This story follows main character Hanae Tamura, circa late 1930s.
After Washington Junior High, I went on to Franklin High School. Miss Sanders, my homeroom teacher, was well-scrubbed and neat. She represented the profession well with her sense of decorum and manners.
At first, I couldn’t help but admire her as an example of American liberty, justice, and fairness. I was proud to be in her class and was looking forward to the year.
Taking roll, Miss Sanders looked down the list and said, “Hanawe? Hanai? Hana?”
Sheepishly I raised my hand and replied, “Present.” There was a giggle in the classroom.
Miss Sanders smiled politely and with an almost mocking tone said, “Oh, Hana, such a pretty Japanese name, but a bit difficult.” She looked directly at me and asked, “Do you like music?” “I know what we should do, class from now on we’ll call her Viola. It’s a beautiful musical instrument. It’ll be so much easier for everyone. After all, what’s in a name?”
Miss Sanders raised her arm and said, “According to Shakespeare, ‘A rose is a rose’.”
I was shocked at how suddenly I was changed from Hanae, which had flower and mercy in it, to a big violin.
Miss Sanders, I concluded, isn’t as wonderful as I expected. The Japanese students in class were silent after hearing my new name. They knew the routine since many of them had suffered the same fate. They understood their place as lesser beings: Tomokiyo became Tom, Kenjiro became Ken, Goro became Joe and Misu became Sue. With a few words and a matter of seconds, I was no longer myself. Sanders puffed up with pride after her declaration.
On the way to Japanese school after Franklin, I complained to Kiku, my best friend, “Miss Sanders changed my name to Viola.”
“What does that mean?” Kiku replied. “I’d complain to the principal. Who does she think she is? That makes me mad!” I said, “You’re right, I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
The next day after the bell rang and the rest of the class left, I walked up to Miss Sanders and interrupted her writing. “Excuse me,” I said, “My name is Hanae.”
Miss Sanders glanced up and said, “Yes, I know.” “No, I mean my name is Hanae and not Viola,” I said, recalling Kiku’s anger.
“Oh, okay,” She replied and did not look up from her work. Shuffling her papers, she asked, “Anything else?” I managed a smile and said, “Excuse me.” I exited quickly and my knees knocked on the way out.
From that day forward, Miss Sanders never recognized me and never gave me a second look in homeroom. When she called roll, she merely nodded.
On June 10th my spirits leaped when the 1939 Franklin High School graduation ceremony began. There were green and black crepe paper streamers strung from the chandeliers and a huge “Congratulations Class of ‘39” sign in the auditorium. The room was crowded with families and well-wishers of all ages.
I wore my white Sunday dress under my robe and put French perfume behind each ear. Amid the applause, my heart danced while the orchestra played “Pomp and Circumstance.”
“Congratulations,” Principal Wilson said as he handed me a diploma and shook my hand. “You can turn your tassel now.” I whipped the tassel around and skipped off stage. Embarrassed by my impetuous actions, I covered my mouth and proceeded to my seat.
After the ceremony, Kiku and I looked at each other. “At last,” we said in unison. Then we tossed our mortar boards into the air. I watched them climb and thought, so much for Viola.
The orchestra continued to play as Mom, Dad, and my brothers joined me for cake and punch in the commons.
*Excerpt from Lawrence Matsuda's novel, My Name is Not Viola (Endicott and Hugh Press, 2019). Permission granted by author Lawrence Matsuda.
© 2024 Lawrence Matsuda
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