Book Review: The Afterlife Is Letting Go
By Panmela Okano
NAP Contributor
The Afterlife Is Letting Go is a series of essays about the Japanese American incarceration during World War II and its effects on later generations. For Shimoda, the afterlife of the incarceration has simply moved into another stage. The author, Brandon Shimoda, is a poet, so it is not surprising that his prose in this book is beautifully written.
The book opens with the murder of Issei (first generation Japanese American) James Hatsuaki Wakasa, who was shot by a guard at Topaz incarceration camp in Delta, Utah. The circumstances of his death are unclear: he might have been reaching for an unusual flower just outside the fence; he might have been trying to escape; he might have been deaf so that he could not hear the guard’s warning call; he might have been walking his dog. No one is sure. What is certain is that after his death, other Issei men erected a monument in his memory, consisting of a 2000-lb stone, smaller stones and some cement. But the government ordered that it be destroyed. A few days later, the large stone appeared to be gone.
Several years later, the stone was found where the monument originally was placed. Mostly buried, just the top was sticking out of the ground. Topaz survivors and descendants called a meeting to discuss what, if anything, should be done with it. As one Japanese American archaeologist explained, “Excavation and removal are by their nature irreversible and destructive acts.”
But before a decision could be made, the director of the Topaz Museum, a white woman, arranged to have the stone hastily dug up and moved into the museum. She did not give the Topaz survivors or descendants advance notice. Many of them were devastated. As Karen Korematsu, Fred Korematsu’s daughter, explained, “All incarceration sites … need to be viewed as sacred. Accountability and transparency are the only ways to stop multi-generational trauma across all racial communities.”
Before the war, there were 43 Japantowns just in California. Now there are only three: in Los Angeles, San Jose and San Francisco. The Japantown in Seattle, what little is left of it, is hanging on by a thread despite valiant efforts by some Japanese Americans to resurrect it. As my friend Soji Kashiwagi once said, “They’ve destroyed our culture.” Fortunately, Eric Hayashi has restored the historic Nippon Kan Theater, built in 1909, which can now be used as an event space. Tours can be booked at: https://www.kobeparkevents.com/contact.
One chapter of the book is devoted to the Nakamoto Group. The Chief Executive Officer of the Group is Jennifer Nakamoto, a Yonsei. The Nakamoto Group contracted with the U.S. government to inspect several United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement detention centers, receiving more than $25 million from the federal government through 2019. Because of complaints about the inspections, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security found that the Nakamoto Group had “misrepresented the work performed in evaluating the actual conditions of the facilities.” The faulty inspections may have resulted in the deaths of several detainees. (NAP 9/29/24) When Ms. Nakamoto was called to testify before U.S Congress, she cited her family’s incarceration experience during World War II. Members of Tsuru for Solidarity showed up at the Nakamoto Group headquarters in Washington, D.C., hoping to present her with eight bankers boxes of petitions and statements from the Japanese American community. Ms. Nakamoto was not there, and Group personnel refused to accept the boxes. As one activist said, “We were coming there to call her out, but we were also coming there as a community.” Shimoda noted, “Because the person who has fallen farthest from the community might still be considered a member of that community, and worth saving.”
The Civil Liberties Act, which provided reparations for incarceration survivors, had originally contained a $50 million proviso for public education. Sadly, this amount was lobbied down to $5 million, making it a certainty that very few Americans would know about the Japanese American incarceration even now.
Indeed, perhaps the most searing part of the book for me was reading about descendants who told their teachers about the incarceration. Many of these teachers refused to believe them and some even punished the students for telling lies. Why? Because they could not believe that their government — OUR government — would do such a thing. This is why for the last 20 years, every sixth grader on Bainbridge Island, Washington, spends a week or two learning about the incarceration, culminating in a visit by survivors (who were either children or babies when they went to camp) and descendants of survivors. A handful of schools have adopted a similar approach, but the vast majority have not. Our story is worth telling, so we must tell it.
The Afterlife Is Letting Go is a worthy addition to anyone’s Japanese American library.