The stress and strain of Hiroshima, camp and raising a family took a toll on my mother. In her own way, she left us when I was thirteen. She worked at a grocery store before the War, and injured her back after. She also did laundry using an old scrub board, which I thought was “fun” until I tried it and discovered how backbreaking it was. When she came home to recover after having back surgery, I entered her bedroom and sat down. She had a blank and distant look. I tried to engage her in conversation, but she stayed very disconnected. I attempted to pull her out of her depression by talking to her cheerfully. I even tried my version of hypnosis. I had her stare at a pinhead, relax, and focus. Verbally, she responded positively, but it was clear that nothing had changed. All my efforts failed, and shortly thereafter she was hospitalized at Western State Mental Hospital. The doctors recommended that the family commit her because they were afraid she might hurt herself.

After about a month, my father took us on a two-hour drive to Steilacoom, Washington where she was being treated. She waited for us at the turnaround in front of the hospital during visiting hours. Her arms looked like sticks poking out of a white smock. I would not get near her because she looked like a stranger. Nevertheless, she was happy to see us. During the visit, Mother told my brother and me that girls at the hospital saw our pictures and wanted to meet us. Out of the corner of my eye, two girls with red lipstick peeked around the corner. Why my mother wanted us to meet girls in a mental hospital was beyond me, but she was always nice to others and sometimes put their needs before ours. Even though they were mental patients, I thought the young girls were probably sweet. I concluded it must be a Japanese custom where my mother was just being polite to her friends.

Upon her release, she entered the state vocational rehabilitation program. The only skill she had was sewing, so she took formal courses and became a power machine operator. It sounded like heavy equipment, but it really was a sewing machine. She did piecework sewing jackets at Farwest Garments and got paid by the number of items she completed. The faster she sewed, the more she could make. She, however, found piecework to be nerve racking and extremely competitive. Being new, she was assigned jobs that took the most time, while the more senior workers were given the easier and faster work.

… she was always nice to others and sometimes put their needs before ours… I concluded it must be a Japanese custom where my mother was just being polite to her friends.

A job opened a year later at Roffe’s, a coat factory. It was not piecework, but a union shop that paid hourly wages. She asked me for advice and I urged her to take the Roffe job, and she did. Mother was especially proud of a picture she clipped from a magazine, with President Ford wearing a Roffe ski coat. This job worked out well for her, and she made friends with the only two Japanese women there. Although there were many Asians, she still was a minority since the Chinese dominated the factory workforce. In fact, the Chinese women had their own “subculture”: speaking Cantonese, bringing Chinese food for lunch and sharing it among themselves. In addition, they had their own non-worktime private projects. With the factory’s permission, they purchased coat materials at cost, and sewed the material on lunch hours and breaks. One worker sewed sleeves, another zippers and still another did the serging. After several weeks of passing the materials around, all who participated had jackets for their entire families.

With both parents working, things were going well for our family. At fifteen, I once sat down at the dinner table and asked where my older brother was. They said that he went to San Francisco and would be back shortly. Days and years passed, and he never returned permanently. His space at the dinner table gradually became cluttered until it was full of condiments and miscellaneous items before it finally disappeared as a place. Years later, I asked my brother Alan what happened. He told my parents he was leaving, and they didn’t believe him. My cousin saw him off at the Northern Pacific train station. My parents never went to the station because they thought he would be right back.