Dad never intervened in this struggle for our souls. He did his duty and took Grandmother and his sister mushroom hunting near Mount Rainier, and clam digging in Ballard. On one of these trips to the mountains, I became car sick. My grandmother commented that I had a weak stomach just like my father. After hearing this, I decided that I never would be sickly and weak like my father, for he was also the man I never wanted to be, given his frequent hospital visits and negative attitude. I remember we used to complain about him always saying, “Everything is no good.” He could only see the negative.

Community Store in Block 30
(Minidoka War Relocation Center, 1942)
BY Francis Stewart
The National Archives

Kiyoshi (pictured behind the register)
worked as a manager at the canteen and received
$16 a month and some clothing.

Gradually, he grew more and more reclusive. Before World War II, he had a place in the community as an independent grocer working with over a hundred Japanese grocers in a co-op. In camp, he was the manager of the canteen. After camp, he became a “handyman” at a third-rate hotel, which was a hard change for him to accept.

Because crowds made him nervous, he refused to go out and socialize after work. He spent more and more time with his mother and sister until his friends stopped coming to his house. At first, my mother wanted him to take her to the movies, but he always refused until she just gave up. One evening, she was ready to leave for a Japanese movie with her friends. Dad stayed home as usual. We stopped her at the door and begged her to come back after the movie. We made her a “pinky promise” about returning home because we knew what a burden we were as children.

As a youngster, I was accident-prone and very active. In Japanese, my mother described me as “gasa gasa” (rough). I was always rushing around and running into things. I fell out of trees, gashed my forehead twice, and required stitches for another accident. Once, during a family clam digging outing at Alki Beach in West Seattle, I slipped on a slimy wad of seaweed. Trying to break my fall, I cut open my right thumb pad on a sharp rock. It was a large gash that bled profusely. The outing ended, and my mother and her friend took me to Harborview Hospital. In an operating room with doctors and nurses around me, I heard a car start outside before losing consciousness. All I could think of was, “Did they leave me?” I said this out loud several times before the anesthetic took hold. I was more afraid of being left alone in the hospital with strangers than having stitches in my hand. Many of my childhood scars are still visible today, and I remain prone to tripping, falling, and experiencing weird little accidents.

Gerald, 5, David, 6 and Chester Sakura, Jr…
(Eden, Idaho, 1942)
BY Francis Stewart
The National Archives

While raising us, duty to her relatives in Japan remained an important value to Mother. When we received nice gifts at Christmas, she would put them aside and send them to Hiroshima. As children we used to complain that all the best went to Japan, and we got leftovers. She explained that our relatives had lost everything because of the atomic bombing. My brother and I concluded that everyone must have had foreign relatives who were bombed during the war. One year after the best presents were sent away, I recall we kept a fruitcake. My mother said it was a tasty treat. To this day, the sight of citron and candied cherries in a sticky loaf sickens me because it tastes so unlike cake and because calling it cake is just wrong. It also reminds me of our trips to the post office when we sent the best gifts to Japan. Mother would tow the packages in the Radio Flyer wagon and the most joyful part for us was the ride home.