Kiyo Sato - Kiyos Story: A Japanese-American Familys Quest for the American Dream

Copyright 2007, 2009 by Kiyo Sato.

Originally published by Willow Valley Press as

Dandelion Through the Crack:The Sato Family Quest or the American Dream.

All rights reserved.

Published by

Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sato, Kiyo, 1923

[Dandelion through the crack]

Kiyos story : a Japanese American familys quest for the American dream / Kiyo Sato.

p. cm.

Previously published as: Dandelion through the crack.

ISBN 978-1-56947-569-0

1. Sato family. 2. Sato, Kiyo, 19233. Japanese AmericansBiography. 4. Japanese AmericansEvacuation and relocation, 19421945. I. Title.

CS71.S2585 2009

929'.20973dc22

2008040711

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my parents and their Issei generation, who

navigated the treacherous waters of the Depression,

racial prejudice and internment, and delivered us, the

Nisei generation, to safe shores, for which

we are eternally grateful.

With non-violence and the safety of their children foremost, they coped with a most humiliating civil disaster and helped our country move forward toward a better America.

The Sato familys first home

The Sato family

CONTENTS

AUTHORS NOTE

I OWE SO much to my father, Tochan, John Shinji Sato, the great storyteller and educator, whose Japanese legends, Bible stories, poems of Longfellow, made-up anecdotes of Kuzu, made my dishwashing for our family of eleven a pleasure. And to Mama, whose love continues to flow through each one of us and out to everyone else.

My brother, Sanji Don, married Trudy Mayeda, who trans lated the haiku poetry written by Tochan, which we found after his death scribbled in a notebook. The translation does not attempt to follow the classic form of the haiku. They express the thoughts of the poet as closely as possible in another language.

THE TERROR

OF DECEMBER 7TH

Hai ide te

Mishin ni hikareshi

Kawazu kana

JOHN SHINJI SATO

It crawled out

Then crushed by a car

A frog

TRUDY SATO, TRANSLATION

MAY 17, 1942. SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA.

WITH A START, I notice a police car following me. As I glance in my rearview mirror, peering through the pile of old suitcases in the back seat, I quickly figure I must be at least three miles outside of my legal five-mile radius. My hands begin to sweat.

Will the cops take me to jail? What will they do with the suitcases? My brothers and sisters need them to pack up for the trip. If I dont get home by curfew time, what will Mama and Tochan (Daddy ) do? At eighteen, I am the oldest, and the only one who drives besides Tochan. My brother Seiji is close to my age, but he volunteered for the US Army after the Pearl Harbor attack and is stationed at Fort Leonard Wood.

What if the police think Im a spy?

Mr. Saiki, our neighbor, flashes through my mind. He is in prison somewhere, and his family doesnt know where he has been taken. People say there is a special prison in Missoula, Montana for spies. His son Mickey quit school to take over the farm.

FBI agents showed up at a farm, and not finding Mr. Mizukami at home, agents went to Elk Grove High School and demanded that his son tell them the whereabouts of his father. They found Mr. Mizukami pruning pear trees in Courtland, and took him in. The next morning, much to the embarrassment of his family, their fathers picture appeared in the Sacramento Bee, branded as a spy.

If the FBI thinks a good man like Mr. Saiki is a spy, there is no telling what they will do to me. If I were to be picked up now, what would my family do? Would my parents be notified? I must write down somewhere that my name is Kiyo Sato and that my parents are Shinji and Tomomi Sato at Route 2, Box 2917, in Sacramento, California. What will they do with my Studebaker? Dear God, please, please, not now!

I slow down. The police car slows down. My steering wheel becomes wet and slippery. He follows me steadily. I reach the town of Perkins, almost within the legal radius of five miles. I pass Bradshaw Road and he is still right behind me. I hold my body erect to keep from crumbling. My spine stiffens from fear. My foot can hardly control the pressure on the gas pedal and I try hard not to jerk or spurt forward.

I wish desperately now that I had taken the time to get that permit, but just to get it I have to go to Sacramento, which is over the five-mile radius. Besides, my Nisei Japanese-American friends tell me that it takes hours of waiting, that no one seems to know what they are doing. Right now, traveling eastward, out of town, I cant tell the officer that Im on my way to get it. The steering wheel begins to slip.

I had planned to make one more stop for vegetables at the Chinese truck farm on the north side of Folsom Boulevard, but decide to turn right and head straight for home.

Explicitly following the law, I signal a right hand turn with my left arm at a right angle out of my window, allowing plenty of time. My right foot falls heavily as I try to step lightly on the brakes to slow down. I try with every ounce of energy in my body not to provoke the police car behind me.

A simple right turn takes all my effort to turn my steering wheel and maneuver over the slope of the railroad tracks. It is not until after the descent that I notice that the police car is no longer in my rearview mirror. I let my car roll down the incline, and my body goes limp. My leg is too weak to step on the brakes. When, finally, my Studebaker comes to a rolling halt, I fall over the steering wheel.