My Thoughts on an Incredible Book, “Show Me the Way to Go To Home”

Manzanar, “Distant Mountain = Freedom” photo by Sandy Sugawara, in “Show Me the Way to Go to Home” p150-151

Sandy Sugawara and Catiana Garcia-Kilroy’s book “Show Me the Way to Go to Home” is thought provoking, artful, and powerful. Their book is not a “coffee table” photo book although lonely, compelling images are wonderfully sequenced throughout. Rather, the book is a work of art and literature, a masterful, almost lyrical depiction of the incarceration sites of Japanese Americans in America during World War II. Sugawara is the daughter of two incarcerates who viewed their time in the barbed wired camps as something finished, to be forgotten…not to be remembered.

Silence, terror, and time often collaborate to overshadow the physical and psychological wounds inflicted on Japanese Americans during World War II. “Show Me the Way to Go to Home” is a glimpse into America’s betrayal of its citizens and the grievous loss by those interred and a hint of the opportunities lost to the rest of us because they were interred. Incredible, sensory-rich images fill most of the book. Poems by survivors’ family members, artifacts, and historical notes provide additional emotion to the photo journey.

Sugawara was aware her parents were incarcerated during the War, but they seldom talked of it, saying those days should be left behind so that the people could move forward. Just before Sugawara’s mother died, she asked Sandy, “Why didn’t someone speak up, why didn’t other Americans stand up for us?” Shortly after her mother died, Sandy and her friend, Catiana went looking for answers. Their journey, the people they met, the pictures they took, the objects they found all weaved together to create the texture of this magnificent book.

The two photographers spent the next years visiting ten of the incarceration sites, interviewing people, finding images, and stirring up memories of those years. Books like this are difficult. Sandy’s parents were incarcerated not Sandy, it’s really not Sandy and Catiana’s story to tell, they weren’t there…except, they did it. They told the story from their perspective and remained objective by combining today’s images, poems, and descriptions with yesterday’s mementoes, recollections, historical footnotes, and linking incarcerates’ names with current, well-known personalities from each incarceration site.

The sites were all abandoned, mostly empty and desolate, and all in remote, inhospitable terrain. The photographers’ images capture the physical and emotional essence of the sites. I could feel the hot wind blowing sandy grit into my face and the oven-like heat roasting the soles of my shoes. I could hear my feet crunching through the desert sands and the creaking boards of rotting buildings.

  The book captures a living story, a monument to the incarcerated people and a beacon to all of us who can learn from the incredibly unjust act of having armed men rip our neighbors from their homes to board trains and buses to carry them hundreds of miles from their homes to these camps.  In America. We did not do that to German Americans. Or Italian Americans. 

The book has many images with some text. Each site’s section has a one-page description before the set of images. At the beginning of the book are two poems by descendants of other survivors. At the end of the book are images of some historical objects, photos, legislative history, and an essay by Dr. Donna Nagata, “Intergenerational Impact of the Japanese American Incarceration.” A binding attachment is a booklet with images of some of Sandy’s father’s wartime collectibles, kept in a box and not seen by Sandy until after her mother’s passing.

The book is a perfect balance…a peek at what was, a step-by-step walk-through today’s remains of the sites, and a glimpse of what that historic period means to the survivors, their children, and the rest of us.

The book is a work of art and is available at Radius Books.

Cover, “Show Me the Way to Go to Home” photo by Catiana Garcia-Kilroy

Huron’s Swimming Pools

No such thing as a community pool when I was growing up in Huron. Evidently they’d had one in the forty’s next to the Fairgrounds and they built one down by the Jim River after I left, but when I was there, only Ravine Lake was available to everyone. The Country Club north of town had a pool and in my later teen years, Dad’s company bought us a membership; but during my junior high years, Ravine Lake was the place to be.

A stone building on the shore at the top of the hill provided a snack bar, shade, restroom and picnic tables. The facilities were…”rustic.” But the beach was good, or pretty good. Summers are hot in Huron and any cool in the heat was welcome. The beach was sand and fine gravel that turned to mud and muck once you got knee high into the water. The water wasn’t clear, a good day was light brown. There wasn’t much “flow” in the lake, it was sort of stagnant depending on the amount of rain we’d had. Usually during the hottest days of August some evil bacteria or fungus or seaweed would shut us down for a while. In the wintertime, the lake would freeze and we’d rip around like the wind. You always had to hope the lake was completely frozen and that the snow drifts had been plowed, but still, awesome place to skate.

A small island sits about 50 yards out into the lake and the real brave could swim out, make out on the far side, and be the envy of the smaller kids. Ravine wasn’t very luxurious but it was fun, lots of laughs, and it was WET which was important to sweaty teenagers. When I went back to Huron in 2007 there were many changes…walkways, a bridge to the island, and the stone building had been fixed up. Of course, they’d put in a community swimming pool so I don’t know if anyone actually swims there anymore. And now…I hear of the Splash Central Waterpark. I guess that might be more fun…but I don’t know, I can still hear the laughter from Ravine.

The image above is from Dumbarton Oaks in D.C. The image below is the bridge and island at Ravine Lake….way, way back in 2007.

One Dollar = One Vote, The Democracy’s New Math

Apparently, I’ve awakened after a long winter’s nap. I don’t recognize many of the institutions I used to rely on for sanity and common sense. I look around and find a divided country based on racism, fear, economics, and rhetoric. Hitler used a similar division in Germany to enflame normal people and the Nazis came to power and millions died. Once upon a time, our conversations and cooperative form of government helped to prevent things like that from happening here…but not so much anymore.

Not too many years ago the Supreme, well, supreme Court decided that dark money could fund elections. And that, dear friends, was the end of meaningful discourse. I don’t care which side of the political spectrum you might be on…conservative or liberal, the days where dollars buy votes is upon us. It’s horrendous. It’s not handing out cash to people at the polls, it’s billionaires personally funding huge campaigns by both parties to create discord and conflict among the voters…among us, our neighbors, our colleagues. In days gone by, people might disagree on some issues but could usually work things out with civility. Now, dark money funds organizations to prevent civility and compromise.

Some people have talked about term limits. I don’t think that would work. The RNC and DNC would “qualify” candidates and pull the strings using dark money to manipulate the voters. It’s disheartening. Clarence Thomas goes on dark money funded vacations and he’s supposed to represent the “fairest in the land.”

It’s not about the human issues anymore. It’s not about “we the people” as individual voters anymore. It’s about who can spend the most dollars to scare people into voting for them. I hope our kids can fix this shit show we’ve left them.

Of All The Silly Things To Do

In the late 80s I had a wild hair…why don’t I go to law school and become a lawyer after I leave the USAF? How naive. How silly. I had no idea what I was getting into and my day-to-day life was not very “stable.” However, full speed ahead and damn the torpedos.

I bounced the idea off a lawyer friend of mine (yes, lawyers have non-lawyer friends). He said, “How was your LSAT score?”

“What the hell is an LSAT?” I replied, which should have been my first clue. He told me and I frantically searched for a testing time before the milestones I’d set for myself. Remember, this was BEFORE the days of the internet. I was lucky, I found one at the perfect time. I went to the test, scored in the mid 90s percentile and looked for a school to attend. Since I was working at the Pentagon and living in Virginia, I looked to schools that I could get to on the Metro. The Georgetown school had no metro. George Mason U had no metro. George Washington U did have a metro. What I didn’t know was that the law schools of most DC universities and GMU were near metro stops. No internet. No brain. I applied to what was then called the National Law Center of George Washington University. I was accepted. They must have needed students.

My law school classes met Monday through Friday nights from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. I was still working and traveling extensively. In fact, for more than half of my law school attendance, I was on travel 50% of the time. Academically, I sucked.

After graduation in 1993 I took the Virginia State Bar exam and passed on my first attempt. Which was good because GWU didn’t teach Virginia law. I started practicing immediately but…surprise, surprise, I wasn’t very good at it. I hated the research and details. And, I was working for me, and, I didn’t pay myself very well. Sigh. I was fair in court and won the few cases I had which made my clients happy. Sadly, they couldn’t afford to pay me. Fortunately, I had not given up my “day job” and so could afford to not get paid by my clients. But, my wife and I talked: two young girls (one a baby), humongous law school debt, and high stress double life…it was time to quit one of the jobs. The paying job won out.

I’d practiced for five years with a variety of cases, mergers & acquisitions, contracts, adoption, traffic, criminal, and… I forget all of them. I worked hard but wasn’t very good at details of the law, didn’t enjoy the law (except the courtroom), and because of that I felt there was a potential for not properly serving my clients. It was time to hang my shingle in the closet and go back to normal life. I did have a broad exposure to the discipline and appreciate the attorneys who helped me muddle through some of the more difficult issues. There was no internet that worked well (that was reasonably priced) consequently asking for help or going to the library was my only recourse. But it got me to wondering.

How can an attorney represent someone who is obviously, without a doubt guilty, but still pleads not guilty? I know, I know, to ensure that proper justice is done but that’s not why some of those attorneys practice. They look not for justice but for the win. They file motion after motion after motion to tie up the system and make the little guy (or the government, believe it or not) spend all their money. They know they’re sitting next to a guilty person and yet they act as if he is the child of Jesus. And they will put on a show that would make Barnum & Bailey weep with envy.

I am heartened by the jury system…most of the time the juries can see through the theatrics, but not always. The OJ trial comes to mind. And I look at what’s happening in the news today and wonder … what can the lawyers be thinking. But then, I wasn’t a good lawyer, so what would I know?

Theaters in Huron

By William Lampe

I’ve been “down sizing” for years which is clearly offset by my collecting obsessions. I have stored this book in a box for 30 plus years…by William Lampe of Huron. Mr Lampe was an English teacher, one of my English teachers. I don’t remember which grade he taught, eighth perhaps. He and I did not always get along, in fact, I’m pretty sure I heard him mumble “Pain in my ass” about me to one of the other teachers. I must have bought the book on one of my trips to Huron in the 90s or perhaps my mother bought it for me. My mom and Mr Lampe’s sister were friends. Uncomfortable. But that’s a small town.

“Frame by Frame in Huron, A History of Movie Theaters in Huron. South Dakota” had four printings: July, September, and December 1982 and again in June 1984. The printing was done at “The Print Shop” at 53 Third St SW in Huron. My grandfather worked there for a while after he retired from “The Plainsman” so perhaps he helped print and bind the book. The book is black and white, “perfect” binding, printed on a Minolta EP310 printer. Very modern for the early 80s.

The book is fascinating and demonstrates the great research capability Mr Lampe had and the dedication he had to the task. Up to 1984 there had been thirteen theaters in the town, the first was the “Grand Opera House.” According to Lampe’s account,

Grand Opera House was built in 1885 with a seating capacity of 1200 and a stage 24x48 feet. There were eight sets of scenery, two private boxes, four dressing rooms, and a balcony. It was advertised as the largest and most desirable opera house in the Territory. It was located at 32 Third Street S.W. The building was burned in what was described as a most spectacular fire in 1902.

Several pages of Lampe’s book are dedicated to the spectacular fire at the Huron Theater in 1957 where supposedly 650 kids were attending a matinee. It was amazing that no one was killed. I was eight and fortunately my mom was running late, we turned onto Third St and saw all the smoke and fire trucks and did a U-turn.

I didn’t know there was another drive-in theater (besides the Starlite). The West Park Drive-in was opened in 1948 and was located just south of the Fairgrounds next to where the old West Park Swimming pool had been. I’ve never heard of either of them but I’m guessing they must have been around where the Armory is (or was, it’s been a long time since I’ve been back). The West Park had a smaller screen because they used 16mm film instead of the standard 35mm. The picture was good but small. The Starlite Theater opened in July 1949 with a 35mm camera and West Park closed down, selling all of their equipment to a man in DeSmet who opened a drive-in theater there.

Anyway, the Wayback Machine took me down another path today. I hope you enjoyed it. The image above is the cover of the book. The image below is a copy of a newspaper ad for the Starlite, June 28, 1955, that’s on page 155 of the book. Does anyone remember going through the ticket gate in the trunk?

The World’s Largest Pheasant

Truthfully, I wondered if this really is the world’s largest pheasant. I mean, who keeps track of these things? Maybe Guinness did at one time, but now, I’m not sure. And I wasn’t sure 60 years ago either.

In the mid fifties, I remember my grandfather and my dad taking me out to see the new highway, a four lane wonder that showed Huron was on the fast track to becoming the center of commerce in South Dakota. Or something like that. It must have been a weekend because I remember standing in the middle of the construction (road) looking both ways and marveling at how big it all would be. And the bridge across the James!! Wow.

Right next to the four lane highway was this little building with the pheasant. The building was lots of things over the years I was paying attention. When I was a teen, we’d buy chislics there (no one except a South Dakotan knows what a chislic is). But I also remember it as a liquor store. When I took the picture in 2011 it was empty.

Sometime in the 50s, construction began or had begun on The Plains complex…a virtual megapolis to the youngster in me. Over the years The Plains went from 9th Wonder of the World to something else. I haven’t been there in years but have read the reviews on Tripadvisor so I don’t think it’s what it was. Of course, “what it was” through a teenager’s eye is probably much different than an adult’s eye. But, I remember…

You’d walk in the front door and the coffee shop was on the right, bowling alley straight ahead. Lots of folks ate breakfast in the coffee shop and the prices were fair. The bowling alley was modern (60 years ago) and so was very popular. My parents both bowled in women's and men’s and couple’s leagues during the winter. I think there was an alcove on the far left of the building with pinball machines.

If you turned right from the bowling alley you’d go up a couple of steps into the bar. The bar had a glass wall overlooking the bowling alley and a small stage for live music. I never played there, they probably had a rule about minimum age or something. I think someone named Barnes owned the bar or maybe all of The Plains. On the other side of the bar was the dining room, the fanciest one in town. My high school class 50 year reunion had lunch in the fancy dining room…it wasn’t the same. But then, neither were we. Smile.

On the far end of the building was the great hall. That’s where they had weddings, dances, and, I’m pretty sure roller skating. Seems like my 6th grade class roller skated there as part of graduation. My parent’s 50th wedding anniversary was in that hall.

The image below is from the Huron Tigers Homecoming game, 2017.

Huron Tigers Homecoming, 2017

Once Upon A Bandshell

Bandshell, Prospect Park, Huron, SD

Once upon a time in a bandshell far, far away, I remember bands playing, choirs singing, children laughing and people generally just having fun. Prospect Park was a place to go and usually no fees or tickets were required. Mostly the people who came to the park with their lawn chairs were older folks (like me now) and parents with young kids. Older kids were hanging out at the Starlite Theater, JJ Newberry corner, Stony Run, Byron, or some other place far away from adults. The bandshell, the “center” of town, is a symbol of small town America.

South Dakotans are a fiercely independent group of people, no matter their background. The Sioux, Norwegians, Germans, and more have been tied to the land and to the needs of the land for centuries. I left the great plains when I joined the military 50+ years ago and haven’t been back except for family visits. My thoughts on Huron are only memories, I don’t know what “is” now. In the old days, the people would talk over coffee at Randall’s, discuss politics/crops/weather, debate the issues, shake their heads, and then choose what was good for South Dakota and its people. People from both parties were sent to the State House and to Washington. And then “sides” seemed to become more important than issues.

Now, we are a divided country, seemingly agreeing on few things except that anger and hate are the only methods of discourse. I believe this division is a product of racism, to the fear that racism incites, and to the politicization and polarization of every single institution and place we, The People, go. Maybe even this bandshell.

Fading Memories

Remains of Riverside Park

Things come and go. People come and go. Things and people usually change before they go. Memories are like that, too. I have memories of Huron’s Riverside Park, mostly good ones. Lots of flowers, walks, making out and more. All of that’s gone now. This wall is what’s left of the Park but my memories remain…fading a bit, but still there. And speaking of fading memories, I have a story about elementary school that will not leave my head. Well, actually three stories.

I went to kindergarten in a brand new school….Washington! I still remember when my mother abandoned me at the front door, but that’s another story. Sometime before I started first grade, the school board decided to reorganize school districts. My school became Lincoln Elementary instead of Washington, a five block walk vice a three block walk!! The kids who lived DIRECTLY across the street (you know who you are Gwen) still went to Washington. Did I mention that Lincoln was an old, old school? Old.

Lincoln was a square, dark brick building with hardwood floors and very high ceilings. I think there were three floors, the bottom floor being a gym (and you know what I think about gyms). The first floor was where the principal hung out. I think her name was Ms. Sargent. She was a small woman but I often saw the fireball that she really was.

My fourth grade teacher was in her first year of teaching. I really don’t think school systems should put brand new teachers into the fourth grade. The year was 1958, I walked to school most day’s with a friend, Dave C. Dave was much more daring than I, also a head taller. We normally walked the few blocks to school in the alleyways.

In those days, there were no plastic trashbags and most people put their garbage directly into large oil cans or metal trash cans that were located in the alleys. If one looked in the cans, you might see something really interesting. And, of course, being fourth grade boys, we looked a lot. One day, Dave pulled out a Playboy magazine. Wow. A treasure. But certainly, we thought, we should not keep this to ourselves. We hatched a plan.

Our teacher was Ms Wiebel. I sat in the back of her class, Dave sat in the front row so he could be closely watched (he had a reputation). Our plan…I would make a very loud noise that would make everyone look to the back of the class and Dave would stand up, turn around to face the class and display the Playboy foldout completely unfolded for everyone to see. Of course we had no idea of what might happen afterwards.

Our plan went off perfectly! I dropped everything that was on my desk onto the hardwood floors making a loud clatter. Everyone turned toward me, Dave stood up, opened the Playboy and unfolded that month’s star. Everyone turned back to the front and saw Dave and the magazine. There were shrieks and hurrays and laughter, then running teachers and yells for the principal. It turned suddenly quiet as Ms Sargent came storming up the stairway.

We were both marched down to the principal’s office. I don’t remember what she said but I do know that she called my mom. Dave’s, too. We were picked up and taken home. Yay.

I was not a quiet kid in fourth grade and I drove Ms Weibel crazy. So did the other boys, she often cried when we misbehaved. And she punished us by keeping us after school. For days she made me open this huge dictionary that was on a stand at the back of class and copy words and definitions from the book onto my note paper. I think this actually helped me with my fascination for words and I owe her a debt of gratitude.

A few years ago I thought I should apologize to her. I’m pretty good at finding people on the internet so off I went on the quest. I found she’d married. She had passed away several years before my search. I wanted her to know that I’d mostly changed and part of the positive was because of her, I think she’d have liked that.

Theater

Auditorium in abandoned Mt Vernon HS, Alexandria, VA

I’ve had many humiliating moments in my life, high school theater is one of them. Mr. Robert S. Callahan led student theater in addition to his normal teaching duties. In the yearly play schedule, I think he’d put on two plays in one night…a short one and a long “extravaganza,” normally a musical. Mr Callahan asked me to take a part in the smaller play and I said no. He asked again, and again, and again. I relented. A disastrous mistake.

Play rehearsal was every afternoon in the study hall. That cut into Bird Dogs time but we were able to work around the play. Error. The play wasn’t long and it only had one set. I was the protagonist. Error. At first, it seemed innocuous and easy. Error. The play was “No Greater Love” by William Fisher. I will never forget the name of the play, I googled to find the author’s name. It was a play with a moral. Error.

Every day, we rehearsed. I can’t remember everyone who was in it…Alan Hodgson, John (?) Hershman, and ???? Memorize. Rehearse. Memorize. Rehearse. Rehearse. Rehearse. I absolutely positively could not get into the play, it just wasn’t me. I could not connect with the character and certainly couldn’t connect with the audience. They were watching the play as if they were watching midnight traffic on Dakota Avenue. Horrible.

Thank God for the play that followed. I don’t remember what it was but it was full of music and fun and clapping. I remember Sue Sampson belting out a song that had everyone on their feet. Even I was inspired by that performance. But afterwards, I melted back into a pool of humiliation.

Later in the year or perhaps it was the next year, I don’t remember, Mr Callahan asked me again to be in one of his plays. I liked and respected him very much and so if he asked me for something, I would do my best to get it for him. But this time I told him I would absolutely, positively, not ever, ever, ever be in one of his plays. Ever. He relented and said I would be the stage manager. I loved the stage manager job and had a great time at the next play.

Robert Callahan was an awesome teacher, administrator and person. I kept up with him for years until his death in 2019. I’d stop by Iroquois in the 70s when he was the school district superintendent and was sad when he retired. A loss to all of the students rising through that system. He helped me believe in myself; he helped me push my way through challenges. He was a leader and an incredibly empathetic teacher. I would have done pretty much anything for him…but I did learn my lesson about plays. Listen to your inner voice.

The image above is from the abandoned Mt Vernon High School. Huron’s auditorium was not semi-circular, rather straight row after straight row. Huron’s stage was large with steps on both sides and behind stage. The study hall (theater) was on the top (3rd) floor. You could exit the stage from behind and get to the second floor. Study hall “teachers” often did that, exit from behind the stage, go to the second floor and then come back into the study hall from the back door and catch someone talking, sleeping or otherwise being a student. A favorite trick of Coach W.

Counseling…At Last!

The Bandshell in Campbell Park at Dakota Ave

I was a quiet lad in junior and senior high schools and pretty much still am. I did my level best to avoid interacting with teachers and administrators. (Well, one exception, Robert Callahan, a man of extraordinary talents…he got me through it all. But generally, I was quiet.) Once in awhile, the teenager in me would come out and I’d be sent to visit Mr. Solon, the vice-principal. He and I did not get along and did not see eye-to-eye on many things, especially the dress code.

Think back to Huron in the 60s…remember the dress code?! There was some knee thing with skirts and girls. Boys could not wear jeans and if the pants you were wearing had loops, you had to have a belt. But, that’s not what got me in trouble most of the time, my “teacher flashpoint” was hair. I’d be walking in the hall or sitting in study hall and I’d get a tap on my shoulder and then a finger wag to “come with me.” I’d sit down outside Solon’s office while the “arresting teacher” explained my sin. Solon would call me in and dress me down and then tell me to leave school immediately and get my haircut.

I’d leave his office anxious for the freedom, go to my locker, get my Butch Wax and leave the building. I’d wax the sides of my hair down, spend an hour or so wandering about town and then head back to school. I’d get approving head nods from Solon although I’m sure he knew exactly what he was looking at: me with my shiny, slick backed hair. I was “kicked out” of school once a month or so for hair. I was finally sent to counseling. Tenth grade. What is counseling?

The counselor was Ms Dona Brown. I didn’t know the purpose of a counselor and why I had been sent to her, but, off I went. I liked her, she was polite, personable, and smart. She lived in a cool house opposite the bandshell you can see in the image above. She was good friends with my mom so it was kind of like going to see a neighbor. At first, but things changed. She offered me a piece of candy from the bowl she always had on her desk.

She said, “Lee, I’d like to know why you don’t keep your hair short and why you don’t obey Mr. Solon.” All the episodes of “Perry Mason” I’d watched jumped into my head and went straight to my mouth. Sigh.

I pointed out that my hair was just my hair, it didn’t hurt anyone, it didn’t disrespect anyone and it was the “thing” of the time. Beatles. Hermans Hermits. Yardbirds. And Huron’s own Bird Dogs and the Torres. Long hair and belt less pants should not be an issue. I mean, look at granny dresses.

Granny dresses were a “thing” for a while and a big hit with many of the girls. I pointed out to Ms Brown that walking up and down the stairs with granny dresses was hazardous. Long hair was NOT hazardous. In fact, I told her, I knew of two girls who’d fallen and been hurt. She didn’t buy it and in fact, I remember she pooh poohed my assertion. She continued talking but it was like hearing the adults in a “Peanuts” cartoon. My mind was somewhere else. We parted with a new relationship, teacher and student.

Nothing changed. Ever. I was not a cool kid or an athlete and so the system looked at me as fair game for punishment mostly for long hair and attendance. My hair’s three years in high school was a mix of Vitalis and Butch Wax until the weekend when The Bird Dogs went on the road. Then we’d let our “hair down,” all three inches of it.

I often wonder what my parents thought. I know my dad hated my hair but my sister kept him busy arguing about her stuff so he seldom remembered to give me grief on anything. Did Dona Brown ever talk to them about me? Solon? Anyone? I am pretty sure they did not. When the Bird Dogs were on the road we sometimes had to skip class on Fridays and even a couple of Mondays. My parents didn’t say anything. The school didn’t either. I do remember being told I had many, many hours of unserved detention. I wonder how that works, but the statute of limitations has probably run.