Base de Datos de Experiencias Militares de Japoneses Americanos
Pat Yoshitsugu Murosako
Incarceration by Pat Y. Murosako - Bothell, WA.
Incarceration - After reading many articles of the forced, mass 'relocation' of Japanese Americans, American or not, personal experiences about the treatment of the Japanese Americans who were not incarcerated during the war are few. In fact, I have read almost nothing about their experience outside the affected areas of the Pacific coast. So, this is my story about me, Pat Y. Murosako, at the know-nothing age of twenty years. Now, at the age of seventy-five and still in the same mental stage, I believe my personal experience would be interesting to whomever.
I was one year out of high school with no positive direction to my future, working at Westside Garage in Fresno, California. Doing all the grunt jobs - lubrication, attending the gas pump - I was not mechanically adapted nor interested in all that greasy work. 'Enough of this nonsense,' I thought. Suddenly my boss came running out of his office yelling something like, '...a bombing in Hawaii!' From the day Pearl Harbor was bombed a dark cloud hung over us and Nihon machi became an eerie, quiet town.
Having earned a certificate as a qualified chick sexor, I had a contract with Colonial Poultry Farm in Wichita, Kansas. The year before, I had worked with the same company in Marion, Ohio. My parents were reluctant to see me leave because of the situation, but young in spirit, light-headed, I left Fresno in February of 1942. No sooner than I left the full reality of the war hit. As I drove across the California-Arizona border red lights flashed behind me. Not knowing what I could have done, I pulled off the highway. Two highway cops came over to me and asked where I was going. Then they asked me if I was a 'Jap'. No doubt that derogatory remark meant me. Knowing it was useless explaining that I am an American, after a brief exchange of words, I was escorted to the hospitality of the city of Phoenix, Arizona.
There I was finger-printed and photographed. I wondered, 'What is the A.C.L.U. doing?' As I was led to a cell for persons waiting until their record is cleared - surprise, surprise, in this large holding tank were four Japanese Americans, all chick sexors, including one I knew. No doubt at the border the highway patrol had been alerted to look for all suspicious-looking orientals. I found little comfort that I was not alone, we were all nervous. During the long night, one of the others began to cry and wimp, 'Oh, I wish I never left home.'
'Shut up!' I told him, 'You're making us all nervous.' We were all anxious, but kept our thoughts to ourselves. I, too, wondered if I shouldn't have stayed home. It was a long night. I wondered if anyone slept on the hard bunks.
The following morning the cell was opened. 'OK, everybody out.' Of course, no one asked if we were to be served breakfast. We just got into our cars and left. Since we knew the highway patrol was alert to our presence, we distanced ourselves from each other. Unfortuntately, US Route 60 was the only convenient route east to the poultry farms, and we all took it. Again on the road, alone in the sanctuary of my own vehicle, I survived on bars of candy and ready-made sandwiches (cold) sold at the small gas stations. I ignored the large service stations and restaurants, but stopping for fuel was unavoidable.
Somewhere in New Mexico I was stopped again. No doubt the last gas station reported me. Funny, they took my money though. Again I was escorted to the police station as their 'guest'.
For three days I waited in solitary confinement. The windowless cell of ten feet by ten feet, with a toilet and bunk, had only one small light in the center of the ceiling. The solid steel door had no opening except for the sliding door to pass the food through. This was located on the bottom of the door. There was another opening with a sliding door which the jailer used to see inside. That too, was closed from the outside. There was enough space for me to pace the floor and if I got tired of that I laid on the bunk. I didn't know the time of the day or night because they took all my personal items. Dreaming was the only escape from such a dismal situation, but how long could I escape to my dreams? To this day, whenever I see a prisoner in a solitary cell, those thoughts return to me.
There was a loud clanging outside of my cell and in slid a tray of breakfast. 'Ah, must be morning, ' I thought. 'How long you gonna keep me in this damn place?' I yelled but no answer came. It may have beeen an inmate who was serving the breakfast. I placed the tray on my lap and ate whatever to the compliment of the chef. I believe I drank the original Starbuck's brand coffee - it tasted like something between mud and burnt charcoal. Nonetheless, I drank it because I had not had anything to drink since I was placed in the cell.
When the door finally opened, I had to squint my eyes. I felt like a ground mole coming out of his hole. The jailer told me that it was for 'my own protection' that I was kept in the solitary cell. He did not want to place me with the other 'guests' who might wish me harm. For my protection.
I just kept on going, stopping only when absolutely necessary. Eating candy and ready-made cold sandwiches and living in the car wasn't exactly my style. After three days of talking to myself, I reached Wichita, Kansas at last. I was greeted by my employer, but I knew he was not too elated to meet me. He took me to his home where I stayed because no one wanted to rent a room. He was probably threatened for hiring me.
On my first day as I walked to a shopping area nearby, I noticed several signs, 'Slap the Japs' on store windows, restaurants and barber shops. Was I safer in the jail? Those ugly signs were directed against me. There were just too many signs near the poultry company. The people meant for me to leave. No wonder my employer was worried.
My only escape was to go to the movies where darkness in the theater hid my face until I left for home in the darkness of the night. I felt haunted by every innocent glance toward me. Does a criminal feel like that?
Again, I was escorted by the police. This time I was placed in a holding tank with other 'guests.' One of them asked me what I was in for. I just shrugged and said, 'They think I am a spy.' None of them bothered me, a rather decent bunch of guys. I was released the following day. I told my employer that I wished to leave Wichita with mutual understanding, and called my office in Mankato, Minnesota to explain that staying in Wichita may cause more problems for both me and the farmer.
Mankato was a medium-sized town where our office, the International Chick Sexors Association, was located. Mr. Ty Saiki, the head of the organization greeted me. He was also a former Fresno resident. During the season I stayed at the Mankato Hotel with at least eight other sexors, some had their wives with them. I felt more secure in a group.
The work was hard and most of the day off was spent uneventfully near the hotel. We seldom ventured out to the unknown areas of the town. After all, Mankato was the town where thirty-eight Lakota Indians were hung on the main street in the mid-1800's.
In New Ulm, there was a fifty dollar bounty for the scalp of an Indian. The scalps were nailed to the wall of the local tavern. Female hair from their privy were highly prized trophies and also hung on the wall for the white men to fondle. The Lakota had it worse than us.
After the work was over, we dispersed on our own. Sadly, no one could return home. Most went to big cities like Chicago, for it was easy to get lost there. Besides, in large cities most people are too busy minding their own business. However, I joined my brother, who was also a chick sexor, in the little village of Blair, near the central section of Wisconsin. My brother then left for Milwaukee but I stayed in Blair during the winter.
Mr. and Mrs. George Solberg were very kind to me. Who would rent a room to us, especially in a little town of 800 persons where everybody knew everybody? Occasionally, George and Minnie would invite me into their large kitchen. It had a huge iron wood-buring stove where Mrs. Solberg made sumptuous Norwegian meals. Those were fond memories which to this day I cherish.
That winter was especially harsh and cold. I would chop some firewood for them. It was so cold that the wood would burst in half with a single stroke. Maybe I was strong? We made snow cookies by simply pouring maple sugar on the clean snow. I brought their laundry out from the cold and stood it against the wall. One morning it was thirty degrees below zero when I went up on the roof of their general store to chop the ice covering the chimney.
I had learned to never touch any metal out in the cold. One day I was washing my hands when I remembered I had forgotten something in the car. I hurried to the car and grabbed the door handle. Wow! my hand stuck to the metal. I knew it was stuck and so I held still until the warmth of my hand defrosted the handle and I could release it. If I panicked and pulled, I would have torn my skin. Fortunately, my hand only felt like it was singed by fire.
Staying with Mr. and Mrs. Solberg during the winter gave me peace from the hostile elements that surrounded me. My mother was alone for father was already taken away. I was unable to join her on the west coast, for all Japanese were forcibly evacuated at that time. With the help of a friend she 'closed' our home. How she was able to do such a heart-wrenching task I do not know.
My mother, a stong-willed woman endured many hardships: coming alone to America about the year 1900, working as a cook at some place in Hawaii where the tunnel for the railway was built, then moving to San Francisco to an unforseen earthquake.
She spent some time in Seattle and Salt Lake City, and after moving to Fresno, California opened a dress-making shop and hired a few Turkish women. Not familiar with the deep hatred between and Turks and the Armenians, she also hired a young Armenian girl. The poor girl was in much grief until mother discovered the situation. Then she told her workers, 'All of you come to America to find a new life. Do not bring the old world hatred with you.'
During the hectic time of Japanese evacuation a young Armenian man came to see mother. He introduced himself as the grandson of the Armenian girl mother had hired nearly fifty years before. He looked after our home. Kindness given to the young Armenian girl around 1915, was repaid to mother in her time of need.
It was nearly Christmas in Blair. I was feeling rather low, drinking coffee at a small coffee shop run by a widow. Snow was falling softly outside and most families were gathered together. There I was, sipping coffee by myself and feeling in the dumps. A man sat next to me and I could smell his cheap whiskey breath, 'You're a Jap, ain't you?' After those remarks, with a few more which I can not remember, I grabbed him, knocking him off the stool. All my suppressed anger burst out - prejudice, humiliation and most of all loneliness. I took it out on that poor bastard. I would have killed him if not for the lady proprietress stopping me. He was taken to the hospital and I to the city jail.
The jail had only two cells, like the ones I had seen in cowboy movies. The jailer was a friendly person; I happened to know his son. We skiied behind the farm where they lived. He wasn't very happy to see me in this predicament. He sat outside the cell and I sat inside. No, we didn't play checkers like they show in the movies. We just talked.
The following morning I stood before the judge, who was also the village photographer and part-time fireman. He was sympathetic toward me, but, the first to strike is at fault. And that's the law. No matter how much you are provoked, you can not kick the person's teeth in. I had no regret. I wished I had kicked the son-of-a-bitch more.
Mr. Solberg hurriedly came to the make-shift court room used for many village social activities. Mr Solberg paid for the court fee and the fine for public disturbance. I do not know or care about who paid for the hospital bill. He only had a bloddy nose and maybe a few teeth missing. As Mr. Solberg and I walked home I didn't know what his thoughts were and he didn't say a word.
Not all my days were bleak and gloomy. I was invited to the home of Lawrence Mattison and his family. Lawrence owned a small garage with gas pumps where he serviced my car. We had a genuine Norwegian New Year dinner prepared by his wife. Lawrence knew about the coffee shop incident. He laughed and told me that he was glad to see his uncle get clobbered. Emo, as they called him, was always the troublemaker of the Mattison clan.
After I was discharged from the army, I returned to Blair. They were proud to see me in the army uniform. I stayed in Blair to meet others who befriended me. It took courgage to be a friend to Japanese -Americans in those days.
