This little glass persimmon and bark is captured from my Jichan and Bachan’s home (my grandparents; jichan is grandfather and bachan is grandmother), who were the first generation to settle in the United States. In 1942, the Y. Nakamoto family was ordered to report to the LA County Fair in Pomona, California. In 1945, after being interned at Poston, Arizona, Jichan and his family returned to their home in Chino and found a world full of hate, racism, fear and brokenness.
Their modest house had been ransacked and everything was gone: stove, refrigerator, plates, clothes… only graffiti was left, all over the house. They had to rebuild their life, from putting cardboard on the walls and floor for heat, to only getting very low-paying jobs, since no one would hire them. Jichan would slowly bring home items like a used Coleman cooler until they had money to buy a used refrigerator. When in grade school, my dad cleaned out dead chickens from a chicken farm that burned down, just to earn whatever money he could to help rebuild. The smell remained in his mind years later as an adult, reminding him of how much he hated the job. But he was ordered to do the job to help earn money for the family.
There were many hard jobs. Everyone in the family worked. It took them ten years to rebuild. Through the years of rebuilding, my dad experienced hate and racism. When in elementary school, he was daily beaten across the hands with a ruler by a teacher who hated him after the war. She abused him and failed him out of her class, because her son was killed in WWII. Dad was only eleven years old. Later, in high school, he was chased off a road walking home from school by classmates in a truck. Once, my Jichan had a gun at his head after delivering strawberries to a family market in Claremont.
In 1955, Jichan, Bachan, my dad and his four sisters moved into a newly built home on the same property. Jichan planted the persimmon tree next to the old house, which remained standing for a few decades but eventually was torn down.
The tree stayed. It has grown into quite a beautiful tree that is now over 67 years old and produces a lot of fruit every year. The persimmon tree produces shade and fruit, and it also represents our family history. I always wondered if there was any significance to why they planted a persimmon tree. All I knew was that it was a fruit like an apple. I decided to find out what kaki (persimmon) represented in Japanese culture. The fruit kaki symbolizes wealth, longevity, and fortune.
My cousins and I understood our family story and many other Japanese Americans’ family stories about concentration camps. We understood we were descendants of a crucial part of history. However, one thing was certain, those stories of hatred and bigotry did not carry over to my life now. I was taught to love and to appreciate what we had. I was proud that my father was a strawberry farmer. I was proud that I was half-Japanese. Even with language barriers, communication with my Jichan and Bachan was understood, even if it was sometimes baca (foolish/crazy).
It’s because of these stories that I sit back and ponder how my dad had such a great outlook on life. How my grandfather waited years, not by choice, to become a US citizen. Jichan was all about McDonalds, Wrigley’s gum, Ford trucks, and the Los Angeles Dodgers. He even told one of my cousins that rebuilding after the war was all about trust, learning from mistakes, and moving on. He didn’t hold a grudge. At least, that’s the message he wanted to convey to his grandchildren.
Jichan was so proud when he became a citizen. He died an American.
I wonder how many new families live in homes that were built after World War II, or had Japanese American ancestors that planted special plants at the home, like kaki, bonsai, and plumerias. About the untold stories that the living plants left behind represent.
This little glass persimmon was cast from a real persimmon from the tree at my Jichan and Bachan’s home. It captures a story about a choice to be grateful, no matter what life throws at you. I created the piece while my father was in the hospital. I was compelled to create a piece that was special. We didn’t know why my dad was sick, but we all had an unspoken feeling while he was in the hospital that his body was shutting down.
My dad worked very hard to go through therapy and gain enough strength to attend the appointment made months in advance to go to the Japanese American National Museum and stamp his name and the names of all of his family members in the Ireichō book. We spent immeasurable time as a family passing through the museum and revisiting such impactful memories that only my dad could tell us about firsthand. Dad’s body continued to decline, and he passed away shortly after. Dad never complained. He understood that his time on earth was short. Yet he continued to teach all of us the definition of a choice in action.
Dad was able to see the glass kaki. He was very proud of it and wanted to show everyone. I am grateful to hear the history from his words and to capture stories such as this through my glass art—a piece of art that tells a story that should never be forgotten.
We all have a story and a creative means by which we convey that story, whether through written and spoken words, music, paint, dance or, like me…through glass. We all have a choice.
© 2024 Michelle Michiko Sherer
