This is a short story i wrote for fun
I AM AN AMERICAN
My name is Maeda Arata. Maeda is my surname. I remember, so long ago, it seems like an entirely different time. It was winter, but it wasn't cold. I was in San Francisco. I was coming home from school, when a black car pulled up along side of me. I recognized it as my parent's car. I remember the license plate was TR5-72Z... I never saw that plate again. I stopped walking. The car's passenger seat window rolled down. My Mother's face appeared. Tears were rolling down her face. I remember saying "What's wrong?" I of course new what Pearl Harbor was, and that it had been bombed. But I had no idea what "Interment Camp" was. It was an alien term to me, but soon, it would become my home. I remember crying, when I was told I had to leave everything behind. I don't think I needed a reason to do so. I thought of the German Internment Camps we had been told about in school, about people being tortured, about people being gassed. I was wrought with grief, and I was scared. I remember my breathing. It was ragged and short, sounding like a dog's panting. I was scared. I know now I needed not to be. It was a short trip, only taking 3 hours. I was ready to die. I was that scared. The tears staining my duffel bag where drying by then. My tears where long gone. We drove to a gate. I saw a fence stretching out along the horizon. A guard walked to the gate and opened it. He walked out, and motioned for us to continue in. My father drove slowly forward, going slowly past the guard. I got a good look at the guard. He was dressed in a gray uniform, with a military crop. He wore sunglasses, and he had a baton at his waist. We passed him and drove in to the camp. We drove into a town, similar to the downtown areas of where I used to live, except it seemed wasted, as if it was built hurriedly. When we got out of the car, a guard came and asked for the keys. My father gave it to him. My father took our things out of the trunk and walked away from the car. The guard got in and drove away. I never saw the car again. My dad handed me my bag. It was a duffel, barely bigger than my school bag. I unzipped it. It barely had any clothes in it. My parents had put books, and other memorabilia of my old life. I was stunned. How was I to live? I had the amount of clothes I used on a daily basis. I had 2 days worth of clothes, for what would become many years.
I remember the 'House' well. It was more of a military barrack, I was not surprised to recently learn they were military barracks. My family had a small portion of it to live in, roughly the size of my bedroom at my former home. My family hadn't been very rich, so it was about the size of... 2 toilet stalls. It was cramped for me to live in, Imagine 3 people. I had a cot to sleep on, next to a wall. Not the privacy sheet my mom slept against. The living quarters where separated by big sheets, that were like bedspreads, they did little to keep out the noise. I spent as much time as possible out of the barracks: I hated them. I remember the food. It was foul. The only thing partially good about it was the rice. I liked rice. I usually only ate it. I was scrawny, but fast. I like football, because I could run fast, and I was so small no one could catch me. I also remember the signs in the dining hall; more like a school cafeteria than a place to eat. The signs said things like: 'No second serving', and 'Milk for children and sick people only'. I remember, even though there was almost always rice, the other food rarely went with it.
There were many privacy issues. One of them was, that the woman weren't allowed to use the latrines. But, it wasn't much better for the men: there where a line of toilets without any partitions. There was no privacy what so ever. Even worse, there were no bathing rooms, so many of us worked on making our own. It was hard, and tiring. I helped in most of the construction. It was sloppily done, we had almost no one with an prior knowledge of how to make bathtubs. And, in the tubs, there was still no privacy. I remember the 442nd Regiment well. I remember my father's friend Fumio. He was 20 when he enlisted in the 442nd. My father told him not to go. His parents told him not to go. His friends told him not to go. But he went. Months later, word of his death came to us. We held a ceremony for him. We made a gravestone, and put it outside our barrack. We held a ceremony. I remember my father's tears, my mother's tears, and Fumio's family's tears. I, who vaguely knew Fumio, ended up crying. If internment hadn't happened, Fumio wouldn't have so wanted to leave, and then, he might still be alive. I remember that many men left to join it. They wanted to leave internment horribly. I wanted to join, but was to little, 0nly 13. I now am very glad I was not of age, or I might not be able to write this. I am writing this, so the inhumanity that happened long ago will never happen again. Those years were the most miserable in my life. The WRA stripped me of civil rights, my belongings, and even a proper education. I know many died because of the lack of health care: I almost did. I know many more people died of starvation, and I know that some even died trying to escape. I am writing this so that other people know, that internment is never right.
-Maeda Arata
