Passions

Passion is at the heart of human nature. To love, to make, to build, create, laugh, inspire, be inspired…to hate and destroy. We grow up with this sense of this passion, grasping it on different levels. We have the passion for our music, our childhood games, our amateur artwork and our hobbies. We learn what love is and never truly finish learning about love. It’s the extreme and righteous passion. Turned over on its head is the seed of wrath and destruction.

We hold grudges. Sometimes we don’t know why, or even have true intimate reason to hold the grudge. It becomes an infection that burrows into our soul. It may be against another person for a wrongdoing. It may be against a race for some inadequate reason. We may hate out of fear. We may hate simply because our ancestors hated the same people. It’s a passion without cause, a rotten design. Every human spirit falls victim to the power of this passion.

In my time around the world I have seen some of the signs of this passion. It may take form in a heated rivalry between national sports teams. Sometimes the grudge runs deeper. Religion is often the catalyst, when it should not be one at all. We reach for each other’s necks rather than kinship and brotherhood. Hatred that goes back over a thousand years is indwelled in the hearts of many simply because they were raised to hate, never truly seeing the heart of their enemy. Of course the enemy often reciprocates with hatred. Love is the only passion that overpowers the dark passion.

An example of this inherited hate is in Asia. It’s still fresh in the hearts and minds of many here on what the Japanese did to other Oriental nations during the first half of the Twentieth Century. The Rape of Nanking, the comfort women, the genocide, the forced labor and soldiery. It was a savage time in Asia. The progress in the world was just a façade, perhaps progress itself is a façade. Sometimes it seems that way. Millions died and the result was the punishment of the Empire of Japan. Millions of lives in China, Korea, etc. were paid for in the lives of millions of Japanese. Seventy years later the bitter passion lingers in places across Asia. Having seen it first hand it’s an eye-opener. It’s not only in this part of the world but scattered throughout the world. Children “hate” the old enemy, the old oppressor. The old enemy that battered and bruised them is now changed and wants to erase the past but cant. It’s a vicious cycle where the oppressed want to constantly remind the old oppressor and the old oppressor wants to forgive and forget. It’s never enough either way for some reason. So there it remains…the passion of hatred. Children (not all) will harbor resentment. Will history repeat? Or will hearts finally mend?

There is a passion stronger than all other passions. Stronger than hate.

Nidoto Nai Yoni

In Regards to my last post,

It was just this last summer. My dad and me were able to share one of those few big father-son trips. He was taking me along on a business trip to Jackson Hole. On the fly we decided on a little side journey to the Minidoka National Historic Site or the former Minidoka War Relocation Center as it had been known as. It was one of ten relocation centers built for the 110,000 Japanese-Americans during WWII. I had visited the Heart Mountain Relocation Center probably ten years earlier, too young to appreciate the gravity of the site where my grandpa and his family once resided. Minidoka was right in my home state. Of course the War Relocation Authority, or WRA, thought it proper to place the interment camp in one the most inhospitable and lackluster places in the state of Idaho, the Magic Valley.

I made the drive to Jerome, we tried to map out our destination on my dad’s Blackberry. It was a confusing jumble of directions. My family had tried to make it to Minidoka a few years back but got lost trying to find it. The tar-paper metropolis has since vanished into the pages of history, known only by a few locals. This time my dad and me stopped at the virtual ghost town of Eden, Idaho. A ironic name for it’s desolate sagebrush infested location. This was our junction to history.

After about an hour of driving back and forth on rural Idaho’s confusing roads we were about to call it quits. I suggested we drive a little further, the last hurrah before giving up again on our quest to find Minidoka. Before we knew it we were hugging the Snake River. On our right I saw a few shady looking buildings, a dirt parking lot, and a dirt-covered plaque. We finally made it.

The buildings lacked personality and charm. They were ghostly skeletons of buildings that had been painted over for use as modern housing. Their looks suggested they had been emptied once again, their last scrap of respect by the locals and government. We were the only ones there, easy to imagine considering how hard it was to find. Truly in the middle of nowhere, just how the WRA wanted it for the Japanese-American Issei and Nisei. Some hasty excavations had been done at the site. A little desert garden and path built by the former inhabitants had been re-excavated. Most of the site was barren. At its height there were hundreds of buildings that include barracks, schools, a hospital, cafeteria, community center and handfuls of other buildings. Now there was only a stray building or two, the brick remains of the guard station, waiting room and the little rock garden. My father and me took on the role of explorer. It was as if we came across some ancient site unseen by humanity for years. We could see the concrete foundations of former buildings, nails and bricks strewn about. No sign that almost ten thousand once lived in this barren land overrun by grass and brush. The only company was the haunting silence and rush of the river. That same summer heat was pouring over us like it did to its inhabitants almost seventy years ago. I looked around with a heavy heart. The amount of neglect was apparent.

President Bush allotted 38 million dollars for restoring Minidoka and ten other relocation sites in 2006. There are scarce signs that it has reached little Minidoka yet. I can only hope that those last few buildings wont disappear into the wilderness forever; But that it will emerge once again as a reminder of the past and a hope for the future.

Nidoto Nai Yoni – “Let in not happen again”

A Day of Infamy

This hasn’t slipped my mind over the passed few days. I have just been trying to find the proper words. It’s a subject and story that is very dear to my heart and has deep meaning in my family.

It’s February. This month may have different meanings for different people. For some they think of Valentine’s Day or the last weeks of winter breaking into warmer weather. For me I often think of February 19^th. This day probably means very little to most people. It reminds me of a particular February 19^th in history. The year is 1942.

It was on this day that the much-celebrated FDR put his signature of approval on Executive Order 9066. Most people probably have forgotten what this Order was. It is something that American history books still try to only briefly mention. It was on this day my grandfather, a young boy back then, learned that he was not like other Americans. A day where the American dream was painted as a façade. The dream was not for everyone is what this Order was saying. That freedom is not for everyone.

Executive Order 9066 declared that all people of Japanese ancestry on the West Coast, dubbed District 1 were to be “relocated” from their homes to assembly and relocation centers. If you were so much as 1/16 Japanese you would be required to relocate inland. This was all in the prevention of sabotage by these people of Japanese descent. By May of that year 110,000 people would be forced on an exodus to relocation camps. Before arriving to the haphazardly built camps they would be herded into assembly centers like cattle. My grandfather lived in a horse stall at the Santa Anita Racetrack. Many others were gathered in warehouses, stables, and camps. Then it was off to the actual relocation centers. There were ten camps altogether scattered across the interior. My grandpa was relocated to Heart Mountain, Wyoming along with his family. Most camps were located in harsh climates, freezing in the winter and scorching in the summer, miles away from any towns or cities. Until the end of the war this was home, a tarpaper barrack community in the middle of nowhere.

The argument that this was done for American safety rubs me the wrong way. Before and during the WWII there was not a single confirmed case of sabotage by Japanese-Americans. Prejudice was rampant against people of Asian descent. The Progressive Era stirred a pot of hatred against foreigners. The Yellow Scare poisoned the hearts of many Western Americans. If it was February 19, 1942 and I was alive I would fall under the umbrella of relocation. Me, my children and grandchildren would be deemed unfit to live and work in the West. Is it America’s fault? No. It was more poison in the well of politics. General De Witt was the brain behind relocation and open racist who had too much influence on the matter. The dust hasn't settled in many people's hearts.

Grudges in history aren't the answer. However, forgiving isn't always forgetting.Therefore, we can only hope to learn from the past for the better

The Hero

We all have iconic figures that we look to. Some may call them role models, mentors or even heroes. Their actions inspire and influence. We look up to them hoping to shadow their footsteps and maybe experience what they lived through. They are the movers and shakers of our inner being next to God. It is those people whose simple existence helped guide us down the path we are on now; sometimes they may not or may not have known. My late grandfather was such a person, a pillar of my life.

It’s been three years since I lived through one of the hardest days of my short life. I had to say goodbye to my hero, friend and Opa. My Opa was soft-spoken but had a temper I could certainly relate to. His humor was contagious, unique in its own special way. He could be the quiet man or the life of the party. Deep down inside you know he had a story and a heart of a man of faith. His story along with my Oma began back in the old country, the Netherlands.

It was my Opa and Oma’s stories that became perhaps the greatest influence on me being a lover of history. Their stories outdo any Hollywood script. Growing up in a simple world without television, cell phones and computers. Hard work was needed for survival. Not some day-to-day lazy routine, but blisters on your hands hard work, the hardest work and challenges coming though the Second World War.

For five years Opa and Oma endured Nazi occupation, bombings and great battles. They saved countless lives; Jews were certainly among them to be sure. They braved one of the greatest battles of World War II to see each other, running from foxhole to foxhole, crater to crater. It was during the war that my grandparents first fell in love. Culminating in over sixty-five years of marriage. After the war they were married and came to America, a land that could offer them more than war-torn Europe. In 1949, with seventy-five dollars to their name they began their journey. It’s a journey that continues to this day with Oma and her numerous children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I’ve learned many lessons from their stories and examples: bravery, hard work, faith and love. Inspiration can be found closer to home than we think. When I think of heroes I don’t think of athletes, actors and actresses or historical figures. No, the real heroes are the people that inspire me and shape me for the better. People like my Oma and my late Opa, a dairyman from Holland named Teunis Van Manen.

It aint what it used to be

Getting accustomed to feeling uncomfortable. You can grow up fast a world apart.

Scratching the Surface

It’s been a week more or less since I took my last step in Idaho on the tarmac of the Boise Airport. Leaving home by yourself and knowing you will be gone for a year will stretch you like you have never been stretched before. This week has been exhausting in every aspect, yet the week has blazed past. There is a gaping space, so big it almost seems physical in my personality. My family and friends were the key to that personality. Now, it seems like half of me is gone and has to somehow rebuild around other people and strangers. This week ha already changed my life, fifty-one more weeks will certainly scar me or strengthen me. I can only look positively into the future, as hard and as daunting as it may be. This is something no one can truly prepare for. You may think you are ready, excited and up to the challenge. When facing reality it’s a whole different ballgame. So here’s to fifty-one more weeks if I can push on through. On that day I hope to take a newer and greater step onto the same tarmac of Boise, a better son, sibling, friend and man.

“Yet through all the Gloom I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory. I can see that the End is more than worth all the Means…”

In the Beginning

What's in store for the next 365 days? What's going to happen to me physically, emotionally, spiritually? How am I going to live? How am I going to survive without the ones I love so dear? How do I do this? How do I say this? How do I get here? Can I do this? Am going to live a simple life in a new complicated setting or live complicatedly in a simple world? What's going to get to me? I can't answer that for myself.