BOOK EXCERPT
“Mama, I’m home,” Sachi called. She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a pile of mail.
“Did you have a good time at Kate’s?” Mama asked, skimming along the edge of an envelope with a bamboo letter opener.
“I guess so. Mrs. Cook made cookies for us. She asked how you were doing and said she’s been meaning to call.” She placed her doll on the table. “We played dolls, too.”
Mama studied her daughter. “And was that fun?”
“Kind of. But—”
Mama opened a few more envelopes between glances at Sachi. “But what?”
Mama wouldn’t understand, and she sure wouldn’t want to hear that sometimes Sachi wished she had blonde hair and round blue eyes. “Nothing, Mama. I’m going to go play in my room for a while.”
Mama stacked the mail and rose from her chair. “Sachi-chan, you haven’t practiced your dance today, and you have lessons tomorrow. Go practice, then we will take a walk to the grocery store.”
Now she was sure her mother wouldn’t understand. All Mama ever did was push Sachi to learn the Japanese ways. Papa wanted her to be an American, to fit in. American food. American music. American dolls. Just like everyone else.
She passed through the living room on her way to practice and saw Papa’s reading chair in the corner. Sunlight shone in through the blinds in stripes on the chair’s brown leather. She saw him sitting there, with his reading glasses resting on his nose and his arms held out for her to join him. She remembered rushing to his lap.
She curled into the chair. But without Papa’s arms around her, it was too big and too empty, even cold. She closed her eyes and buried her nose into the leather—breathed deeply to find the scent of him. It was hardly there anymore. Would her memories of Papa fade the same way?
In the dance room, she watched the clock, tracking every minute of the hour Mama said she had to practice. At the sixty-first minute, she called, “Mama, I’m finished. Can we go to the grocery store now?”
“Yes,” Mama replied from her bedroom. “Get your jacket and we will go.”
The sky was clear and blue, and the sun warmed Sachi between brushes of cool sea breezes that blew in from the bay. Spring bloomed all around. Red tulips, purple pansies, yellow daffodils, emerald lawns. Perfectly-groomed houses bordered both sides of the street, like finely-dressed boys and girls lining the walls of a dance room.
When Sachi and Mama turned on to Gilman Street, traffic sounds replaced bird songs. The street hummed with passing cars and an occasional honking horn at a stop light. Spring, summer, fall, or winter—not much changed about this busy street.
But that afternoon, something was different. White sheets of paper hung off street lights and utility poles, flapping in the wind as though calling everyone’s
THE IMPACT OF HISTORICAL FICTION
Most people have heard the George Santayana quote, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
History has often repeated itself in the past, and continues to repeat itself today. A simple internet search using keywords “history repeats examples” will provide details on historical repetition involving politics, war and culture.
I enjoy both reading and writing historical fiction. But what is the difference between history and historical fiction?
Where history looks back at an era through a reporting of facts, historical fiction takes a reader to an era, and sits him smack dab in the middle of it by allowing him to experience history through the eyes of a character.
I wrote the The Red Kimono because I was interested in the Japanese American internment during World War II. My mother was interned at the age of eight, and I wanted to learn more not only about that time in our nation’s history—but also in my family’s history.
After my extensive research on what led to the internment, I see signs of history repeating itself in how we react to groups of people we fear will do us harm. The result of our fears does not arrive in one fell swoop. No, it arrives on a slippery slope.
The following excerpt is about one such slide down the slippery slope of fear. I wrote this scene through the eyes of Sachi, my eight-year old character who is based on my mother.
We all know what fear feels like. My hope in writing this scene from Sachi’s perspective was to help the reader see the other side of that fear—to feel the impact of it.
The scene takes place in Berkeley, California, on April 1, 1942. It is the first official notice Sachi and her mother see regarding the plans to round up anyone with Japanese ancestory:
“Mama, I’m home,” Sachi called. She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a pile of mail.
“Did you have a good time at Kate’s?” Mama asked, skimming along the edge of an envelope with a bamboo letter opener.
“I guess so. Mrs. Cook made cookies for us. She asked how you were doing and said she’s been meaning to call.” She placed her doll on the table. “We played dolls, too.”
Mama studied her daughter. “And was that fun?”
“Kind of. But—”
Mama opened a few more envelopes between glances at Sachi. “But what?”
Mama wouldn’t understand, and she sure wouldn’t want to hear that sometimes Sachi wished she had blonde hair and round blue eyes. “Nothing, Mama. I’m going to go play in my room for a while.”
Mama stacked the mail and rose from her chair. “Sachi-chan, you haven’t practiced your dance today, and you have lessons tomorrow. Go practice, then we will take a walk to the grocery store.”
Now she was sure her mother wouldn’t understand. All Mama ever did was push Sachi to learn the Japanese ways. Papa wanted her to be an American, to fit in. American food. American music. American dolls. Just like everyone else.
She passed through the living room on her way to practice and saw Papa’s reading chair in the corner. Sunlight shone in through the blinds in stripes on the chair’s brown leather. She saw him sitting there, with his reading glasses resting on his nose and his arms held out for her to join him. She remembered rushing to his lap.
She curled into the chair. But without Papa’s arms around her, it was too big and too empty, even cold. She closed her eyes and buried her nose into the leather—breathed deeply to find the scent of him. It was hardly there anymore. Would her memories of Papa fade the same way?
In the dance room, she watched the clock, tracking every minute of the hour Mama said she had to practice. At the sixty-first minute, she called, “Mama, I’m finished. Can we go to the grocery store now?”
“Yes,” Mama replied from her bedroom. “Get your jacket and we will go.”
The sky was clear and blue, and the sun warmed Sachi between brushes of cool sea breezes that blew in from the bay. Spring bloomed all around. Red tulips, purple pansies, yellow daffodils, emerald lawns. Perfectly-groomed houses bordered both sides of the street, like finely-dressed boys and girls lining the walls of a dance room.
When Sachi and Mama turned on to Gilman Street, traffic sounds replaced bird songs. The street hummed with passing cars and an occasional honking horn at a stop light. Spring, summer, fall, or winter—not much changed about this busy street.
But that afternoon, something was different. White sheets of paper hung off street lights and utility poles, flapping in the wind as though calling everyone’s attention. Store windows were plastered with them, too. People slowed to read the words, forming small crowds everywhere.
Mama took Sachi’s hand and pulled her over to where several Japanese had gathered. Some scratched notes on small pieces of paper they held with hands that trembled as they wrote.
Sachi stood on her toes to try to read the words, but the grown-ups were too tall. She jumped up and caught a glimpse of the bold letters at the top of the notice: INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY:
Mama searched her purse and pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. Sachi was able to read some of what her mother wrote:
All Japanese persons, both alien and non-alien, will be evacuated from the above designated area by 12:00 o’clock noon Tuesday, April 7, 1942 . . . Responsible member of each family . . . must report to Civil Control Station . . . between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Thursday, April 2, 1942 . . . the size and number of packages is limited to that which can be carried by the individual or family group . . . Go to the Civil Control Station . . . to receive further instructions.
Whispers hissed through the crowd. Some people shook their heads and walked away. Mama returned the pen and paper to her purse and took Sachi’s hand.
“What did the sign say?” Sachi asked. Maybe Mama’s answer would take away the bad feeling that made her stomach hurt. She put her other hand in her pocket and felt the crumbled cookie from Kate’s house.
Mama walked faster, and Sachi couldn’t help but notice she held her head higher than usual.
Those who were lucky enough not to be of Japanese ancestry stared when they passed.
“Mama, why are they staring at us?”
“Do not concern yourself. We will do our grocery shopping on another day.”
My favorite historical fiction novels are those that teach me not only about history, but about the impact of history. By letting us feel the impact, historical fiction helps us see that it’s not only history that repeats itself. The impact on all of us repeats, too.
BIO:
The Red Kimono (University of Arkansas Press, 2013) was selected Historical Novel Society’s Editor’s Choice and a 2013 Arkansas Gem by the Arkansas State Library. Jan’s other books include Life: Haiku by Haiku and Creative Characterization.
While working on the sequel to The Red Kimono, Jan speaks and teaches at writers’ conferences around the country. She has presented or given workshops at the Historical Novel Society Conference, Oklahoma Writers Federation, the Japan-America Society of Chicago, Ozarks Writers League and others. Her workshops are known for helping authors “discover” their characters’ secrets. Learn more at www.janmorrill.com.
The Red Kimono by Jan Morrill