Heather Toshiko

Years before I was born, in fact even before my Mother was born, my maternal grandparents were forced into a Japanese internment camp in Utah. They weren’t citizens of Japan and thus an intelligence risk, and they weren’t anti-Americans. In fact, just like the thousands of other Japanese-Americans placed in the camps, they were loyal Americans, singled out because of their ancestor’s national origin. After World War II ended, there continued to be anti-Japanese sentiment in the United States, and my grandparents lived the rest of their lives feeling the sting of racism.

I grew up in suburban southern California, in a town about 35 miles east of downtown Los Angeles. It was a middle-class melting pot neighborhood. My neighbors were white, black, Filipino, Indian, Taiwanese, Colombian and German. All of the neighborhood children played together, and race was never an issue.

Because my mother was a credentialed teacher, she was very specific about the education she wanted us to receive, and early on she determined that the local public schools were sub standard. In the second grade, she enrolled me at a small school called Walnut Valley Montessori.

WVM was a melting pot school, much like my neighborhood. The owners were Jews, and the enrollment spanned the ethnic spectrum. I enjoyed my time there, but I will always remember one boy. His name was Ron Langley, and he was a tall, blonde, white trashy boy who used poor grammar and had a general lack of respect. He lived across the street from the school and was allowed to walk to the Walnut Superburger to pick up his lunch every day, while we ate whatever our mother’s had packed into our Lil’ Playmate coolers.

Even as a child, I had a smart mouth. My father is to blame for that, or perhaps thanked. I was never really afraid of any other children, and when Ron said or did something to me one day (I really can’t recall) I popped off at him, even though he was several years my senior and about 3 times my size. His response, “shut up you dumb chink.” Huh? Never in my life had I been called a racist moniker, and I wasn’t even sure how to respond. For several weeks he continued to call me that until I told my Mother, and well, that was the end of that. I’m sure I was called many names in school, but that one sticks with me for some reason. I assume it’s because I am shocked that a boy so young could already know how to hate a person for their race.

Years later, when I was shopping with my mother, some shithead teenagers walked past us and made snide comments about Pearl Harbor. Again, I was pretty surprised that young people could be so full of hate. I thought racists were supposed to be old, sheet wearing white men in the south.

During high school, one of my closest friends was a black male. We met sophomore year in honors English, and we were inseparable for the next three years. John was the son of two police officers, and had attended private schools all of his life. He was the President of our senior class and went on to become a Supervisory Deputy District Attorney. He never got in trouble in school, and was generally a great kid. I offer this background because it makes the way he and I have been treated even more absurd. I can clearly remember shopping with him on many occasions and having store clerks and loss prevention personnel follow us around like vultures waiting for him to steal. Many times, it was so blatant as to be embarrassing. Also, on more than one occasion, we would hear the mutterings of “jungle fever” when we walked together in public, and on one occasion John even confronted a man who was saying it.

I suppose that all of these incidents of racism that I’ve seen or been involved in have partially made me the cynic that I am today. They’ve also made me lose faith in the American people. I always thought and hoped that we were more evolved than we really were. I remember not that long ago, telling my brother that we would never see an African-American president, because as a country, we just weren’t ready. I didn’t believe that there were enough progressive and open-minded people to outnumber the ignorant and the racist. I was wrong.

I did not vote for Barack Obama. The reasons are political and have nothing to do with his race. In fact, I would have gladly voted for Colin Powell had he chosen to run. Now, President-Elect Obama is my president. He is the future president of this country and he deserves our respect and support. I don’t know what he is going to do in the next four years. I’m hoping that he proves all of the racists wrong and makes one hell of a president. If he doesn’t, it still shows what a great and evolved nation we are for giving him the chance. I am so proud of America. I am proud that a nation that once condoned slavery and internment camps can now see the error of it’s ways, and welcome a black man into the oval office. God bless America, and God bless President-Elect Obama, he’s got a lot of work ahead of him.