Assignment - Week Three

Early that afternoon it was so hot you could smell the sweet scent of grass drying in the sun at Lakeland Acres, just north of Peekskill. Some folks arrived early, a few couples with children, some of the boys and girls from the local high school, and even a few older folks with young spirits all hoped to nab an unoccupied picnic table for their hotdogs, hamburgers, apple pies, cherry pies, cookies, and all kinds of good eating stuff. They brought grills, and set up housekeeping right there on the picnic grounds. The charcoal grills got fired up, and the pungent aroma of hamburgers basted in hot sauce wafted on the air making everyone hungry. Everyone was looking forward to that evening’s entertainment, a fund raiser in support of Paul Robeson and his Civil Rights Congress.

Going to be a wonderful summer concert, Pete Seeger said so. He called up a few friends, who called up a few friends, who called...well you know the rest. Before you know it, a lot of people planned to come. Paul Robeson headed the list of singers, and Pete would be there with the Weavers, and there would be other folk singers, and it was going to be fantastic. Paul Robeson had a rich mellow baritone that reached people all over the world. He could surely sing, but that’s not all, He was also an attorney, a civil rights activist, an educator, an actor, an athlete, a big, handsome, black guy with many friends who liked and admired him.

The children from Golden's Bridge all came down in a large truck. Mothers and fathers and union members, and those who liked to sing, and those who liked to listen, Blacks, Jews, civil rights activists, and just plain folks, they came by the hundreds by bus, by car, by train from New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburg and points east.
Just below the picnic grounds a broad grassy meadow sloped down to form a natural arena, large enough to accommodate a great assemblage.

But the locals didn’t want these strangers, these freedom riders, these integrationists coming to their community. They didn’t care for their lifestyle or politics. These were folks who never heard Paul Robeson sing. They called him a communist, and a Niger who didn’t know his place, and so they blocked the access road to stop the concert goers from reaching the site.

When they spotted the car that carried Woody Guthrie, Lee Hayes, and Pete Seeger along with his wife Toshi and their infant child, the mob threw rocks at them. Guthrie pinned his shirt against the car window to keep it from shattering.

"Wouldn't you know it, Woody pinned up a red shirt," Hays would later say when he recounted the events of that day. Some friends claimed that Seeger picked up some thrown rocks that day to build a chimney in his cabin. That was one memorable summer day. Many of the vehicles that carried folks to the concert were attacked on the road, and thus prevented from reaching the site.
Elaine and Irving didn’t know each other when they boarded the bus for Peekskill. But they felt a sense of belonging. Folks talked to whoever sat near by. They sang songs, and everybody laughed a lot.
Suddenly rocks began to fly. One of them came crashing through the window and hit Elaine, who sat several rows behind Irving. Pandemonium broke. Locals armed with baseball bats and other implements stopped the bus and came aboard with intent to harm. They shattered windows, dragged some people off the bus, and wielded their bats against heads, shoulders, legs. Blood flowed. Children cried. Women used their bodies to shield their young.
The local mob exploded with rage that increased with every rock thrown. They struck blows against the Kike, against the Nigger, against integration, against Paul Robeson and his Civil Rights Congress, against Pete Seeger, and all the sympathizers and “fellow travelers.”

Irving was a heavy muscled, tall, broad kind of guy with the physique of a wrestler. He didn’t like to fight, and never needed to. His size was his deterrence. Friends called him the gentle giant. He was slow to anger and slow to move, but as the first rock smashed through the window, Irving unfolded himself from his seat, stood up and looked back to where Elaine sat slumped over, with blood flowing down her cheek. He moved towards her like a whale through a sea of minnows, parting the crowd of attackers and victims alike.

Seeing the blood on her injured face, Irving leaned down to better examine the wound, took out his handkerchief, shook it out to clear off the lint, and used it to bandage Elaine’s wound as best he could. Then he sat down, holding Elaine to his broad chest, her head resting on his shoulder. The two sat quietly midst the explosion of hate and fear, while a tiny seed of love began to grow between them. Irving rocked Elaine in his huge arms. And she cradled thus in his embrace felt safe. The gentle pressure of his hand against her cheek stemmed the flow of blood.

“There, there,” he whispered, “you’ll be fine.”
He said no more, but someone else did. A rangy fellow, baseball bat at the ready, leaned down to where they sat and spit, “Hey you Kikes get out of here, move.”

Irving shifted Elaine gently to the side and stood, letting the fellow with the bat have a good look at his frame. Tall and broad as a house, he held his ham like arms folded against his chest. Planting himself like a tree, Irving stared at the baseball bat.

“You sure you want to use this thing on me?” He smiled.
The guy glared at Irving, said nothing, and turned back to join the mob. Elaine felt grateful to this gentle strange. She admired his courage, and the way he defied that enraged men.

Many buses were attacked that day, people were reportedly dragged from their vehicles and hurt. Many never made it to the picnic grounds. Those that did formed a human chain of courage and defiance and sang, "We Shall Not Be Moved."

Over 140 people were injured on that day and many vehicles severely damaged. The local police didn’t interfere until thirteen seriously injured people were taken to the hospital. The concert was postponed until September 4.

Wasn’t long after that, Irving called Elaine on the phone, and invited her to another picnic, one that was much smaller and very peaceful. They saw each other often after that, went to the beach, and to the movies. They attended concerts and civil rights meetings. They even joined some black and white folks to ride a freedom bus in Alabama. They got thrown in jail for their efforts, and their bonds grew stronger.

The rest is predictable, almost cliché, but heck, what’s wrong with a happy ending? They got married and moved to a city project on Gun Hill Road in the Bronx. Elaine gave birth to two daughters and Irving couldn’t be prouder.

So it goes, one of the many stories about one summer afternoon, the first love, and a the Peekskill Riots. Some of it is fiction, but most of it is not.

Easter Preparation

The turmoil that the world finds itself is indeed scary. In almost all cases in the past, the conflicts could be identified by national entities and physical borders. Now the problems have to do with beliefs of the mind that seemingly are hard to compromise, hard to isolate territorially, and hard to contain. It would take quite a research study to be able to comment intelligently on this subject. I look at my past to try to ascertain how things could have gone wrong for me.

(1942) My folks and most of the Japanese in America were Buddhists. The problem in the camps, where we were incarcerated, was reduced in part to Christianity versus Buddhism. Good heads prevailed and the overwhelming majority embraced the Japanese value of :”Shi kata ga nai.” (It can’t be helped) They ignored the basic concepts of their religion in their decision to be pro-American versus pro-Japanese, at least in their behavior.

I was 19,20 years old in camp and was faced by pressure groups of youths educated in Japan called Kibei. These were American born youths who were sent to Japan in their early teens by their parents in the belief that they needed to get a Japanese education and to be establish there to get ahead in their lives. The prejudice of the work place in the U.S. would not allow them to succeed in the higher echelon of life, so they thought. (This was true in the thirties and early forties.)

After a number of years many returned to the U.S. somewhat warped and disillusioned in their thinking about life in general, for sure life in the U.S. The Japanese in Japan did not trust the Kibei as they were considered American. The Kibei did not feel comfortable in the U.S. because they were looked on as being Japanese rather than American. They lost some of their American attributes as a result of spending their formative years in Japan. Some felt abandoned by their parents during these important years…. World War II and evacuation into camps ensued.

As older youths of the Japanese American population, some of the Kibei were influential in moving a very small percentage of Nisei (Japanese Americans that did not go to Japan) towards pro-Japan. When the Army draft came along while we were in camp, there was the added pressure because we would be leaving our parents without support and going into the Army. The Kibei were saying, “Why are you going into the Army and deserting your parents in time of their need instead of staying in camp and helping them with their lives? Screw the U.S. Go to Japan with your parents.”

These poor, naive Nisei kids that went along with this resulted in their refusal to be drafted. They lost their citizenship and were put in separate camps along with many Kibei. They were to be eventually sent to Japan with their parents. Before this could happen, however, the war ended. Almost all were eventually allowed to plead redress and got their citizenship back.

In the meantime, they had spent additional years for a total of up to six years in incarceration. The years when they should have been paying attention to their formal education had passed. Late in their twenties, when they were released, they now needed to go to work and get on with their lives as best they could.

The reason the Kibei pressure did not influence me was that I grew up in California in a non-Japanese community and had a terrific high school, typically American, experience. My classmates were Mexican, Portuguese, Italian, and others of white race origins. I played organized sports--basketball, track, and tennis—with them as well as in the marching band, orchestra, oratorical contests, boy scouts, etc., and was Valedictorian of my high school graduating class. How could I be non-American with that kind of background in spite of the fact that I was incarcerated for one full year as a potential risk to the United States?

I was released from camp on a scholarship from the Christian churches. I was not permitted to return to UC, Berkeley, because it was in the restricted area (1943). I went to the University of Utah for my sophomore year before the Army drafted me. My father died from cancer before i left camp and my mother had died prior to entering it. I had no responsibility for elders that would be left behind.

I have tracked a few of the friends I had that were influenced by these Kibei. I am dismayed how those additional years completely warped their outlook on life. Though they had received redress from their earlier poor decision, the additional time spent in incarceration changed how they lived their lives. Instead of exploring the whole gamut of life in America, they chose to stay close to other Japanese of like experience. It greatly limited their potential.

I realize that even in the best of countries, the United States, how one is treated or how one behaved early in life can result in some poor attitudes about life in general. Some of those Nisei that were negatively influenced turned their experience internally. Their lives were impacted but I know of none that overtly turned against America and Americans from the incarceration experience.

As for people abroad, in addition to having this type of experience or worse, many grew up in poor and unstable countries thru their adulthood. From my experience I can see how political and religious beliefs can really warp people’s thinking about their current lives.

Because the main issue in the world today seems to be religious—Judaism versus Islam, Islam versus Christianity, and in a minor way, Christianity versus Judaism—it is very difficult to resolve. Being mostly an optimist, however, I can also see that unexpected events in the future can bring together these three religions—Christianity, Judaism, and Islam—thereby rejuvenating the lives of these people peacefully.

DID NOT THE THREE RELIGIONS STEM FROM THE SAME GOD?

As he handed me back my heart he said, “Here, take this, I thought I would know what to do with it but I find that it overwhelms me. I don’t know how to handle it. I didn’t mean to break it. I wish I knew how to fix it but I don’t so here it is. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Will you still be able to love me even though it’s broken?”

I look at the pieces, broken and bleeding profusely, and wonder what I will do with them. My fingers hold them gently not wanting to drop them or lose any of the fleshy bits. I know I must find a heart mender soon…very soon before the loss of liquid life proves fatal.

I turned away quietly and went to my Father…no not my earthly father for he had begun the breaking and tearing of my heart many years before. I turned to the Father than can make all things new.

He looked at me and I asked, “Abba, will you fix it? Will you put me back together?”

“Yes, my child, leave it in my care and trust that when it is healed and whole again you will be able to skip and sing and giggle. You will learn to love once more.”

ASSIGNMENT # 4

The smell of baking kulichi (Russian Easter bread) was tingling our noses. The aroma spread throughout the whole apartment, and I couldn't concentrate on anything, but the taste of the kulich. The preparation started early in the morning. I remember my father stirring about 50 egg yolks with sugar in a big bowl. I was next to him watching how the mass becomes whiter and more liquid. Once in a while, my father would allow me to dip my little finger to this delicious mixture and taste it. After all other ingredients were mixed together, the dough was covered and placed on a warm stove to rise. After a while, the risen dough was placed in cylindrical-shaped black molds of different sizes, including the two small ones for my sister and me, and left to rise again. The time of silence and tiptoeing began. The dough was very sensitive. This continued for hours.

Meanwhile, the preparation for Easter cheesecake began. Again I was by my father's side watching his mixing the cheese, egg yolks, sugar, butter, heavy whipped cream, vanilla, raisins, and almond slivers. The aroma of different ingredients was difficult to resist without having tasted the mixture. The ready mixture was put into a wooden mold in the shape of a pyramid. The bowl then was mine. I leaked the large spoon and scraped the walls of the bowl as thoroughly as I could. It was delicious!

Then there was a time to bake the kulichi. We, the children, were not allowed to enter the kitchen. Toward the evening, the bread was finally baked. Our grandma carried one hot mold after another to her beautiful bed with big square-shaped pillows standing like the pyramids of Egypt on it. She laid the molds on some linen spread on the bad and carefully removed the molds exposing hot steamy kulichi. This was almost too much to bear for us. My little sister and I looked with admiration at different sizes of hot aromatic bread and the temptation of touching and tasting at least a little crumb was irresistible. But the grandma was strict. We were to observe the fast and not to touch least to taste it before Easter Sunday when they are decorated and placed on a big dinner table among enormous amount of other hot and cold dishes.


Tatiana Erohina
September 7, 2007