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12/08/08 - (1)
Every December 7
Although I was just ten days shy of eight months old, When the Japanese air force Invaded Pearl Harbor, on the island of Oahu,
Every December 7, at 7:55 a.m., I awaken to a raging clatter of kamikaze aircraft Screaming down out of a somnolent tropical sky,
Riddling my dreams, with chaotic bullets and bombs, Drowning my sleeping spirit, in the USS Arizona, I just one of its 1177 dead.
Despite my lack of participation in World War II, It's left its tattoo on my soul, shaped who I am, today, In ways only vaguely identifiable to my psyche.
Yet I sense it, in attitudes I have toward "nips," "Japs" — Fear born of how they were portrayed, in comic books And Saturday-matinée serials, as sadistic, murderous devils.
I've never overtly denigrated a Japanese person, Never told a disparaging joke about one, either — never would; My moral core won't allow for such defamation.
And yet, there's something in the bones, the blood, That won't free me, completely, from that inchoate hatred, Which, as a kid, in the mid to late forties, I couldn't avoid,
When I'd bring my dimes and quarters to school, To buy war-bond stamps, whose sweet glue I'd lick Before sticking them into my booklet, watching the spaces fill.
Every year, this same fretful, fitful, fateful awakening Beckons me to examine whether I've shed my prejudices, Only for me to realize I'll never forget, forgive.
12/08/08 - (1)
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