On Being Japanese American...

By Nicole Sumida

Over the next few years, riksha lived through many incarnations. Through the hard work of talented people like Larry, along with Alex Yu, Patty Cooper and Ed Eusebio (and numerous others), riksha published several magazines and held a variety of performances and exhibits in local cafes, art galleries and clubs. riksha collaborated with many organizations and helped to contribute to the dialogue that had started about what it meant to be Asian American.

Following university, I went to live in Hawai’i for a few years. I’ll never forget the first time I met some local writers/publishers. I started blathering on about the Asian American movement and they just stood there with blank expressions. “Asian American?” one of them asked (he was local Chinese). Then he just chuckled like he’d heard it all. What I later realized is that not everyone lives in a hyphenated world. And there are places, even in the States, where Asians are the majority and don’t feel the same sting of racism as on the mainland.

Of course, Hawai’i is not perfect and there are plenty of race issues to contend with there too. Just ask the Native Hawaiians. But it is a place where Japanese Americans, and other Asian Americans, have been at the top of the social hierarchy for years now and it’s also a place where hapas like me (half-White, half any other race) fit in easily. I am ordinary there and being ordinary is a welcome reprieve.

While living in Hawai’i and spending time with my aunt and uncles, I discovered more about my family history. My grandfather, Ryoji Sumida, born in Hiroshima, left Japan as a young man in the early 20th century in search of work prospects in Brazil. When his ship docked in Hawaii, he and his brother decided to stay in the islands. No doubt it reminded him of his native city (something I realized on a recent trip to Hiroshima). On the Big Island, my grandfather, who was a fisherman by trade, started a business enterprise that would grow into a general store, a fishcake factory and a restaurant, among other endeavors.

When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941, martial law was declared and it was not long before the FBI started rounding up and interrogating prominent Japanese Americans. My grandfather was detained in Hilo and only through the help of a friend, an attorney who had been living in Hilo for many years, was he released after six long months. I had the opportunity to correspond with the attorney turned judge, Martin Pence, before he died. What struck me most was his willingness to step forward at a time when loyalties were being questioned. Of course, Judge Pence didn’t think of himself as extraordinary; rather he simply felt that an injustice has occurred and he needed to do something about it. My grandfather never forgot Judge Pence’s efforts on his behalf and my mother tells the story of the delivery of “special catches of the day” to Judge Pence for years following the war. A small gesture from a grateful man.

My grandfather died when I was ten years old and my memories of him are hazy now. On a shelf at home where I place special mementos, I often look at the photographs of him. One is with my 2-year old self in his lap and another is with him and several family members and employees in his general store. He was a stoic and practical man with his own children, but with us (his grandchildren), he was an altogether lighter person, quick to smile and play and who expressed his love through walks holding hands and naps curled up close. My mother told me that he would “light up” whenever my sister and I would visit him. He was a man who, despite his hardships and sacrifices, which included surviving the devastation of two tsunamis in Hilo, lived his days with a sense of gratitude and generosity that touched all who knew him.