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I was born in Tokyo, Japan into an artisan family called TOYOAKI MOTO, traditionally categorized as OKIYA, meaning a booking and training agent for Geisha ladies in downtown Tokyo’s designated area. While the economy and social environment forced many of those traditional artisan family businesses to close down in the 1960s, I was fortunately able to receive some of the important essence of traditional Tokyo Geisha cultural training and studies at age 4, and became a part of the performing crew in early childhood. The business was organized and managed by my grandmother Aki, a second generation owner of TOYOAKI MOTO. Most of the training I received was from Aki and her disciples.

Looking back into my life, I have noticed that a certain invisible hand has always supported me.  I am not talking about the economics term of Adam Smith, the “invisible hand,” that describes the self-regulating nature of the marketplace.  The invisible hand that I am mentioning here is a guiding force that opens doors for me.  Help is offered to me when I am in trouble.  Something leads me to the right direction, when I am lost.  Opportunities are coming to me, rather than catching them.  It is something more than that I am a lucky guy.  I feel that I am always surrounded with a miraculous force that is filled with grace.   

I am a transplant in Chicago, having arrived from Hawaii with my wife, Carolyn, in 1954 to attend Northwestern University Law School.  Our children, Bryan and Shari, were both born in Chicago and we have made this city our home for the past 55 years. 

I have been asked a countless number of times what made me leave the Hawaiian Islands and relocate in Chicago.  My short answer has always been, “You can’t eat sand and sunshine.”  My real reason for choosing Chicago as our permanent home was the fact that attempting to establish a law practice in Hawaii in 1957 was not appealing, encouraging or promising to me.  I wanted to be in the “mainstream” of America and not confined to a few islands in the Pacific, as beautiful and romantic has they may have been touted to be.  California where many people from Hawaii have relocated in the past half century did not appeal to me because of the forced relocation to concentration camps (politely call internment camps by the government) that Japanese Americans experienced during the tragic war years.  Chicago was a new frontier to me with its many challenges and opportunities.  My wife fully concurred in our decision to give up the Hawaiian Islands permanently. 

Once upon a time, there was such a thing as the Bubble Economy. No one was aware of it while it was around. Then everyone started calling it “Baburu” only after it had     supposedly popped and disappeared without a trace. It was in reference to the economic growth of the 80's in Japan. In the later part of that decade, Japanese corporations  got so lush with dollars they were able to buy the pride of America: the Hollywood studios. There were many media backlashes to this action. Some Japanese cultural figures even forewarned of such a bold move as being out of our class and too arrogant against our good American friends. In reality, it was merely a rational business step; the world’s largest home video manufacturers acted on their long-term interest to secure access to Hollywood studio libraries. But it was virtually unfathomable for most of the common Japanese folks. For us it meant being the boss to those blond, blue-eyed Hollywood actors, whom we only knew to admire on our knees and faint. I remember, as a Japanese high school teen, I wanted to apologize to my American Mormon missionary friends, who used to host bi-weekly English conversation classes at a nearby community center. Half of them said I should not feel that way. The other half was elated that I felt that way.  

The first time I heard of Tetsuo Matsuda was in 1992 in Tokyo. I was a violin student at a music conservatory in Tokyo and had just discovered and become infatuated by the dark rich sound of the viola. This is an often overlooked  instrument of the string family.  The viola is larger than a violin with a different set of strings but still played on the shoulder.  A Japanese professor from the Julliard Conservatory in New York City was visiting Japan and he had just given me a viola lesson.  After the lesson, he recommended that I purchase a viola.  Good quality, reasonably priced contemporary violas were hard to find in Japan.  He suggested that I obtain one, at a very good price, from a Japanese maker who was living in Chicago, Tetsuo Matsuda.  I had just started playing the viola and wanted to learn the instrument well before purchasing one.  The following year, I came to America to study at the Peabody Conservatory.  After graduating, I moved to Chicago to perform with the Civic Orchestra of Chicago.

I was born in 1962 in Tokyo. I grew up just like an average Japanese. I went to junior high, high school, and to University. Unfortunately, I goofed off and did not study, dropping out at the end of the fourth year. I got a job at a children's clothing company doing accounting, sales, and production management. I learned a lot about business and it was fun, but after four years, I decided to change my job. My Dad asked if I wanted to go to America for while since our family had hosted an exchange student from Chicago

Normally, I am a fearless writer, but this commission from the Chicago Japanese American Historical Society (CJAHS) has created endless procrastination, writer’s block and even fear for this author. For months, I could not figure out why- but today, it hit me. My generation is hard to define. We’re not supposed to be “too open,” show our emotions or attract attention- all cultural remnants from being racially profiled in America during WWII. We Sansei (Third Generation Japanese American) are furthering the transition that our parents (Nisei) and grandparents (Issei) pioneered, yet we remain largely invisible. Our assimilation is relatively smooth. Our attempt at not drawing too much attention to ourselves has been successful, perhaps to a fault. As our society becomes truly integrated, there are a certain percentage of us Japanese Americans (JA’s)-who assimilate well enough to “dissolve.” That is, to integrate well enough remove one’s self from the Japanese American community entirely. Herein lies the conflict. Is this success? Many of us marry partners from another ethnic group/heritage.

Introduction
I joined the staff of the JACL as its Midwest Director in October 1978 and I knew immediately that I wanted to be part of the effort to seek a remedy for the injustice of the Japanese American internment. The JACL had just passed a resolution at its national convention in Salt Lake City declaring that the organization would undertake a campaign to seek redress for those who suffered injustices by action of the government during World War II. Shortly after I started working for the JACL, I attended a staff meeting in San Francisco where I met John Tateishi who had recently been appointed as the chairman of JACL’s National Redress Committee. After meeting John, we quickly established a close relationship and I soon became engaged in the activities of this nascent campaign.

Like returning home after a long journey, stepping onto the tatami at the dojo is one of the most relaxing moments I look forward to after a long day of work. A wave of excitement builds as I change into my gi, enter the dojo, slip off my zori (flip flops), step onto the mat, and bow as I enter. At this moment, it’s as if all the troubles of the day disappear and what is left is a mind that is clear, calm, and ready to learn. As we begin warm ups, a surge of energy pulses through my veins and my body prepares for uchi komi (repetition of practice without throwing). Usually, this part of practice exerts so much energy that I’m breathless when it comes time for randori (free practice), but the three minute rounds fly by and before I know it, practice is over. We line up facing the sensei (instructor(s)) and the commands are given, “Seiza. Mokuso. Ya-mei. Sensei ni rei. Shomen. Rei.” (Kneel. Meditation. Break meditation. Bow to instructor. Face (a picture of) Jigoro Kano. Bow.) As I break from the kneeling position and leave the mat, I feel a mixture of exhaustion and rejuvenation. I’m glad to be home.

Growing up in the 1970’s in Chicago’s near west suburbs, there were few people like me. In fact, my sister and I were the only half Japanese, half Swedish/German girls on our block (or in our community for that matter). Most people thought I was Chinese and it didn’t take long to realize that “chink” was not a friendly word. As a kid, I gravitated towards the “others”, the few kids in the neighborhood who were Puerto Rican, Mexican or who just didn’t fit in. Despite being isolated from other Japanese or other Asian Americans, I always identified more with being Japanese, probably because of my appearance and my close relationship with my mother, who was born and raised on the Big Island of Hawai’i.

In high school, my Latino and African American classmates readily accepted me and didn’t seem to care what I was. While most of my Caucasian peers were equally welcoming, many didn’t quite know what to do with me. “Is she Oriental or White?” This was clearly an issue for some. They’d ask me dumb questions and at times make racist jokes not thinking I’d be offended. I knew a girl in high school who used to call my mother “Mrs. Miyagi”. (At least she got the ethnicity right).

When I started university, I decided to study literature and began reading books by people who felt marginalized and who were starting to define themselves on their own terms. I began to meet other Asians, particularly Filipinos, and I got involved in a local Filipino theatre group, Pintig. There I met many dedicated cultural activists who inspired me with their strong sense of identity and their passionate desire to sustain their culture in the States

December 7, 1941

Kakaako,
Honolulu, Hawaii.

Sunday

It is very early in the morning. I look out and it is still night. 4 a.m. I usually don’t get up until 6:30 or 7 a.m. I’m still sleepy, but I quickly snap to and brush my teeth. There is always a not unpleasant rush of tightness or adrenaline just under my breastbone when I anticipate doing or going to an event. I have this feeling of excitement this morning as I get dressed and get my bicycle out.

Issei, Nisei, Sansei, Yonsei, Gosei. It never occurred to me that I would live to see five generations of Japanese Americans, but I have.

When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941, our country was thrown into turmoil. Most of the world was already involved in what would be known as World War II, and now the United States was dragged into it. Old feelings of racial prejudice reared up against Japanese Americans, who were considered a threat to this country by some now that we were at war with Japan. Despite evidence by government organizations, including the F.B.I., that Japanese Americans were of no threat to their own country, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 on February 19, 1942.

On a February morning when a faint hint of spring was in the air, a diverse group of Chicagoans gathered at the Indo-American Center on North California Avenue to discuss how attire and appearance impact the Japanese American and Asian Indian American communities. Present were representatives from the Field Museum, the Indo-American Center, and the Chicago Japanese American Historical Society.

This was the second planning session for Cultural Connections Program, a program administered by the Field Museum’s Center for Cultural Understanding and Change (CCUC). The CCUC brings the museum’s anthropological mission into the neighborhoods of Chicago by partnering with more than twenty ethnic museums and cultural centers. The theme for this year’s programs is “The Language of Looks.”

Shinkichi Tajiri, a world renowned sculptor, celebrated his 80th birthday with a Netherlands exhibit showcasing many of his wonderful creations including the sculptures of 47 ronin. One of Shinkichi's earlier pieces, "Father and Son" in limestone was completed while living in Chicago in 1946. His friendship knots are well known and can be found all over the world. One is displayed outside the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles. "Granny Knot" is at the Rockefeller Foundation in New York City and another in Bryeres in France, commemorating 50 years of liberation by the 442nd Regimental Combat Team (RCT). In the fall of 2004, to mark the 60th anniversary, some 442nd RCT veterans, including Shinkichi,returned to Bryeres in remembrance. It would be wonderful to see an exhibit of Shinkichi's works in Chicago and other American cities.