Wendi Y. from Oxnard
Event took place: August 2007
In the summer of 2007 my father and I decided to take a road trip to the site where the Poston Relocation Center was located, near the borders of California and Arizona. To the place where my grandfather spent part of his childhood, behind a barbed wire fence under the false pretense of national security. Although I had spent years researching Japanese American internment and started to investigate my own family’s experiences, it was when I was standing in the miserable heat that I felt connected to something that was so strategically hidden in the background of our lives. And as we drove away from the solitary white monument constructed in memory of Poston, I couldn’t help but think that going backwards opened up a range of possibilities. And so, it’s always the heat, that prickling sensation against my skin combined with that heavy and compressed feeling in my chest--it forces me to come to term with history, family, and loss. It’s the intensity of the heat that makes me remember who I am.
***
The Anniversary Party by Marshall W.
Event took place: 1986
In 1986, when my parents celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary my siblings, their spouses and I decided to throw them a party. I don’t think there was a particular reason that this anniversary deserved such attention. It was probably a late night conversation after way too much jug wine that resulted in a sentimental pact: We were going to give our parents and their friends an unforgettable experience. But like they say, “Be careful what you wish for.”
Our enthusiasm fed on itself dangerously and we started coming up with more and more grandiose schemes. Forget the traditional banquet in a Chinese restaurant. Everyone does that. Why throw an extravagant bash at some fancy West-side hotel or country club? It’s so unimaginative. Instead, we decided to invite 38 (in tribute to their anniversary), 38 of their closest friends for a spectacular home-cooked meal by us. At the “interesting” hill-side home of their second son in Glassell Park with a spectacular panoramic view of…the railroad tracks (affectionately known by local gangbangers as “Frogtown”). The split level home had one bathroom on the ground floor with sets of sliding doors that had a tendency to fall off their tracks. From the street, there was no visible front door. One had to find the sweet spot in the wooden slats to knock hard and hope that the hosts inside would hear you and electronically unhinge the invisible swinging wall to offer admission. In hindsight it’s amazing that none of the guests got left in the street.
We designed a less-than-elegant, but sincere invitation using a photo from my parents’ wedding banquet and bad hand-lettering. The guest list wound up being 19 Chinese American couples, some of whom had known my parents since childhood, others from college, but all for at least three decades.
We planned a pan-Asian fusion menu: Beef satay skewers, cold noodle salad, curried broccoli and chicken, shrimp and cream cheese fried won ton, and for the traditionalists, pei-don (preserved eggs) with sesame oil and scallions, and other dishes my memory has suppressed. Looking back, it spelled disaster all the way around.
We began food preparation the night before the party and continued throughout the next day. One of the important lasting lessons we learned was that you really can’t take a recipe and quadruple it. The balance of ingredients can become, well, unbalanced. How can I begin to describe the culinary missteps? It wasn’t until we started tasting the dishes a few hours before curtain time that we realized the magnitude of our errors.
We dumped too many noodles in the stock pot at one time. They wound up mushy, despite our best efforts. Similarly, we over-cooked all the chicken and vegetables. We crowded too many beef skewers into the broiler and had trouble controlling the heat. They tasted like shoe leather with a cloying peanut sauce.
Each blunder raised our level of anxiety. We huddled panicked an hour before the guests arrived and considered our limited options. It was too late to cook new dishes or even make a run for take-out. We made another pact to survive this ill-conceived project and save the day in the only way we knew how: For the first hour, we pledged to serve nothing except champagne and store-bought sushi. We were going to get the guests liquored up so they wouldn’t even know what they were eating.
The home was spotless and although design-wise eccentric, clearly presentable. Even the buffet looked beautiful. It’s amazing how chopped scallions, Chinese parsley, and sesame seeds can hide the worst gastronomical sins.
The male off-spring all wore tuxedo shirts and ties, all borrowed or thrift-store purchased, but matching, more or less. I’m surprised that none of the guests threw us their car keys or tipped us, mistaking us for valets.
We glanced at the clock and held our breath awaiting the arrival of the first guests. Suddenly, we heard muffled knocks in several locations followed by bewildered and impatient grunts. The front door swung open.
Our parents graciously greeted each couple and we were right behind them to pour champagne upon arrival and re-fills before anyone needed them. We circulated among the guests with wide smiles, offering California rolls and more re-fills. It worked. Before long, the level of laughter grew delightfully irritating, drowning out the background music.
When we summoned the guests to eat, we heard choruses of “What a lovely spread! Did you do all of this yourselves?” Their kind words were slightly slurred. The guests had a wonderful time. Their flushed faces beamed as they feasted on wilted Chinese chicken salad and shared memories. I glanced at one of my brothers with disbelief, thinking, “Can you believe it? We might actually pull this off.”
After everyone had eaten their fill, we called the room to order. The children graciously thanked everyone for coming, and sang our parents’ praises. We performed the Gershwin song, “Embraceable you” in decent harmony and offered heartfelt toasts. After store-bought dessert, every single couple was photographed with my parents clutching a bright collection of helium-filled balloons. Everyone was glowing or at least flushed. The photos were permanent evidence of a wonderful but flawed event that displayed our everlasting love, supreme dis-organization, mediocre cooking and slightly off-key voices. It was a public display of a family’s strength and core.
Weeks and even months later, the guests sent my parents notes of appreciation for including them in this celebration. One auntie commented, “If my kids did this for me I would have a stroke.” I assumed it was a compliment.
Given the chance, would do things a little differently now? I’d probably hire a caterer. But fundamentally, my parents didn’t care about anything else except that their children had tried. They offered us nothing but endless appreciation and unconditional love.
So in hindsight, when I look back on my life and think about the things of which I’m proud as well as my short-comings, I am comforted by the knowledge that my parents never demanded perfection from me or their other children. They loved us for our good intentions. In their eyes, we couldn’t fail.
