Travelogue VI: Ghosts of 9066

Return trip leg 2

Today  is election day and at this moment polls are beginning to close in the eastern time zone. But I'll leave it to others to blog about today's critical decision-making, at least for right now. Erik has a final note on the subject, Mary Trump had a few words on it. Even Andy Borowitz chimed in to lighten the mood.

Instead, this will be the penultimate travelogue post from my trip to SoCal.

Manzanar

In 1942, a few months after the United States' entry into World War II, a stretch of desolate land in eastern California where a long-abandoned township once stood was chosen as one of ten sites to be used as "relocation centers" for anyone of Japanese descent living on the West Coast. Executive Order 9066, issued by FDR of all people, gave in to the paranoia and racism of the day and forcibly removed Japanese and Japanese-Americans—U.S. citizens and non-citizens alike—from their homes and businesses. This unconstitutional violation of rights and ethics was based on the concern that these people would be loyal to the Empire of Japan simply due to their ancestry, that some of them would use their knowledge and existence in the westernmost continental United States to supply an enemy nation with intelligence or act as saboteurs. Because racism. (Notably, German- and Italian-Americans were not similarly treated on the East Coast even though the U.S was also at war with Germany and Italy.)

Manzanar was the first of the camps, though not the largest. At its peak, Manzanar housed over 11,000 people in wood and tar-paper barracks over one square mile of area. Located on the eastern slope of a valley in the southern Sierra Nevada mountains, the environment was harsh and isolation was fairly severe. Yet, for three years the internees made the best of it and turned their concentration camp into a more livable space, planting gardens, running a school, publishing a newspaper, forming a baseball league, and gradually improving their living space structures as materials, such as linoleum flooring, became available over time.

Remarkable, really. The spirit to keep on and make whatever lemonade could be made form the rotten lemons given them impresses me no end. The injustice perpetrated on them was ever-present, and even when the war ended and the camps closed the internees were mostly returned to very little left from their pre-camp lives. It was one of the most abominable episodes in American history, the sort of thing modern Republicans would just assume no one ever thought about or remembered (even though they're now planning on doing this exact sort of thing again if they gain power after today).

Fortunately, the U.S. National Parks Service has taken over the grounds of Manzanar and has preserved what little remains from 1942-1945. They've built a small museum there and are using the few remaining structures as restored  museum exhibits, and are slowly working to restore areas of the grounds that camp residents built themselves, like gardens and koi ponds and a small park. The barracks and other buildings are long gone (though one structure near what used to be the staff quarters remains in dilapidated shape), though markers for each "block" show where things used to stand. (Anyone who's watched M*A*S*H would have a sense of how things probably looked in terms of structures and what kind of comforts were available or not; the structures were more stable than tents, less so than the metal structure of the M*A*S*H hospital building.)

I had stopped by Manzanar once before, several years ago, but only had about 40 minutes then and wasn't able to see the grounds at all. This time I made sure to have an hour or so for the museum bits and at least that long to see the grounds themselves. It's actually rather pretty landscape there at the foot of the Sierras. I'd hate to have to live there in mid-summer or winter with no insulation and little electricity, though.

The few things still standing—which no doubt have been restored to some degree by the Parks Service—include the cemetery and the baseball field, as well as the entry gates and an ominous guard tower. Also a few signs at the perimeter warning of "sentry on duty" should anyone try to venture past the fencing.

It's a sobering and yet inspiring place to visit. U.S. Hwy 395 goes right past it, it's easy to get to. I overheard one guy in the visitor's center say to one of the park rangers, "this is the most horrendous place I've ever been, and I work in a prison." And what that place was used for is horrendous, and the conditions and all that surrounded 9066 that is there in the museum in its unvarnished historical accuracy show us how terrible our society has been and can be. But I'm also inspired by it, by the fortitude of the internees, and gratified that the National Parks service is maintaining and preserving this piece of ugly history.

We need these things to be preserved. We need to remember the ugly parts of our past in order to improve in our future. History often repeats itself—in Battlestar Galactica terms, this has all happened before and will all happen again—but it doesn't have to. We can learn from our mistakes, but only if they are remembered and preserved for our edification. And to bring this back to the election just for a second—if Trump wins, he's promised to create more concentration camps, for immigrants legal and otherwise, as a place to "store" them while he institutes mass deportations. We can make a different choice.

Entry gate with original signage

Restored museum exhibit of a typical barracks unit

Restored museum exhibit of Manzanar schoolroom

Restored museum exhibit of Manzanar mess hall and kitchen

The baseball field has had restoration on the wooden bleachers and dugout benches as well as fencing. I also doubt the traffic cone is original.

A small park area has been restored by the National Parks Service. The dates signify the attempt in 2023 to recreate what existed in 1943.

Part of the restored park

Part of the restored park

The environment is both desolate and picturesque at the foot of the southern Sierra Nevadas

Tagged Traveling, History   |   Posted on November 5, 2024 at 4:02pm   |   Permalink   |     |  

1 Comment

Travelogue V: F-word 150

Return leg 1

I have returned home from my road trip to southern California, and the time since I pulled into my garage and dragged myself inside Chez Tim has been largely spent sleeping. It's a long drive.

Not two hours after my departure from Dad and Marty's place, though, there was some minor drama. There's a point on the route I was on where the freeway splits off with a fork—take these lanes to go this way, these lanes to go that way—which occurred not long after a previous fork, and I missed it. I realized I was in the wrong lane just as I was too far gone to move over, so I instead got off at the next exit and sought to rejoin the proper road.

I was stopped at a red light and went to consult the map on my phone. In the few seconds my attention was on that, my foot had apparently let up just enough tension on the brake pedal for the car to start rolling forward and I heard a soft thump. I looked up and realized that I had rolled forward and impacted the truck ahead of me at the light.

Oops.

After a second of WTF? reaction, I backed up back to appropriate distance and thought, OK, embarrassing, but no harm done. A couple of seconds later, the driver of the truck got out and came toward my window. I rolled it down as he approached. "Apologies," I said, "I guess I let up—"

"Show me your license," the guy said. "And insurance."

I did a double-take. Yeah, I'd tapped the guy's bumper, but no damage done.

"Are you fucking with me?" I asked, a bit dumbfounded. Maybe he's trying to be funny.

"No!" he yelled. "Show me your license and insurance! You're paying for that!"

I showed him my license and insurance card. "What exactly are you expecting me to pay for?" I said, indicating the back of his undamaged truck.

Instead of answering, he mocked me as he photographed my insurance card. “‘Apologies.' Jesus." Would he have preferred I didn't apologize? 

Instead of asking him if he'd like me to take the apology back, I just said, "Seriously?"

He pointed at his bumper. "That was PRISTINE. You'll pay for it!"

I looked at the bumper more closely. "I'm seeing maybe half an inch of a scratch if that," I said, still remarkably calm.

"It's going to have to be repainted! And it won't match, and I bet there's more damage—" he stopped ranting in mid-sentence.

The allegedly pristine bumper post-bump. Before sending this to State Farm, I noted that of the various mars on his bumper, some must have been preexisting. A Ford F-150 bumper is anywhere from 19-24 inches off the ground; the foremost part of my Prius is the license plate frame, which spans 15-21 inches off the ground. The area I circled in gold contains two tiny mars potentially caused by the bump at either side of the reflection glint; the red circles indicate areas unlikely to have been caused by the bump as the point of impact would not have stretched that far; the blue circles note mars that are impossible to have been caused by the bump.

 

I stopped short of telling him that I, myself, had been looking into touch-up automotive paint for my own new-to-me car that came with some small paint nicks and thus knew that if he really cared about his tiny bumper mar that a bit of sandpaper and a can of touch-up automobile spray paint can be found at AutoZone in matching colors to various vehicles including Fords for about $25. And if it's a color that isn't standard, one can be ordered online for about $40. He clearly wasn't interested in anything I might have had to say. Meanwhile, the passenger in his truck (wife?) got out and took photos of the back of the truck.

I held out my hand, indicating I wanted my cards back. He handed them to me and ranted some more about how I'd hear from him and regret it. "You do what you feel like you need to do, fella," I said. He walked back to his truck ranting.

The light changed and he took off. I followed and he preceded me onto the freeway before he then got off again at the next exit. I went on my way.

Not 40 minutes later my phone rang. Thinking it had to be about this, I pulled over—I was on US 395 by then, a two-lane road with wide shoulders—and answered. It was a rep from State Farm. "Wow, that guy wasted no time," I said the the rep, who identified herself as Hannah from State Farm and I briefly flashed on those dumb State Farm commercials where a guy has to explain to his wife that he's not cheating on her, he's just talking to "X from State Farm."

Hannah was quite pleasant and asked for my version of the story, what I estimated the speed was (based on time of the event and typical distance between vehicles at a red light, I said it was about two feet per second) and if there was any damage to my car. "No, none," I said as I got out to verify that was correct. Hannah and I covered some more information and she anticipated that, given the claimant's belligerence, he might try to harass me but if he does, "just send him my way and hang up." Points to Hannah from State Farm.

Surprised as I was to get that call as quickly as I did, I was glad of it. After it was done I was able to put the incident out of my mind for the most part, while before the call I was, of course, rehashing the whole thing in my head over and over. Yes, because the guy was an asshole, but also because I was embarrassed. In 40 years of driving this was the first and hopefully only time I'd found myself in a situation where anyone's insurance came up.

Anyway, that's how the return trip started. From there on it was non-confrontational.

I was on that particular route only because I wanted to make a particular stop and wanted to make the best possible time getting there. That's the topic for the next travelogue post: Manzanar.

Posted on November 4, 2024 at 10:07pm   |   Permalink   |     |  

No Comments yet

Wrapping it up

The calendar has turned to November, which historically has been my least favorite month of the year but lately hasn't been any worse than others; whether that will hold true this year depends a hell of a lot on next Tuesday's results.

Down do just a few days in Schrödinger's Ballot Box, soon we'll know if Americans chose a live Constitutional democratic republic or a dead rule of law and a new despotism. It's tough not to obsess about the latter possibility and worry about what to do then, but I nevertheless really do think we won't have to face that because I really do think the forces of good will triumph and President-elect Harris will emerge from the fallout of this ugly election campaign.

In just the latest outrage, Donald Trump has insinuated that Liz Cheney should face a firing squad. Add that to the ever-growing list of things that guy has done that should have destroyed his candidacy and yet somehow barely registers at all. Last weekend's version of the latest thing that should have destroyed his candidacy was the hateful screed and grievance rally at Madison Square Garden. It's hard to imagine any other presidential candidate in the history of presidential candidates that could walk out of that and not take a politically-fatal hit, but here we are.

Here's the great satirist Andy Borowitz on that:

PALM BEACH (The Borowitz Report)—With just four days until the election, Donald J. Trump is running out of time to alienate the few demographic groups he has not already offended, campaign sources revealed on Friday.

Though Trump has acknowledged that he did “an amazing job” of repelling Blacks, Latinos, Jews, and Arabs at his Madison Square Garden rally, he has groused that too many other cohorts remain unscathed.

In a heated meeting with aides on Friday morning, Trump banged on a table and shouted, “We need to go after the Inuit.”

“When did they become Inuit?” he demanded. “They were always Eskimos, and then, suddenly, they turned Inuit.”

Trump also expressed a desire to “do a number on the Amish” because “none of them watch me on TV.”

I also recommend spreading around Robert Reich's list of The 101 Worst Things About Trump's Shambolic Presidency. How people have memory-holed all of that heinous incompetence and treachery I will never understand. What makes it all the more remarkable is that one could probably argue an entirely different list of 101 things and still not reach the end of the list of Worst Things.

As the election campaign wraps up, so does my trip down to Southern California. I shall be heading home tomorrow, taking a different route that is more direct but still favoring non-Interstate roads (mostly). Meantime, Dad and Marty and I went to the weekly street fair thingy that happens in downtown Palm Springs last night, and as it was also Halloween there were lots of people in costume. Some of the outfits were pretty cool—in addition to the standard witches and ghosts and vampires, I also spotted a couple of Mandalorians, some stormtroopers, and a Princess Leia to represent the Star Wars crowd; several Dr. Seuss characters; two Velmas from Scooby Doo, but only one Daphne; plenty of Village People (it is Palm Springs); kids in store-bought Superman outfits; a giant Snoopy; one gender-bending Wonder Woman; and two guys in Next Generation-era Starfleet unis.

There was also an additional stage setup a block or so away that is part of a larger to-do being prepped for next weekend's Gay Pride Palm Springs event that Dad and Marty wanted to see, so we wandered over to that for a bit; it was basically a stage with a band, with the accompanying deafness-level speaker system blaring. I can't stand such things. I will never understand why it is standard practice for any rock show in a club or arena or even outdoor stage venue such as this one to amplify the volume to damaging degrees. If it is expected that one should bring ear plugs to an audio-focused event, then something is fucking wrong. I already have tinnitus, why in the world would I voluntarily exacerbate it for "enjoyment"? I once went to see one of my favorite bands, Fountains of Wayne (RIP, Adam Schlesinger), at a club on Capitol Hill somewhere and found it to be a real drag that I couldn't enjoy hearing them play because of the pounding being inflicted on my eardrums. I don't get it. Anyway, I finally dragged Dad away and we returned to the street fair proper and then made our way back to the house. Aside from the aural assault (and the band wasn't bad, by the way, just fucking loud), it was a nice enough time, though on prior visits when going to the street fair there were more interesting things being displayed and offered for sale. Off week, I guess.

It's been a decent week-plus down here, always good to visit, but I'm missing my cats and, frankly, I'm not used to such arid weather anymore and I look forward to being back among the raindrops.

 

Tagged Politics, Traveling   |   Posted on November 1, 2024 at 3:13pm   |   Permalink   |     |  

No Comments yet