment and, 7, 25, 65, 69–72, 75, 123, 204; Manzanar Riot, 74, 76, 123, 147, 231, 242–44, 431, 511n26; pilgrimage, 207–10, 212, 239, 314; reinterpretation of riot, 242–44, 431 Manzanar Black Dragons, 344–45, 363 Manzanar Committee: activism of, 212, 226, 268–70, 273, 390; and JACL, 268; and Manzanar historical landmark campaign, 274, 389, 497–98n120 Manzanar Free Press (newspaper), 272 Marshall, Thurgood, 312 Maru, Chris, 201 Marutani, William, 15, 349, 351, 511n35 Masaoka, Akira Ike, 129 Masaoka, Ben, 116 Masaoka, Mike: controversy over wartime leadership, 419–20, 424, 428; cooperation with government, 108, 122, 139; criticism of, 138, 213, 304, 335, 426–42; defense of “model minority” image, 215–18, 251, 343; Evacuation Claims Act and, 133; history of Japanese Americans and, 215–16, 335; as JACL leader and lobbyist, 12–13, 39, 101–7, 109–12, 115–17, 121, 130, 133, 134–36, 138–39, 188, 195, 253, 258, 286; and “Japanese American Creed,” 106, 420–21, 423, 470n3; McCarran-Walter Act and, 132–33; memoir of, 138; National Japanese American Memorial and, 419–46; Okamura and, 254–55, 260; promotion of Nisei loyalty, 124, 129, 132, 138–39, 194, 335, 419, 421; public support of, 194, 265, 421–22, 424; public testimonies, 120, 132, 134; redress hearings and, 305, 314, 363, 364, 371; redress movement and, 294–97, 379, 380; Smithsonian exhibit and, 388; support of Myer, 101–4; Title II and, 255–56, 260, 262, 264–65; Toguri pardon campaign and, 280 Masaoka, Tad, 304 Masaoka Haruye v. State of California, 475n87 Masaoka Papers, University of Utah Marriot Library, 430 Mass, Amy Iwasaki, 197 Masuda, Kazuo, 125, 376 Masuda, Mary, 125 Matson, Floyd, 178 Matsui, Jeff rey, 215, 257

581

Matsui, Robert, 298–300, 356, 367, 372–73 Matsumoto, Valerie, 5, 182, 400 Matsunaga, Spark: redress and, 298, 299, 366, 371, 372; Smithsonian exhibit and, 388; Title II and, 262–64; Toguri pardon campaign and, 284–85 Matsuoka, Jim, 4, 210, 211, 314 Mayeda, Sentoku, 208 McCarran, Pat, 132, 135 McCarran-Walter Act (1952), 105, 133, 135–36, 254, 444 McCarthy, Joseph, 316 McCarthyism, 252 McCloy, John L., 15, 18, 35–36, 45–47, 49, 51, 112, 131–32, 135, 155, 178, 236; conspiracy of, 332; military necessity and, 358; postwar accusation against, 308; redress hearings and, 350, 357, 360; support from the press, 330 McCone, Michael, 384 McFarling, J. Ralph, 172 McGurn, Jack, 433 McKee, Ruth E., 52–53, 65–66 McKinnie, Lester, 252 McLemore, Henry, 22 McNeil Island, 344 Mellon, Knox, 276 memorials, 419. See also monuments memory: collective vs. personal, 8–9; and identity, 10–11; of internment, 116, 186–87, 208, 229, 384, 388, 411, 417, 419, 432–33; official vs. vernacular, 12; oral history and, 8; repression of, 8; of war, 9–10 Meredith, James, 302 Merritt, Ralph P., 69–71 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM), 128 Metropolitan Detention Center, Brooklyn, 450 Military Intelligence Service (MIS), 61, 115–16, 369, 371, 392, 420 military necessity: CWRIC dismissal of, 350; evidence against, 330–32; evidence for, 357, 359; history of, 15–42, 45–51; reference to, 311 Minami, Dale, 203, 329 Minami, Dan, 425 Mineta, Norman, 13, 299, 515n98, 515n100; Arab Americans and, 445–46; defense of Masaoka, 425–26; redress and, 298, 300, 355–56, 367, 371–73; Smithsonian exhibit and, 388 Minidoka, Idaho, 61, 67, 94–95, 114–15, 160, 196, 222

582 Index Minidoka Irrigator (newspaper), 95 MIS. See Military Intelligence Service MIS Association of Northern Calfornia, 393 Mitchell, Hugh, 349, 511n35 Mitson, Betty E., 232, 340; as oral historian, 232, 340 Miura, David, 215 Miyakawa, T. Scott, 214 Miyamoto, S. Frank, 158–60, 178–80 Miyamura, Hiroshi “Hershey,” 408 Miyatake, Henry, 285, 292 Miyoshi, Nobu, 201 Mochizuki v. United States, 440 Modell, John, 101–2, 196 “model minority” image: campaign against, 213; criticism of, 186, 192–93, 216–17; historical representation of, 190–92; media portrayal of, 186, 191–94, 203; Nisei reevaluation of, 313; promotion of, 335; redress movement and, 370, 371, 375; rejection of, 313, 314, 335; support of, 192, 219; use against other minorities, 438 Mohanty, Chandra Tapade, 6 Moholy, Noel F., 498n137 monuments, 419–42 More Perfect Union, A. See A More Perfect Union Moretti, Bob, 273, 274 Mott, William Penn, 270–71, 274 Munemori, Sadao S., 128, 374 Munson, Curtis B., 33, 34, 37 Munson report, 33, 34, 37, 245–47 Murakami, James, 269, 273 Murase, Ichiro Mike, 326 Murayama, Tomiichi, 434 Murphy, Frank, 49, 50, 86 Murray, Robert K., 101 Murrow, Edward R., 26 Museum of History and Technology, 385 Myer, Dillon S.: as Bureau of Indian Affairs Commissioner, 336; defense of Nisei loyalty, 88; defense of WRA policies, 94, 95, 97; at Gila River, 70; history of internment and, 335, 343; internment and, 12, 52–56, 59, 66, 68, 70, 73–77, 92, 103–4, 111, 131, 155, 464n7; Masaoka and, 112; memoir of, 54, 82, 99, 101–2; Poston speech, 99; support of, 272; Tule Lake and, 92–93 Nagasaki, Japan, 204 Nagata, Donna, 197, 202 Nakagawa, Cressy, 428

Nakagawa, Gordon, 379 Nakamura, Dennis, 322–23 Nakanishi, Don, 197 Nakano, Bert, 201, 316–17 Nakano, Erich, 316 Nakano, George, 442 Nakano, Lillian, 316–18, 327, 448–49 Nakano, Mei, 182, 207, 259, 397–99, 404–6 Nakao, Annie, 420, 424 Nakasone-Huey, Nancy Nanami, 130–31 Nakata, Mike, 292 Nation (magazine), 267, 450 National Archives, 236, 244–45, 330 National Asian American Telecommunication Association, 431 National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), 50, 417 National Coalition for Redress/Reparations (NCRR): African American redress movement and, 439; community hearings, 320, 321, 326; Congressional hearings, 356; criticism of JACL tactics, 317; grassroots campaign of, 318, 327–28, 367; history of internment and, 320, 366; multiracial coalition, 327–28; Japanese Latin Americans and, 440; “No-No’s” and, 317; redress movement and, 2–4, 289, 313–16, 319, 322, 327, 377, 379 National Coalition of Blacks for Reparations of America, 437 National Committee for Redress (NCR), 297, 298, 299, 368 National Council for Japanese American Redress (NCJAR): African American redress movement and, 438–39; challenge of JACL leadership, 301; class action lawsuit, 301–2, 306, 307, 308, 310, 312, 327, 380, 504–5n85, 505n91; history of internment and, 366; redress movement and, 2, 3, 288–89, 301, 322, 358, 379 National Educational Association, 226, 367 National Japanese American Historical Society (NJAHS), 396–406, 419, 430 National Japanese American Memorial (NJAM) (Washington, DC), 419–27, 431, 523n110, 524n115 National Japanese American Memorial Foundation, 420–21, 424, 426–27, 430, 523n106 National Japanese American Student Relocation Council, 465–66n29 National Journal, 376

Index National Leadership Conference on Civil Rights, 136 National League of Cities, 367 National Liberation Caucus, 258–59 National Museum of American History (NMAH), 385, 388–89. See also A More Perfect Union National Origins Quota Act (1924), 135 National Park Service, 414, 416, 421, 427 National Security Agency, 357 Native Americans, 71, 388; American Indian Movement, 188; Indian New Deal, 142, 147; redress for, 436, 440 Native Daughters of the Golden West, 22 Native Sons of the Golden West, 22, 85 Navajos, 440 NBC (National Broadcasting Company), 210 NCJAR. See National Council for Japanese American Redress NCJAR Newsletter, 304 NCRR. See National Coalition for Redress/Reparations new histories of internment: conflicting accounts of internment, 342; criticism of JACL wartime cooperation, 338–39; criticism of wartime researchers, 337–38; criticism of WRA and JACL, 336; ethnic community histories, 335; in ethnic newspapers, 335–36, 342; experiences of volunteer soldiers, 340–41; Japanese American activists, 336; by Japanese American scholars, 336; in the media, 343; memoirs, 342; multiple histories, 333–34, 340–42, 380; oral histories, 340–42; redress movement and, 333–35, 343; rejection of “model minority” history, 334; views of JACL wartime cooperation, 341 Newsweek, 193, 344 New York, 413–17, 443, 445 New York Herald Tribune, 125, 222 New York Nichibei (newspaper), 336, 345 New York Times, 107, 125, 176, 417–18 New York Times Magazine, 191, 219 Ng, Wendy, 201 nihonjin, 69 Nihonmachi (Japantown), 184, 205, 314, 316 Nihonmachi Outreach Committee, 444 Nikkei. See Issei; Kibei; Nisei; Sansei; Yonsei Nikkei for Civil Rights and Redress, 443– 44, 447–48 Nippon Hoso Kyokai (NHK), 279, 347

583

Nisei: activists, 196, 197, 206, 207, 211, 367; call for disenfranchisement of, 38; internment and, 13, 21, 22, 34, 180, 182; in Japan during WWII, 279, 293–94, 342, 347–48; leadership within community, 105; military service (see Nisei military service); prewar discrimination against, 197; redress movement, 13, 288; resettlers, 181, 183; Sansei and, 200–202; students, 181–82; studies of, 180–81; women activists, 397 Nisei Daughter (Sone), 220–23; during WWII, 115–16, 265 Nisei military service: impact on redress, 380; during Korean War, 408; linguists, 385; Medal of Honor recipients, 423; new histories of internment and, 340–41; praise for, 124–25, 131–32, 137, 373, 423– 24; redress movement and, 289, 305–6, 367, 380; veteran organizations, 325, 386; veterans, 306; volunteers 113–14; women volunteers, 405 Nisei: Quiet Americans (Hosokawa), 187, 213–15, 216–220, 230, 232, 253, 339 Nishi, Caroline, 201 Nishi, Setsuko Matsunaga, 197, 199 Nishi, Theresa, 201 Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist Temple, Los Angeles, 407 Nishida, Mo, 321 Nishida, Thomas, 413 Nishikawa, Elizabeth, 318–19 Nishikawa, Roy, 255–56 Nishimoto, Richard S., 160–62, 178–79, 509n6 Nishio, Alan, 204–5, 314, 317 Nobuyuki, Karl, 432 No-No Boy (Okada), 227 “No-No’s,” 78, 80, 117, 120; at 1981 redress hearings, 289, 383; campaign for JACL apology to, 383; celebration of, 304; criticism of, 344; in films, 433; history of internment and, 419; JACL resolution for apology to, 427, 430; new histories and, 341–42; redress movement and, 302, 308–9, 366; registration and, 78, 80, 171; in revisionist histories, 235; segregation and, 82; at Topaz, 405; at Tule Lake, 91, 163, 341 Nora, Pierre, 9 Norgle, Charles, 438 Oakland, California, 400–401, 447 Oakland Museum, 384, 400

584 Index Obadele, Imari A., 437 Oberdorfer, Louis F., 310, 506n99 O’Brien, David, 184 Ochiai, Kana, 326 Oda, James, 504n73 Oda, Mary, 345 Office of Facts and Figures, 32 Office of Hawaiian Affairs, 441 Office of Indian Affairs, 71 Office of Management and Budget, 375, 377 Office of Naval Intelligence, 19, 24, 34, 37, 122, 310 Office of Reports, 71 Office of War Information, 57, 86, 115 Ogletree, Charles, 438 O’Hara, Barratt, 137 Oka, Takahashi, 222 Okada, John, 227 Okajima, Kinya, 114 Okamoto, Kiyoshi, 118, 119 Okamura, Ray: A More Perfect Union and, 392–93; campaign against Title II, 250–56, 259–60, 262–63, 265; history of internment and, 336; JACL and, 254–55, 257–58, 267; Masaoka and, 254, 260; Pacific Citizen and, 258, 266; as radical scholar-activist, 216, 230–34, 244, 248, 284; in Toguri pardon campaign, 282–83; on Tule Lake, 277 Okazaki, Steven, 432 Okihiro, Gary Y., 240–44, 246–47, 415, 417, 427 Okimoto, Daniel, 221 Okubo, Mine, 489n116 Olson, Culbert, 31 Olusegun, Kalonji, 437 Omata, Donna Rise, 359 Omi, Michael, 458n25 Omori, Chizu, 425, 431 Omori, Chizuko, 313 Omori, Emiko, 431 Omori, John, 306 Omori, Merry, 306 Omura, James, 108, 120, 390–91, 427, 430 On Active Service in Peace and War (Stimson), 32 O’Neill, Tip, 365 Opler, Marvin, 168–69, 179 Opler, Morris, 123–24, 168, 171 oral history: comparison with other types of sources, 9; contexts of, 8, 9; interviews in Japanese, 196; Issei accounts of the intern-

ment, 196, 340; memory and, 8; redress movement and, 333; role of interviewer, 4–5; Sansei and, 202, 403; of women, 401, 403–4 Organization of American Historians, 241 Organization of American States, 441 Oshiki, Kaz, 264, 266, 296 Ota, John, 443 Ota, Mabel, 345 otonashii, 217 Otsuka, George, 125, 126 Oyama, Fred, 129 Oyama, Kajiro, 129 Pace University, 336 Pacific Citizen (newspaper): on A More Perfect Union, 393, 395; criticism of WRA and JACL, 336; history of internment and, 259; internment and, 4, 101, 126, 185, 192, 219, 226, 239, 257, 265, 272, 292, 379; on legacy of internment, 382; new histories of internment and, 337; Okamura in, 258, 266; on redress, 295, 306, 379–80; on Title II, 265–66; on Toguri verdict, 283; on Tule Lake Historical Landmark, 277; and women’s issues, 398–99 Pacific Historical Review, 238 Pacific War. See World War II Packard, Ron, 374 Pakistan, 447 Palestine Liberation Organization, 444 Palestinian immigrants, 444 Parker, Alan, 433 Pasadena Art Museum (California), 385 Patel, Marilyn Hall, 330 PBS (Public Broadcasting System), 420, 431 Peace Corps, 240 Pearl Harbor: 9-11 and, 449; in criticism of redress, 288; Japanese Americans and, 21, 24–26, 28–29, 39, 42–43; Japanese attack on, 513n60; in revisionist histories, 235, 270 Peers, William, 385 Pegler, Westbrook, 36, 110 Pentagon (U.S. Department of Defense), 245, 250 Personal Justice Denied (CWRIC), 337, 347–48, 350, 356, 359, 430 Peru, 352, 353 Peterson, William, 191, 192, 218–19 Pew Research Center Survey, 445 Philippine-American War, 204 pilgrimages, 187, 207, 209–10

Index Pitcaithley, Dwight, 416 Poindexter, Joseph B., 28 Politics of Inclusion, The (Kean), 376 Pool, Joe, 249 Popular Front for Liberation of Palestine, 444 Portelli, Alessandro, 8 Poston, Arizona, 61, 65–66, 69, 71, 72, 97, 345, 413; administration of, 68; history of, 170; Myer and, 97; protests and strikes at, 73–74, 76, 82, 161, 169, 242; race relations at, 71; researchers at, 144–47, 160–62, 169, 179 POWs, 279, 342, 442 Presidio (San Francisco), 108–9 Presidio Army Museum (San Francisco), 385 Pribilof Islands, 300 Provinse, John H., 156 Public Law 96-317, 299–300, 502–3n46, 505n85. See also Commission on Wartime Relocation and Internment of Civilians Pullen, Erin, 432 Purple Heart (fi lm), 227 Puyallup Fairground, 158, 212 Pyle, Ernie, 36 Quaid, Dennis, 433 Rabbit in the Moon (fi lm), 431–32 racism: against African Americans, 200, 203; against Japanese Americans, 21, 44, 46, 52, 58, 71, 130; criticism of, 51, 96, 251, 373; history of, 232–33, 235–37, 245, 283, 409 Radio Tokyo, 233, 279 Rafu Shimpo (newspaper), 219, 287, 325–26, 335–36, 343, 363, 387 Ralph Applebaum Associates, 411 Random House, 340 Rankin, John, 27, 59 Rape of Nanking Redress Committee, 442 Rashid, Kuratibisha X. Ali, 437 Rashomon (fi lm), 339, 341, 380 Rathbone, Tom G., 60 Rayburn, Sam, 131 Reader’s Digest, 138 Reagan, Ronald, 15, 312, 328, 370, 378; praise for Nisei heroism, 376; redress and, 351, 364, 375–77, 380, 383; signing of Civil Liberties Act, 377–78, 378, 382, 396 Red Cross, 25, 66, 89

585

redress: for Aleuts, 319; Congressional hearings, 9, 13, 132, 355–56, 363–64, 375, 394; Congressional resolutions, 130–32, 353; impact on other redress movements, 436– 39; for Issei, 301; JACL and, 356, 366–67, 377, 379–80, 439; for Japanese Hawaiians, 293; for Japanese in Japan during WWII, 293–94; for Japanese Latin Americans, 293, 319, 352; Nisei–Sansei coalition, 314; opposition to, 354, 355, 363, 374; redress legislation, 364–66, 372, 374, 377, 418–19, 421, 512n52, 516n108; usage of the term, 293, 319. See also National Coalition for Redress/Reparations; National Council for Japanese American Redress redress movement, 1, 3, 4, 287, 398; activists from Seattle, 292, 294, 301; criticism of, 287, 288, 291; criticism of JACL tactics, 317; and earlier postwar activism, 279; grassroots activism, 313–14, 380; impact on history of internment, 322–24; Issei testimonies, 318; JACL and, 287–91, 293, 296, 303, 306, 317–19, 322, 327, 353, 494n52; Japanese American politicians and, 298; legacy of, 327–28, 379–81; multiracial coalition, 319–20; Sansei activists in, 295, 314, 318–24; Seattle Plan and, 294; surveys of Japanese American views of, 295–98 Redress . . . NOT a Trivial Pursuit (Hironaka), 368 Redress! The American Promise (JACL pamphlet), 368–69 Reese, Preston, 412 registration: 77–80, 91, 97, 117, 171 Reid, Harry, 374 Reischauer, Edwin O., 218 Relocation Act (1974), 440 relocation centers, 6, 7; as euphemism, 69, 234, 352, 409; usage of the term, 238, 272. See also concentration camp; internment camps Renouf, Renee, 266 renunciation, 405. See also Tule Lake reparations: CWRIC endorsement of, 350–53; for Holocaust victims, 434; JACL proposal for, 297; Nisei views of, 293; payments of, 377–78, 379, 517n115 Reschke, Bebe, 199–200 researchers, 56; cooperation with U.S. authorities, 186; criticism of, 231, 232, 476n7; portrayal of camp resistance, 235;

586 Index researchers’ political views, 173, 174, 175. See also Bureau of Sociological Research; Community Analysis Section; Japanese American Evacuation and Resettlement Study; revisionist histories resettlement, 80, 465n29; celebration of postwar assimilation, 186, 272–73, 343; in Chicago, 181–83; Japanese American views of, 321, 323, 330; JERS studies of, 181–83; in Seattle, 227; WRA campaign for, 86; WRA depiction of, 182–84; WRA/Myer’s intention, 54, 80–81, 96, 98 resistance: in arts and media, 227; celebration of, 304, 397, 428–29; criticism of, 186; history of, 124, 128, 138, 139, 231, 366, 397, 398, 420, 430, 431, 434; JACL repression against, 341; sympathetic views of, 397; within internment camps, 116–20, 124, 163, 172 Resisters.com, 426, 428, 429–31 revisionist histories, 232, 434; challenge to “model minority” history, 233; challenge to WRA history of internment, 240; controversy over, 421; convergence with conservative historical representations, 234, 251, 252; history of economic competition, 245; history of protest, 232, 235; history of racism, 232–33, 235–37, 245, 283, 409; influence on Nisei activists, 244; and political activism, 233–35; reinterpretation of the WRA–JACL perspective, 242–43, 247; Smithsonian and, 386 Rhodes, Herbert, 277 Riemer, Ruth, 465n29 Ringle, Kenneth D., 34, 37–38 Ringwald, George, 219 Ripley, Dillon, 385 Roberts, Glenn, 371 Roberts, Owen J., 24, 49, 238 Robinson, John, 134 Robinson, Randall, 437 Rockefeller Foundation, 153, 173 Rocky Shimpo (newspaper), 391, 430 Rodino, Peter, 354 Rollins, Ed, 517n111 Rollins, Karina, 446 Roosevelt, Eleanor, 70 Roosevelt, Franklin D., 15, 17, 28, 33, 35, 36, 37, 43, 52, 57, 85, 107, 108, 109, 118, 153, 351, 359, 365; on Nisei military service, 85–86; reference to “concentration camps,” 238, 389, 418; support of, 374

Roots: An Asian American Reader (Tachiki), 220 Rosewood, Florida, 436 Rostow, Eugene V., 50, 486n54 Roth, William, 354, 365 Rousso, Henry, 10 Rovere, Richard, 15 Rowe, James, 31, 35, 42 Rowell, Chester, 36 Russell, Richard, 135 Ruttle, Lee, 226 sabotage, 24, 28, 36–37, 39; disputing reports of, 42; misinformation about, 43–44, 48–49; reports on, 23, 24, 139 Sacramento Bee (newspaper), 425 Sady, Rachel, 336–37 Saito, Hashime, 292 Saito, Morse, 188 Sakamoto, James, 121 Sakata, Lily, 202 Sakatani, Bacon, 410 Sakoda, James, 159, 160, 165 Sakura, Chester, 114 Salt Lake City Tribune, 287 Salvage, The (Thomas), 180–81, 184, 405 Sampson, Georgianne, 222 San Francisco Athletic Club, 215, 257 San Francisco Bay Area, 188; Japanese American activists in, 255; NJAHS exhibit in, 396; NJAM exhibit in, 418; redress commission hearings in, 304, 318, 322, 348–49, 362 San Francisco Chronicle, 25, 36, 76, 77, 219, 222, 447 San Francisco Commonwealth Club, 90 San Francisco Examiner, 92, 324, 420, 424–25 San Francisco News, 25 San Francisco Peace Treaty (1951), 442 San Francisco State University, 185, 188, 215, 253, 257, 284, 290, 427 Sanga Moyu (television series), 347 San Jose Museum of Art, 419 San Mateo, California, 199 San Mateo, College of, 190 Sano, Roy, 488n94 Sansei, 5, 14, 137, 315; activists, 14, 109, 186–87, 192, 200–201, 204, 209, 211, 253, 257, 317, 323, 408, 410, 459n33; campaign to relcaim history, 200–203, 212–13, 244, 248; criticism of JACL, 137–38, 339; fi lm-

Index makers, 432–34; in JACL, 255–56; on Nisei complacency, 257, 323; Nisei parents and, 200–202; redress movement and, 288, 295, 367; understanding of Nisei experience, 323, 324; views of internment, 200–201, 322–24, 327, 408, 425, 431; women activists, 317, 397, 408; women’s experience, 403 Sansei Legacy Project, 403 Sarasohn, Eileen Sunada, 340 Sasaki, Shosuke, 292, 301 Satow, Mas, 280 Saturday Evening Post, 83, 117 Saul, Eric, 519n17 Sawada, Noriko, 197–98 Schaar, Ruby Yoshino, 245 Schulhofer, Stephen J., 450 Scripps-Howard news service, 36 Seale, Bobby, 259 Seattle, Washington, 403, 427 Seattle Plan, 294 Seattle Times, 261, 425 segregation, 76, 148; CAS reports on, 172; JACL’s support of, 117, 428, 505n91; JERS analysis of, 180; recommendation for, 76, 80–81, 84; Senate resolution for, 82; Tule Lake Segregation Center, 91, 167, 276–78, 309; WRA plans, 82, 163 Seguro, E. T., 336 Seko, Sachi, 189–90, 228–29, 382 Selective Service System, 77, 115, 118, 120 Senate Appropriations Committee, 377 Senate Committee on Military Affairs, 75 Senate Document 1009, 372 Senate Governmental Affairs Committee, 354, 365 Senate Judiciary Committee, 262–64, 354 Sengupta, Somini, 417 September 11 (2001) terrorist attack, 443 Shaffer, Robert, 417, 523n101 Shaw, E. Clay, 372 Sheft, Milt, 412 Shibata, Grace, 405–6 Shibata, Victor, 207, 208 Shigekuni, Phil, 306, 326 shikataganai, 196 Shimizu, Toyo, 292 Shinkawa, Paul, 228 Shironaka, Beth, 315 Short, Walter C., 29 Shumokey, Ron, 413 Siena College Research Institute Poll, 445

587

Simpson, Alan, 515n100 Slocum, Tokie, 117, 123 Smithsonian Institute, 1, 384–89, 399, 406–7. See also A More Perfect Union; National Museum of American History Snow Falling on Cedars (fi lm), 433–34 Soil Conservation Service, 57 Something Strong Within (fi lm), 410 Sonada, Jaxon, 114 Sone, Monica, 220–22 South America. See Japanese Latin Americans Southeast Asia, 195 Southern Christian Leadership Conference, 201 Soviet Union, 195, 418 Spanish Consulate, 336 Spencer, Robert F., 181 Spicer, Edward H., 143–47, 170, 171 Spickard, Paul, 458n26, 471n15 Spoilage, The (Thomas), 161, 168, 177–80, 337, 481n113 Stanton, Robert, 421–23 Starn, Orin, 476n7, 509n6 Statue of Liberty–Ellis Island Foundation, 413, 416 Stegner, Wallace, 226 Sterling, George, 30, 48 Stevens, Ted, 300, 366 Stewart, Francis, 70 Stewart, Tom, 27, 59 Stillwell, Joseph W., 26, 125, 376 Stimson, Henry, 16, 35–37, 39, 86, 112, 132, 178 Stratton, Samuel, 374 Strength and Diversity (exhibit), 397, 400 Strong, E. K., 88 Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), 201, 205, 252, 253 Sumi, Pat, 204 Sumida, Stephen, 223, 427 Sunday Evening Post, 22 Supreme Court, 217, 308, 331, 363, 380; of California, 130; cases against Japanese Americans, 308, 311, 329; federal, 21, 24, 44, 45, 49, 50–51, 129, 237; and internment, 391; NCJAR lawsuit and, 311–12; Toguri case, 280 Suzuki, Peter T., 336–38, 476–77nn7–8, 477n10 Swindall, Patrick, 375 Switzerland, 437

588 Index Tachibana, Itaru, 513n60 Tachibana, Judy, 425 Tajiri, Larry, 283 Tajiri, Rea, 435 Takagi, Dana, 400 Takagi, Mary Anna, 255 Takahashi, Jere, 459n32 Takahashi, Rita, 424 Takaki, Ronald, 415 Takeshita, Ben, 197, 199, 277, 278 Taketa, Henry, 271 Tamura, Eileen, 504n73 Tan, Amy, 229 Tanaka, Chester, 387–88, 396 Tanaka, Henry, 270 Tanaka, Isago Isao, 190 Tanaka, Janice, 433 Tanaka, Togo, 117, 120, 123 Tanaka, T. W., 221 Taney, Roger B., 237 Tani, Mary, 219 Tateishi, John, 287, 514n75, 514n81; Hayakawa and, 288; on Masaoka, 424; new histories of internment and, 340, 342; redress movement and, 290, 292–93, 296–99, 301, 305–6, 380 Tayama, Fred, 117, 242 Taylor, Frank, 22 Taylor, Sandra C., 465n28 Temple University, 432 tenBroek, Jacobus, 178 Terminal Island (San Pedro, CA), 117 Texas Western University, 236 Thelen, David, 9–10 They Call Me Moses Masaoka (Masaoka), 138 Third World Liberation Front, 253 Third World movement, 206, 215, 258, 259, 314 Third World Strike (1969), 257, 284 Thomas, Dorothy, 56, 140, 153–66, 168, 173–78, 181–83 Thomas, Elbert D., 107 Thomas, J. Parnell, 82 Thompson, E. P., 39 Thornburgh, Richard, 379 Threads of Remembrance (quilt), 402–3 Time (magazine), 345 Time–CNN Poll, 445 Title II, 234, 283, 293, 408; campaign for repeal of, 251–54, 259, 281, 288, 314, 398, 408; defense of, 260; and FBI, 261; internment and, 259–60; in the press, 267;

repeal of, 251, 265–66, 286, 290; Toguri pardon campaign and, 278–79 Toguri, Iva Ikuko, 295; conviction of, 280; pardon campaign, 233–34, 278–82, 398; pardon of, 284, 289; Radio Tokyo broadcast, 279 Tojo Hideki, 85 Tokiwa, Rudy, 367–68 Tokyo, 402, 442 “Tokyo Rose.” See Toguri Tokyo Tribunal, 347 Tolan, John H., 38–39, 42, 44 Tolan Committee, 38–39, 43–44, 52, 87, 108, 134, 390, 427 Tomita, Tamlyn, 433 Tomoda, Dianne, 324 Tonai, Rosalyn, 401 Tono, Jack, 341 Topaz, Utah, 69, 113, 405 Torres, Art, 407 Townshend, H. H., 82, 84 Tozai Times, 247 Trask, David F., 356 Trask, Mililani, 441 Truman, Harry S., 52, 125, 132–34, 137, 424 Truth and Reconciliation Commission, 434 Truth of the Matter (Ishizuka), 408–9 Tsuchiyama, Tamie, 160–61 Tsuneishi, Paul, 247 Tule Lake, California: CAS researchers and, 169; Daihyo Sha Kai (“representative body”), 91, 179; historical landmark, 275–78; history of, 178–79, 184, 392; history of internment and, 7, 68–69, 120, 128, 166, 316, 393; Issei in, 164; JERS researchers and, 141, 158–60, 162–63, 179, 337; labor disputes, 91–92; martial law, 92, 179; pilgrimage, 212–13, 324; as postwar DOJ detention camp, 250, 253; race relations at, 69; registration at, 91, 158–59; renunciants at, 295; as segregation center, 91, 167, 276–78, 309; strikes and demonstrations at, 91–92, 97, 166, 179; women’s experiences, 399 Tule Lake Committee, 315 Tuskegee Syphilis Study, 434 Ueno, Harry, 242, 307, 504n73, 511n26 Ujifusa, Grant, 366, 368, 370–71, 375–77, 379, 424, 514n81 Uncommon Courage (fi lm), 419 Unfinished Business (fi lm), 432

Index United Citizens Federation, 37 United Farm Workers, 207 United Methodist Church, 302–3 University of California, Berkeley: Asian American studies at, 322; Myer fi les at, 56; researchers and, 141, 153–54, 163, 174, 176, 181, 204, 253 University of California, Davis, 256 University of California, Los Angeles, 214, 236, 238, 240 University of California, Santa Cruz, 5, 226, 331 University of Chicago, 146 University of Chicago Press, 176 University of Cincinnati, 236 University of Houston, 236 University of Nebraska, 336 University of Utah Marriott Library, 430 Uno, Edison: as activist-scholar, 187, 190, 199, 226, 248, 279, 518n6; brother of Buddy Uno, 342; columns by, 185, 189, 208; criticism of JACL, 215; criticism of “model minority” history, 194, 216; and history of internment, 185, 190, 195, 197, 206, 211, 212–13, 234, 247; Katsuda and, 315; Manzanar pilgrimage and, 207–9; as Nisei activist, 244, 255; redress movement and, 289–90, 342, 370, 380; Title II and, 266; Toguri and, 280 Uno, Kazumaro Buddy, 342 Uno, Raymond, 215 Uprooted Americans (Myer), 99, 101–3 USA PATRIOT Act (2001), 451 U.S. Army Center for Military History, 356 USA Today, 434 U.S. Capitol, 392, 423 U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, 348 U.S. Court of Appeals, District of Columbia, 311–12 U.S. Detention Camps: 1942–1946 (exhibit), 396–97 U.S. District Court, District of Columbia, 310 Ushio, David, 265, 271, 273, 283–84 U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, 411 U.S. Immigration Committee, 88 Uyeda, Clifford: as JACL activist, 382–83; NJAM and, 424, 427; NJAHS exhibit and, 396–97; redress movement and, 289– 90, 292–93, 296, 299, 379–80, 440, 442, 494n52; Sanga Moyu and, 346; support for

589

a JACL apology, 382; Toguri pardon campaign and, 279, 281–82, 285 Uyehara, Grayce, 366–67, 371 Uyematsu, Amy, 203 Vacaville, California, 160 Varsity Victory Volunteers, 112 veterans. See Nisei military service Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW), 282 Vietnam War, 204, 253, 259, 315 View from Within (exhibit), 419 Voorhees, Donald S., 332, 508–9n169 Voorhis, H. Jerry, 27 Wada, George, 321 Wakahiro, Shoichi, 208 Wakamatsu, Shigeo, 214 Wake, Lloyd, 210 Wakiji, George, 285 Wallgren, Monrad C., 75–77 Wall Street Journal, 287, 450 Walter, Francis, 135–36 War Bonds, 89 War Department. See Department of War War Relocation Authority (WRA): Americanization/assimilation program, 84, 171–72, 183, 197, 235, 272; camp administration, 182; camp researchers, 123, 142– 44, 147, 151, 155, 509n6 (see also Bureau of Sociological Research; Community Analysis Section); censorship by, 396; criticism of, 165, 168, 172, 179–80; directors of (see Eisenhower, Milton S.; Myer, Dillon S.); history of, 52–66; history of internment and, 104–31, 157–58, 161, 290, 335; internment and, 52, 57, 59, 61, 66, 104, 110, 115, 131, 157–58, 161, 290, 335; isolation camp (Moab, UT), 74; JERS researchers and, 162, 164, 166, 168; official history of, 67, 93, 232; official reports to Congress, 52–53; promotion of positive Nisei image, 231, 272, 335; public relations and, 75, 77, 84–85, 92, 98; registration program, 77–80, 91, 97, 117, 171; relocation centers, 62–65 (see also concentration camp; internment camps); resettlement program, 54, 80–81, 86, 96, 98; segregation policy, 76, 80–81, 82, 84, 163 Warren, Earl, 43–44, 86, 188–89 Wartime Civilian Control Administration, 155, 396 Washington, Booker T., 106, 470n4

590 Index Washington Post, 47, 125, 372, 384, 393–95 Washington Times, 394, 425 Watanabe, Joy, 449 Watanabe, Kim, 449 Watanabe, Teresa, 449 Watergate, 303 Wax, Rosalie Hankey, 13, 140–43, 158, 161– 62, 466n41; criticism of, 337, 338, 480n110; at Gila River, 162, 166; as informer for the Department of Justice, 167, 168; personal background, 162, 163; relationship with segregants, 168; at Tule Lake, 162–67, 179 Weglyn, Michi: as activist-researcher, 232, 248, 361, 389, 392, 430, 494n52; JANM exhibit and, 409, 415; research on internment, 244–45; views on activism, 248–49. See also Years of Infamy Weglyn, Walter, 245 Wei, William, 486n55 Western Defense Command, 17, 26, 34, 45, 59, 108, 173 Western Historical Quarterly, 101 Weyeneth, Robert, 434 White House, 57, 284, 285 Who’s Going to Pay for These Donuts Anyway? (fi lm), 433 Wickard, Claude, 57 Will, George, 366 Willard, Richard, 375 William Bremen Jewish Heritage Museum, Atlanta, 418 William Morrow and Company, 215–17, 245 Willis, Edwin E., 260, 261 Winchell, Walter, 279 Wirthlin, Richard, 517n111 Women’s Army Corps, 405 Women’s Exhibit Committee, 397–406 Wood, R. Coke, 274 Woodward, Milly, 24 Woodward, Walt, 24 World Herald (newspaper), 124 World Trade Center, 443 World War II, 263; declaration against Japan, 34; internment of Japanese Americans (see internment); Japanese American internment during, 6–7, 450; Japanese American military service (see Nisei military service); race relations since,

445; racism during (see racism); wartime hysteria, 450 WRA. See War Relocation Authority Wright, Jim, 300, 365, 372 Wright, J. Skelly, 311 Wyoming Eagle (newspaper), 430 Yale University, 256 Yamada, Gayle K., 419 Yamamoto, Eric K., 439, 495n78 Yamanaka, Lois-Ann, 229–30 Yamanaka, Morgan, 341, 396 Yamashita, Shonin, 271–72 Yamato Damashii, 242 Yamauchi, Joy, 247 Yamazaki, Ruth, 272 Yamazaki, Toyoko, 346 Yanagisako, Sylvia Junko, 404 Yasuda, Hannah, 405 Yasui, Lise, 432 Yasui, Masao, 432 Yasui, Minoru, 44, 51, 295, 328, 344, 368, 432, 514n81 Yasui v. United States, 452 Yasukochi, George, 228 Yatabe, Thomas, 105 Yeagley, J. Walter, 250 Years of Infamy (Weglyn), 245–48, 317, 361, 430 “yellow peril,” 22, 38, 55, 81 Yivo Institute for Jewish Research, New York, 415 YMCA, 89 Yoda, Steve, 425–26 Yoneda, Elaine, 228 Yoneda, Karl G., 228, 291, 344–45, 363, 504n73, 511n26 Yonsei, 267, 315 Yoo, David, 522n82 Yoshii, Michael, 323–24, 326 Yoshimura, Evelyn, 203 Yoshinaga, Ida, 441 “Young Democrats,” 206 Yune, Rick, 433 Yutani, Tom, 321 YWCA, 89, 107 Zelenko, Benjamin, 312

asian america

Historical Memories of the Japanese American Internment and the Struggle for Redress alice yang murray, 2008

New Cosmopolitanisms: South Asians in the U.S. at the Turn of the 21st Century edited by gita rajan and shailja sharma, 2006

The Global Silicon Valley Home: Lives and Landscapes within Taiwanese American Trans-Pacific Culture shenglin chang, 2006

Before Internment: Essays in Prewar Japanese-American History yuji ichioka, edited by gordon h. chang and eiichiro azuma, 2006

Five Faces of Exile: The Nation and Filipino American Intellectuals augusto espiritu, 2005

Writing Manhood in Black and Yellow: Ralph Ellison, Frank Chin, and the Literary Politics of Identity daniel y. kim, 2005

Consuming Citizenship: Children of Asian Immigrant Entrepreneurs lisa sun-hee park, 2005

Double Agency: Acts of Impersonation in Asian American Literature tina chen, 2005

Sexual Naturalization: Asian Americans and Miscegenation susan koshy, 2005

Caste and Outcast: Dhan Gopal Mukerji edited and presented by gordon h. chang, purnima mankekar, and akhil gupta, 2002

New Worlds, New Lives: Globalization and People of Japanese Descent in the Americas and from Latin America in Japan edited by lane ryo hirabayashi, akemi kikumura-yano, and james a. hirabayashi, 2002

Japanese Pride, American Prejudice: Modifying the Exclusion Clause of the 1924 Immigration Act izumi hirobe, 2001

Chinese San Francisco, 1850–1943: A Trans-Pacific Community yong chen, 2000

Dreaming of Gold, Dreaming of Home: Transnationalism and Migration Between the United States and South China, 1882–1943 madeline y. hsu, 2000

Imagining the Nation: Asian American Literature and Cultural Consent david leiwei li, 1998

Morning Glory, Evening Shadow: Yamato Ichihashi and His Internment Writings, 1942–1945 edited, annotated, and with a biographical essay by gordon h. chang, 1997

Dear Miye: Letters Home from Japan, 1939–1946 mary kimoto tomita, edited, with an introduction and notes, by robert g. lee, 1995

Beyond the Killing Fields: Voices of Nine Cambodian Survivors in America usha welaratna, 1993

Making and Remaking Asian America bill ong hing, 1993

Righting a Wrong: Japanese Americans and the Passage of the Civil Liberties Act of 1988 leslie t. hatamiya, 1993