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

 

Comments

[Little Odd Me]

[this is good] speechless.

[Nancy]

I have seen photos of this place from war time but I did not realize it was so close. The story of that French village is pretty overwhelming too. It's hard for me to fathom that kind of cruelty.

[Sooz]

[this is good] Powerful.

[Steve Betz]

[this is good] Great post. We went to Mammoth this past spring for the 1st time, and as we were driving up US395, I saw the towers and thought -- hey, what's that? I'd known its history, but I hadn't known exactly where it was. It's such a hard place to be. And to be American.

I mean I "get" fear, anger, and hysteria make people do crazy things... but usually those things are impulsive, not organized and process-ized.



I'm glad that Manzanar is there though. For all the gleaming monuments, we need to remember these things as well.

[Kevin Vox Test]

[this is good] You rock, Karen.

[Margy Rydzynski]

Excellent post. If it weren't for Vox closing its doors, I wouldn't have found you. I'll add you to my RSS reading list. Thank goodness for Vox Diaspora, too, which helped me find you.

[Lakshmi]

You brought tears to my eyes.
Great post.