This First Person column is written by Nicole Ing, who lives in Vancouver. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ. Dec. 7 is the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese that precipitated the entry of the United States into the Second World War.
“She’s stupid.”
I was shocked to hear my grandpa jokingly describe me this way as I announced my new job and resulting relocation from Toronto to Vancouver; not only because he usually is more kind than this, but also because he is typically one of the more neutral and stoic people I know.
I shouldn’t have been surprised though, given his experiences as a Japanese Canadian who had lived in B.C.
My grandpa, Naoyuki (Nick) Yoshida, is one of more than 22,000 Japanese Canadians wrongly interned by the Canadian government shortly after Pearl Harbor was bombed by the Imperial Japanese Navy on Dec. 7, 1941.
Eighty years have passed and, even now, I feel the hurt and defiance in his voice when he describes being labelled an “enemy alien” at the time.
Grandpa Nick was born in 1926 in Vancouver. Over family meals, he often would describe rich memories from his early childhood in the coastal village of Steveston, south of Vancouver: the sounds and smells of fresh salmon being processed at the cannery, running along the wooden plank sidewalks and playing with other children, mostly of Japanese descent.
It was difficult for me to comprehend his experiences after his journey eastward began. I listened in disbelief when he described how Prime Minister Mackenzie King’s government villainized Japanese Canadians. My grandpa’s family house and his father’s fishing boats were seized by the government (and later auctioned off) and the entire family was exiled to Kaslo, B.C., a small village about 730 kilometres inland from Vancouver.
I can viscerally feel the bedbugs he recalled feasting on his legs, the icy winter winds howling through paper-thin walls and the waves of cockroaches scuttling across the wooden floors of a cramped room.
During the internment, Nick’s family endured inhumane living conditions. Five of eight children would succumb to infections. Nick’s resourceful mother made an agreement with a nearby Caucasian Canadian family to have a bit of land for a vegetable garden, which Nick swears is what enabled him to survive those brutal years without starving. His mother also recognized education as the most promising avenue to escape their poverty-stricken lives and encouraged Nick in his studies.
Grandpa Nick was, and still is, a sharp man. As a bright young student, he obtained his high school diploma by taking correspondence courses and became a teacher for other children in the camp.
In 1945, at the age of 18, he applied to the University of British Columbia and was offered a scholarship to pursue a bachelor’s degree in engineering. However, two weeks later, the offer was rescinded by UBC following instructions from the B.C. Security Commission, prohibiting Japanese Canadians from returning to the West Coast even though the Second World War had ended.
My grandpa still has the yellowed message on UBC letterhead to prove this happened. Even though he has shown it to me, I still struggle to imagine a world where this was acceptable. It is hard to believe this was not very long ago.
The following year, he applied to and was accepted by the University of Alberta. Although Nick received a gold medal for graduating at the top of his class, he faced trouble finding employment because of lingering racial discrimination.
His journey eastward continued. He obtained his master’s in Toronto and went on to have a successful career as a chemical engineer for a mining company in Ontario. He spent his final working years in Toronto’s Commerce Court tower, the downtown atmosphere a far cry from his internment days.
While pursuing his career, he also met his wife, my grandma May. She was a professor at the University of Toronto and also a former Japanese Canadian internee. Before the internment, her family lived in Vancouver and owned several grocery stores, all of which were taken from her family. The largest store was named Busy Bee and was on Robson Street, in the heart of what has endured as the upscale retail sector in downtown Vancouver. They had two children — my mom, Winnie, and her younger brother, Chris.
Grandpa Nick built a beautiful life for himself and our family. He cultivated a love of dry gin martinis, golf and travel. He was able to retire early, allowing more free time to enjoy these pleasures.
Yet in all those years, he never again set foot in B.C. Nor did my mom or my uncle because Grandpa Nick didn’t encourage it.
I was raised in Toronto and lived a very short drive away from my grandpa. I grew up listening to his experiences in B.C. and how he was still able to achieve a comfortable life later on. It was always a difficult but necessary and inspiring topic highlighting his resilience.
When I accepted my new job in B.C., it crossed my mind that this return signified something for us as a family.
I can understand my grandpa’s need to move forward and to not return to a place that carries so much pain. Even writing this essay two generations later, it’s difficult as a Japanese Canadian to unearth the past and dwell on the injustices that we experienced.
Why bother contemplating our dark history when our country has moved on? Why share the Japanese Canadian story with acquaintances and strangers when I know it’ll ruin the party? And do I need to share my grandpa’s traumas as a preamble to his successes, when those successes can fully stand on their own?
When I reflect on my own experience both growing up as a Japanese Canadian and now living in Vancouver, I realize how fortunate I am to even choose to ask these types of questions.
A formal apology and compensation package are offered to the Japanese Canadian community.
My access to education, stability (economic, familial and environmental) and general acceptance by society as a Japanese Canadian have allowed me this opportunity to come back to Vancouver. I owe my grandpa a debt of gratitude for much of that.
It’s been almost a year since I made the move to Vancouver. I visit Steveston, my grandpa’s childhood village, every couple months.
The experience is bittersweet. I feel a sense of belonging and even ownership of the area, and yet some guilt for enjoying the place where my family was forced to leave. I try to recapture my grandpa’s good memories. I have a favourite sushi spot to enjoy the fresh fish that my grandpa remembers and I walk in the same places where he likely ran around with his friends as a child.
Still, I choose to see our family’s legacy as not a sad story about my grandparents’ experiences, but rather, a triumphant one. They lost their family members, community and hard-earned material belongings, yet kept their dignity, overcame adversity and thrived.
I’m sure many Canadians descended from immigrant families will understand the drive to do justice for generations before them, continue their legacy of resilience and hard work and never take the good things in life for granted.
Nowadays, my grandpa has accepted my move out west and is just happy to know that I’m doing well with the adjustment. When I call him, he always asks how my job is going and asks when I’ll visit Toronto. One thing we always talk about is the weather — he remembers how much it rains in Vancouver!
Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Here’s more info on how to pitch to us.