Dust of Eden Read Online Free PDF

volunteer,
    Father says without
    moving his lips,
    after all that we’ve gone
    through, if you ever
    volunteer, you’ll have to do
    it over my dead body.
    And Father continues to work
    like he never spoke,
    the only sound in the room
    the fast
    staccato sound of the brush
    bristling against worn leather.

December 1943
    The room shook.
    Father changed in front
    of my eyes and punched
    Nick, and Mother screamed.
    Nick overturned the table,
    breaking the leg,
    and Grandpa jumped up
    from his bed, thrusting
    his cane between Father
    and Nick. Nick raised
    his arm and Father tried
    to punch Nick again,
    and the three of them were
    suddenly dancing fast and furiously
    to the sound
    of a drummer’s beat. From
    one wall to another, Grandpa’s
    glasses flew through the air,
    and landed by my feet, cracking,
    and Nick yelled, You are a coward, you’re
    a spineless coward; you think
    that if you’re like a good Japanese,
    pretending nothing is wrong,
    saying shikataganai —shrugging
    your shoulder, can’t be helped,
    everything will be all right.
    It’s men like you, who don’t fight back,
    that made this mess.
    Well, I’m sick
    of it, I’m sick of all this,
    I’m going to prove to you,
    and to everyone, that I’m
    a man, that I’m an American
    just like those honkies
    that call me a Jap boy.
    Father dropped his arm
    to his side. Grandpa held
    Nick, taking him outside.
    Mother cried and I stood
    in the corner, shaking.
    Grandpa’s glasses lay
    on the floor, cracked.

Part IV. Minidoka Relocation Center
Hunt, Idaho
January 1944
    The bus waits
    outside the gate.
    Nick stands straight,
    his face suddenly
    like Father’s, older,
    taller, bigger than
    I remember him.
    Father is still angry;
    he is in bed.
    Nick smiles wide,
    His Seattle smile.
    Grandpa holds out
    his hand, Nihondanji
    No na o kegasuna
    (don’t shame the reputation
    of Japanese men),
    rippa ni tatakatte koi
    (fight well and make
    us proud). Nick laughs so loud that
    he almost blew
    away the guards above the tower.
    He almost shatters the sky
    with his ready laugh.
    The bus honks.
    Nick hugs us quickly,
    then walks away
    with his back straight,
    so tall and almost
    a soldier already.
    Zettai Ikite kaette koi
    (you must come back alive)
    Grandpa shouts.
    Zettai ikite kaette koi,
    I whisper.

February 1944
    Dear Mina,
    I got your letter yesterday, and it’s good to hear that everyone’s doing well back in the camp. We arrived in Mississippi, the boys and I. Shig nearly died trying to get off the bus with a bag that was bigger than him, but we arrived all in one piece. The train to the south was long and you wouldn’t believe how humid it is here, so unlike Idaho. But you know, I don’t miss it. If anything, I miss Seattle, the sea, the food, and all that. They gave us another physical, we stood in this line and then that line (it’s good to be home). Then it’s been non-stop on the go—being woken up before the sun, running, eating, running, shooting. Food’s not bad, not like in our block’s back home. But it’s the lack of sleep that’s getting to me. Shig and I went into the town near Camp Shelby, and Shig had to go to the bathroom real bad, but we just couldn’t figure out which bathroom to use: the one for white, or the one for negroes. So I went up to the gas station owner, and asked as politely as I could, “Which one should we use?” The old man there was really confused, too, kept looking at me, trying to figure out the same question. Then he said, “suppose the white one.” Shig and I had a good laugh about it—here, down South, we’re not Japanese like we were back in Seattle, but white. Before I forget, thank Mom for the sweater, I know how hard it is to find yarn. Tell her I’m doing well, and that there’s nothing to worry about. Tell Dad that it seems like we may be shipped to Europe, instead of the Pacific, like he thought we would be—or that’s what other boys tell me. Hope he’s not angry with me anymore. Tell him that