I Remember Pearl Harbor

Sixty-three years ago today, planes of the Japanese Imperial Navy attacked Pearl Harbor. The next day, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, addressing a joint session of the Senate and House of Representatives described it as, “- a date which will live in infamy -…”

I was eight years old. My widowed mother had taken me to see a movie – I’ve long forgotten which one, and afterwards we climbed the stairs to our favorite Chinese Restaurant, the Nanking, in our hometown, Brockton, Massachusetts.

As was normal for a Sunday evening, there were few customers in the restaurant but we found it odd that a radio was being played loudly – sufficiently loud for everyone in the establishment to hear. We sat down and, despite the blaring radio, an old waiter served us as if nothing had happened. We had orders of our favorite Chinese Chop Suey. To this day, I have never encountered a recipe that was its equal.

Soon my mother began to listen carefully to the radio announcers and she ordered me to pay attention too. Most of the words meant little, but one phrase was repeated over and over again, “This means war.” Even then I had enough understanding of the language that those words coupled with my mother’s reaction, caused me to become a little alarmed.

After eating, we left for home. How we covered the mile and half escapes me. We often walked and sometimes we rode the bus. I remember vividly entering my uncle’s apartment on the first floor of our house. He was very agitated, and I solemnly told him there could be no doubt after the attack that, “This means war,” as if I understood the magnitude of my pronouncement.

In those days, my mother worked in the Brockton Public Market as a cashier. I often went in to the food store and, as a matter of course, took a long look at the “Jap” who was preparing some form of hot Oriental food. To the everlasting credit of the owner of the market – I believe he was Stanton Davis – no retribution was ever taken against this man.

Our lives were changed after December 7, 1941. My relatives and neighbors went off to war. More than a few of them never came home. By the time the conflict ended, I was almost twelve years old and had some real understanding of what had gone on.

Over the course of my life, I came to be acquainted with numerous Japanese and Americans of Japanese descent. I am pleased that the awful propaganda that I absorbed as a child left little lingering affect, and my relations with all of these people was harmonious.

Today, I am in the midst of writing a novel that I hope will shed new light and understanding on the events that occurred in the months following Pearl Harbor when Japanese aliens and their American descendants were forced from their homes on the West Coast and interned for years. This story was given little publicity when it took place.

I am pleased with the way the book is progressing and hope that it is as good as these unbelievable events deserve.