serendipity

Manzanar

We woke up early so that we could hit the bakery we'd read about on Yelp and still make it to the national park by lunchtime. We had 5+ hours of driving ahead on Highway 395, a road I'd never taken this far south.

It's funny, there is no entrance to Kings Canyon/Sequoia National Forest from this side of the mountains. Once you're in the Owens Valley, you're pretty much a prisoner there. And now that LA has successfully gobbled up the water, it's a dry, desolate place under the best of circumstances.

I love road trips. Even when we don't stop along the way, I love to see the landscape. California is so marvelous, so diverse. One minute it's green, the next it's brown. Granite mountains sprout straight out of the desert. One could spend years just exploring what has become my own backyard.

We were not going to stop before we arrived at the park. We knew we wouldn't have much time to see the trees even if we made good time and we really wanted the kids to see those giant beauties. Trees so big you could drive a car through one. Trees that were over 1,000 years old. Trees that had to be protected from companies who could only look at them from the perspective of board feet.

We passed through Big Pine and were on our way to Lone Pine and I was just about to make a joke about the lack of actual pine trees when I saw the sign. "Manzanar."

An unexpected wave of emotion passed over me.

I hadn't thought about Manzanar since I was 12 and read the book "Farewell To Manzanar" in school. I was surprised to find myself suddenly face to face with it in real life. I mean, I knew it had to be somewhere, but I never thought about where that somewhere might be. And here it was, right in front of me.

Quietly I asked The Mister if he would mind stopping. Normally that idea would make him scowl, especially since we had a lot of road ahead of us and we were officially "burning daylight," but as we approached the gun tower he nodded, and turned off the road.

We took the self-guided car tour, figuring it would enable us to get an experience without making a huge dent in our schedule. As we drove around he made bitter jokes about how nice everything was, just like summer camp. They had orchards and gardens, a hospital, schools and such a view of the mountains!  Although many of the buildings have been destroyed, what is left has been beautifully maintained. I opened the car window to the dusty heat, and drank it in. 

As we slowed down for sign markers, I read the information aloud to the kids in a tight voice. I was having a hard time talking and tears kept coming to my eyes.

Why?

I was never here.

I don't have any family who was here.

This isn't part of my personal history.

The Mister asked me about my strong emotions and, with my kids listening, I tried to process and explain my feelings. They were muddled at first, but as I talked I found some clarity.

Manzanar symbolizes shame to me. Learning about it, why it existed and what happened there, forced me to understand for the first time in my young life that my government didn't always do the right thing. That sometimes the things we do are very wrong. 

The Mister didn't understand this. He said "what about what you guys did to the Indians? What about slavery? You've done all kinds of terrible things throughout history." Ah, the pointed view of the outsider.

And he was right, of course.

As much as I knew there were bad things in the world, as I a kid I'd always believed that the modern government - my government - was on the right side of things. Yes there were racist people in the world, but the law said that racism was wrong. Yes, there was inequality for women and others, but the law said this would not be tolerated. I believed that the laws were right and that it was the people that needed adjusting.

When I read that book it shattered my naivete. This was something that had happened during my grandparents' lifetime, not 100 years ago, and I felt deeply ashamed. My government had taken American citizens and imprisoned, oh sorry, "relocated" them. In America.

Treated as criminals based on racist suspicions and fear, these Americans had their rights taken away without due process. They were forced by government order to leave their homes, businesses, friends, pets, gardens, books, clothes and absolutely everything. To be taunted and imprisoned by their neighbors in their own country. 

To come here. This desolate, dust-covered bowl of a "camp."

For the first time in my life, at the age of 12, I realized with certainty my government had done the wrong thing. And while it wasn't the last time I had my eyes forced open to the harsh reality of injustice, there is, I think, something tragic about that first time. The moment your heart breaks and you are helpless to do anything but mourn the past you have no control over.

After the car tour we parked and went inside the building. The girls were on either side of me, holding my hands. We entered through the gift shop and the first thing I saw was the book I'd read at Cassandre's age. I picked it up and read the back cover. I looked at my girl and she took the book from me and asked if she could have it. Yes. Of course.

We walked around the museum, which is housed in the original multi-purpose building. There was a film playing in the theater, compiled from black and white photographs from Ansel Adams, Dorothea Lange and others, with commentary from the residents. The girls sat in chairs to watch and I stood between them and the door. The whole world at that moment became black and white.

The girls weren't sure what to make of this detour to Manzanar, and as the story began to sink in they became solemn and thoughtful. I never had to tell them to stop running, come back, keep your voice down, pay attention or behave. They were respectful, even if they didn't totally understand why they should be.

The museum is very well done. Smaller rooms enable one to experience a taste of life at the camp. Audio recordings from the time range from childrens' songs to big band music to women crying and the crowded sounds of mealtime. Individual stories are told along the walls, along with quotes from Martin Luther King, Clarence Darrow and others.

I bought Cassandre the book at the gift shop and Juliette got a small ceramic origami crane. They wanted something to remember the trip by and I wanted them to have something too. Cassandre is 12 and I can't help but wonder if this visit will have a lasting impact on her. She hasn't read the book yet and I don't want to make her. I do want to know, was this just a detour on the family road trip, or was it something more meaningful? I can't ask her. She is too savvy and knows that the trip was meaningful to me. To say otherwise would be to hurt my feelings and she doesn't want to do that. Juliette is too young, I think, to remember much. She remembers Baby Jerry's grave from the cemetery and the trinkets and stones left there. When she remembers this, she gets very sad. Babies shouldn't die.

I wiped away my tears and we got back in the car. We were all quiet and The Mister said how glad he was to have stopped. It reminded him of a trip he took to Oradour-sur-Glane with his grandmother. It's important he said, to remember history. Especially in these modern days of September 11th and the Patriot Act.

Driving south again and into the desert we passed the China Camp naval air weapons base. I realized that I hadn't only come face to face with Manzanar, I'd come face to face with my youthful epiphany that we weren't - that we still are not today - always the good guys. 

As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs and if no man objected and no man rebelled those wrongs would last forever." - Clarence Darrow.

Manzanar

 

The view from here

My grandmother is 91 and can't go anywhere without someone pushing her wheelchair. For a short time she had one of those fancy motorized chairs you see on TV. The kind that obese people drive around Disneyland and are advertised on infomercials as "free" from Medicare ("we'll do all the paperwork!"). She couldn't operate hers without banging into walls and running into other folks at her retirement community and it soon became apparent she was losing her sight. For a while she used a magnifying glass to read her letters and the newspaper, but this was not helpful for driving. Her motorized chair license was quietly revoked and a new, manual chair took its place. But she doesn't have the strength to roll herself, so now she gets pushed around.

For her birthday she wanted me to take her shopping. My dad takes her out regularly on buying excursions, but he doesn't have the patience to shop the way girls like to shop. Talking and looking and touching and talking and sometimes buying. Or not.

The Mister and I were in Utah for the week and so I was able to take her for a girls' day out. I picked her up in the late morning at her retirement home. She was ready, with perfect lipstick. I don't know how she did that.

I signed her out and pushed her to the car. We were both a little unsteady at first and I had to make a point of thinking things through. Position the chair next to but not too close to the car. Take her purse away but not out of sight. Take her oxygen bottle and breathing tubes. Help her stand up and maneuver to the car seat. Remind her to "step" and not to lean. Leaning is dangerous. Give her back her purse (this is important) and her oxygen bottle (this is really important). Make sure the door is clear - it's not cool to shut the door on the breathing tubes - or her. Whew. Okay. now it's time to put the chair in the car.

Folding a wheelchair is a pain in the ass.

On the one hand, it looks easy - almost like an umbrella. You release the brake and grab the middle of the chair, so that it collapses. It folds up into an unwieldy hunk of metal with wheels. It's heavy. It doesn't really fit into the car so you have to shove it, then pull it, then shove it again. Repeat until it's in far enough to close the door. Then wipe your brow (did I mention it's hot?) and take a little break. Turn the air conditioning on.

When you take care of someone confined to a wheelchair you have to drag that thing in and out of cars several times a day or keep them housebound. The chair pinches your fingers, scrapes the car doors and loses critical parts - like foot pedals. And then there's the 90 degree summertime heat. In a Salt Lake mall parking lot. Or the 13 degree wintertime snow. You might start to think that being housebound was not such a terrible idea.

The good news is that my grandmother is not deaf. As long as we're one-on-one she can hear almost everything and we had the nicest talk. She'd never been to this particular mall before and when I explained her restaurant choices she picked the bakery/cafe  because she has a thing for sweets and at 91 no one is going to talk to her about her diabetes. Certainly not me.

The cafe was my first - but not last - sign that Salt Lake was not exactly designed for wheelchairs. Families of eight yes, wheelchairs, not so much. There were ramps from the street, which was good. Unlike a baby stroller, I couldn't simply pop a wheelie with her wheelchair and bounce my grandmother onto the curb. I had to roll her up - carefully. The doors to the cafe were heavy and there was no automatic door opener. I struggled with the first set of double doors. I had to hold her wheelchair with my lower body and stretch my upper body to open the door. Happily some helpful Utahan held open the second one.

The aisles in the cafe were small and the chairs were close together. The idea was to order at the counter and let them deliver the meal to a table. This was a nice idea for the able bodied who could easily navigate the curves, but one that was not easy to execute in a wheelchair. Utah was not going to make this easy, but I was committed. Hell, I was practically trapped in the cafe and there was no reason to think that another restaurant was going to be any easier.

I rearranged the furniture around us to make enough space. She had corn chowder and a large decaf coffee.

I pushed her around the mall for hours, describing for her what the bright colors were. "Awful teen clothing. Tacky Asian souvenirs. Ear piercing. Bean bag furniture with shag upholstery (hello Utah?). Remembrance items - you know, that store where they engrave every single thing?"

Maybe it was the chocolate dessert but she couldn't stop smiling and neither could I. We walked and talked about the little stuff. She bought dresses for the girls and I bought her some peanut brittle (a small box). The woman at the front of the candy line let me go in front of her. She smiled at us kindly. Keep this up Utah, and you could almost make me like you.

At the end of the afternoon it was time to take her back for a little nap before her birthday dinner. I teased her that I was going to roll her wheelchair super fast in the parking lot and ride on the back like we used to do with grocery carts. I got a belly laugh from her for that even though we didn't actually do it. Sometimes the idea of being naughty is enough. 

Back in her room she relaxed on her sofa for her nap. "I'm out" she said. And she was, until one of her girlfriends called to wish her a happy birthday. They talked for an hour.

I would have liked a nap too.  

Leaving Salt Lake

 

Leaving salt lake