It was a perfect midsummer evening on Vashon Island, a short ferry ride from Seattle, and Mount Rainier was glowing a beautiful pink to the southeast of our farm. This was the very best time of the year for Mama-san and I to savor the beauty of the fields, when the harvest was complete and we had time to reflect. She liked to pass on her appreciation for life during our walks.
“I am so grateful that the harvest went well this year,” she said, in her formal Japanese. “Do you remember how hard the four of us worked this spring?”
From where we were standing, we could look around and see all ten acres of our farm. Tidy rows of strawberry plants covered gently rolling hills. Our modest farmhouse stood in one corner of the property, with the barn nearby.
“I am very proud of how well you and Yoneichi-san worked together,” Mama-san added. “Now, you can see that it all paid off.”
She sighed with contentment as her eyes swept over the landscape. Her smile was all I ever needed to feel secure and seen.
As we turned to continue our walk, a flash of red in the next row over caught my attention. I bent down and parted the green leaves. “Look, there’s one for each of us.”
I handed her the larger of the two, last-of-the-season berries and we ate them, nodding at each other.
My mother, Mitsuno Horie Matsuda, was the kindest, wisest person I have ever met. I spent my childhood wanting to please her. As a young adult, I rebelled against her, and against her culturally-based expectations for me. More recently, and especially since her passing in 1965, I have tried to become as much like her as I possibly can.
Mama-san was born in 1892 in Japan, a proud and ancient culture. In 1922, she married my father and came to America, intending to live and die here. In Looking Like the Enemy, I wrote of how my mother’s wisdom rescued me from the depths of despair during my most challenging times in the Japanese-American concentration camps. In the most difficult of circumstances, she remained amazingly resilient and optimistic, even while those around her felt hopeless. When my publisher asked me to write another book, I knew that my mother would be its focus.
Mama-san’s wisdom developed and deepened while she raised a family, earned a living through hard physical labor, and faced severe discrimination in her adopted country. It was only as I pondered the materials for this book that I came to fully appreciate the elegance of her beliefs and how important a role model she could be—not just for me, but for others as well. As I observe the 21st century begin to unfold, the power of her message from the 19th century seems more applicable than ever.
—MARY MATSUDA GRUENEWALD
January 2013
Like most of my peers, I have always used the phrase “internment camps” as a polite way of describing the confinement of me, my family, and tens of thousands of other Japanese Americans during World War II. In July, 2012, I attended a meeting of the National Japanese American Citizens League in Bellevue, Washington. Professor Lane Hirabayashi and activist Martha Nakagawa gave convincing arguments for the use of the term “concentration camps” instead of “internment camps.” I realized that I need to use accurate vocabulary to more honestly label the experience and not shy away from uncomfortable truths. I would like to thank the people who had the courage to press this issue, and I have incorporated the new terminology in this book.
The Privilege of a Simple Life
My family lived the American dream in the early years of my life. Not the modern version of glittering excess that is often portrayed in the media, but the original dream that the founders of this country would have recognized. My family had a sense of considerable freedom living in a democratic society, with far more opportunity than we would have had anywhere else. We were grateful to work hard and better our lives. Ours is a story of an immigrant family that worked steadfastly, endured hardship, and made any sacrifice necessary to fully participate in everything this country has to offer. My parents felt fortunate to raise their children in the United States. Over the years, we would not be deterred, even when our country turned against us.
I was born in Seattle, Washington in 1925. Some people might think of my childhood as impoverished because by today’s standards, I did not have a financially privileged life. Instead, what I had was a rich environment full of natural beauty, the opportunity to explore and learn through direct experience, and a chance to develop self-reliance. My parents’ gratitude for simple things was key to their worldview—one that eventually became my worldview. They passed on wisdom that, to this day, has given me the strength to transcend life’s ordeals.
My father, Heisuke Matsuda, was born in 1877. Papa-san was fifteen years older than my mother, Mitsuno. In the Japanese-American community, they were known as Isseis, first generation immigrants, born in Japan. My brother, Yoneichi, was two years older than I, and we were called Niseis, born in the United States, and therefore, we were American citizens.
My earliest memories were of a modest life at our first home on Vashon Island, about a twenty-minute ferry ride from Seattle. My parents rented an old drafty house in the country where the curtains waved in the breeze even when the house was completely closed up. The house sat in a wooded area on a flat plateau. Below us was Puget Sound to the southeast, but all we could see were trees. Our two neighbors lived about a mile away, and I had no regular playmates other than Yoneichi.
We didn’t have electricity, which for rural areas was still something of a luxury in the 1920s. We pumped cold water by hand from a well located outside the back door, and heated it over a wood stove, which also heated the house. We took baths in a primitive galvanized tub in the middle of the kitchen floor. An outhouse situated fifty feet out the back door was our bathroom, no matter the season.
Our lives revolved around our immediate neighborhood, a much smaller area than most people operate in now. Our family farm and home were located on the same piece of land. We bought groceries from a store down the road, about one mile away. We raised chickens and had a goat that provided milk. We grew much of what we needed to eat. We walked everywhere since we had no car. Cars were not readily available in my childhood, but we didn’t need them either. We had no radio, telephone, TV, or refrigerator, not even an icebox. Despite our lack of conveniences, we were content.
You could say we had a richness of place and family, but not things! Our only toys were a tricycle for Yoneichi and a kiddy car for me. Nature and miles of wide-open countryside surrounded our home. In those early years, nature was our main source of wealth, providing a means to grow our food and make a livelihood. It also fed our souls with its beauty, and provided me with many vivid life lessons.
One of my earliest memories was when I was about four years old. One hot, muggy afternoon, I was sleeping on my bed while my parents worked outside. Thunder woke me up and I rushed to the back door just in time to see lightning