Historical

Dear Journal, I see examples of bravery everywhere October 11, 1781. Dear Journal, I see examples of bravery everywhere. Benjamin Franklin is rallying up the colonists, hoping to unite them as a nation. Our brave soldiers are fighting England’s troops and winning, and basically, everyone is helping the war effort. What can I do? I just sit at home and play with my little brother, Johnny. I can never be a hero like those men. Well, I won’t bore you with a list of complaints. I only wished to find solace in writing. I shall write in you again tomorrow. Oh, and may I call you Mary? I fear I cannot think of you as a friend if you do not have a name, even though you are naught but paper and leather. Mother is telling me to go to bed. Until tomorrow. *          *          * I close my journal. It was sent from Father as a gift from Yorktown, where he is fighting. I still miss him, but this way, I can almost feel his smile through the pages of the journal that was his way of telling me he still thinks fondly of his beloved daughter. I blow out my candle, filling the small room with gray smoke. Too tired to undress, I sink into soft goose-feather pillows and fall asleep. I jolt awake. Thunder crashes, and ashes of light are up in the sky. Wind gusts and rain strike our small house. Among the rest of the noise, a high keening wail hits my ears. It’s coming from the nursery. I tiptoe gently down the corridor and peek inside. Mother is standing by Johnny’s cradle. Her soft, wavy chestnut hair falls down to her slim waist, and her deep-set emerald eyes are framed by long lashes. Her skin is tan, the color of soft clay. I wish I looked like her. My hair is gingery-gold and straight. Cool gray eyes are paired with a snub nose, giving me a rather serious expression. Mother’s eyes give her a happy expression, like she has smiles tucked into the corners of her face. Right now, she is not smiling. Suddenly I notice that her lashes are sparkling with tears. Instinctively I move forward to comfort her. “Mother, what’s wrong?” In response, she pulls me next to her and angles the cradle towards me. Instantly I see that Johnny is sickly. His normally healthy skin is damp and flushed. I reach out a shaking hand and touch him. His hands are cold and clammy, while the rest of his body is burning up. I gasp as he lets out another wail. Mother whispers in a hoarse voice, “Lucia, the doctor is so far away and it’s dark and stormy. I cannot leave Johnny for so long. I do not know what to do.” She breaks down sobbing. The sound pulls at my heart. I suddenly have an idea. “I will go, Mother!” Her head snaps up, and she gets a steely look in her eyes. “Absolutely not! I could never lose both of you. Go back to bed. Johnny is not in our hands anymore.” She hugs me and pushes me back to my bedchamber. “But, Mother, I…” “No, Lucia.” As I walk back to my bed, I fume at Mother. Why shouldn’t I fetch the doctor? I am old enough! A thought comes, unbidden, to my head. If I maybe went to the doctor without Mother knowing, could I… No, Lucia, it is wicked to disobey one’s parents. Johnny is so sick though… If I go fast enough, Mother would never know until she sees the doctor. By then she will be so happy about Johnny, she won’t scold me! Having made up my mind, I slip to the stables. As my numb hands saddle Birdsong, I grow more and more worried. It is all very well to make such a bold plan, but to carry it out is something else. The journey to the doctor’s is long and dangerous. Hard enough to make in broad daylight, to try to make it at night during a storm is like running into a group of Redcoats. Something no person could possibly survive! However, I have to try, for Johnny. The rain pours and pours. The wind heaves gusty breaths of air I travel on. Every pothole might mean injury. Every sharp turn, death. I stop by Potter’s Way. If I travel down this way, I might reach the doctor faster, but it overlooks a murky river. If I fall in, I will surely perish. Should I go? I struggle with myself for a minute. I don’t know why I am hesitating. I scold myself Lucia, think of poor, sick Johnny. He is your brother, do you want him to die because of your cowardice? I make as if to go to Potter’s Way, but a small voice in the back of my head stops me. Lucia, of course you care about your brother, but think of yourself too. What use are you if you die? Hating myself, I urge Birdsong past Potter’s Way, down the main path. Biting my lip, I ride on, trying to justify my behavior to myself. I jerk the reins and Birdsong furiously gallops down the path to the forest After some time, I hear horse steps following me. Somewhere, a muffled neigh is followed by a whinny of pain. Instantly, I am alert. Is it? Could it be? Horse thieves! Mother had told me many a tale about them. Mean grizzled men. If they caught you, they would take your horse and valuables, if you were lucky. If you weren’t, they also took your life. I could keep ahead of them for some time, Birdsong was a young horse, fast and sprite. However, horse thieves are very experienced. No doubt, I wasn’t the only victim who had a good horse. They would catch up to me sooner or later. I think fast I have an idea,

“Japan bombed Pearl Harbor! Japan bombed Pearl Harbor!” Yuki looked like a wild horse, galloping through the streets of the small, friendly town, her silky black hair flying through the wind. The glaring sun beamed down at her. “Japan bombed Pearl Harbor!” she screamed. “Japan bombed Pearl Harbor!” When two months had crawled by, and the event was forgotten in that small Japanese-American town, Yuki snatched a rusty red radio from her windowsill. The sun was streaming in. It was early afternoon, and a long shadow was cast behind the silent radio. She leapt outside, meeting a group of friends on her dusty stoop. The crackling voice began, reciting a shock. “Recently signed Executive Order 9066 allows people of any race or culture to be evacuated throughout the war,” then it added, “and most believe that Japanese-Americans will be targeted because of the threat posed by the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December.” Yuki could taste the blood in her mouth as she felt the inside of her cheek with her tongue. Yep, she’d bit off some skin. Another month passed, and Yuki had again forgotten about the day when the rusty red radio spoke those words. Just emerging from an orange grove, she and her friends were making their way home from school. Straight in front of her, her eyes were glued to a familiar wood post, for they had nowhere else to rest. She bent her fingers back until they screamed with a fire of pain inside of her. Her thoughts embraced the post, the imperfect edges, all the splinters from it that had pierced her skin, all the times she danced with joy around it, everything. She ran to the post, her friends close behind her. Cupping her hand so that it rested on it perfectly, she prepared herself to skip around it. But there was a paper in her way. A paper with bold lettering, tied to the post with a confident nail. She usually would have not stopped to acknowledge it, but she surprised herself and stopped in her tracks. She read it with worry—nearly tears—in her eyes. The radio was right. They (and all other Japanese-Americans) had to evacuate to internment camps in six days! Her mind raced. How would they make it? Who would she tell first? Before she knew it, it was all over. With nothing but clothes and her favorite bandana, Yuki was stepping on cold metal steps onto the cold metal train, her mother and her sister Keiko by her side. Her father had died long ago. The train engine rumbled and started, moving on the rickety tracks. All around her were mothers, their arms wrapped around their children, children with needy, tearful looks in their eyes, and men with their work caps, standing tall, clutching handles. Everyone was swaying with the train. And before long, Yuki felt like one of them too, swaying with the crowd, going to a place unknown. For one sweaty month, Yuki lived in horse stables. The space was so small that it felt like all the emotions, health, everything was spreading throughout the crowd. You could see and feel everything that the person next to you saw and felt. There wasn’t even enough room to breathe your own breath, say your own words, feel your own things, or think your own thoughts before someone else’s life butted into yours. Yuki desperately needed to start doing karate kicks, her fury and frustration flying with her power. Finally it was over. But nobody was preparing themselves to float home with relief, back to their beautiful lives. No. They were preparing themselves for something very different. Yuki sat again on a cold metal train, but the air was so fresh and cool, she didn’t mind quite so much. Wind was blowing through her silky black hair again. Her hair was flying through the fresh wind. Everyone else’s hair was tied up in a tight knot. Everyone else had stiff, short head covers of hair. Everyone else’s hair was bottling up their emotions and freedom. Only Yuki’s hair was free. Only Yuki was still Yuki. The barracks in Amache were brand new, you could tell. But that didn’t mean they seemed like a good place to live, a place worthy of human beings. People were already settling into their new homes though, and the dust behind the train was settling too, for it had flown in the air, surprised by the train’s passing. When the train left again, Yuki watched steam rise from the top, twirling then disappearing into the sky. All of Yuki’s friends were far, far away, and karate kicks weren’t helping. Yuki buried her face in her pillow all day, every day, for there was no school. Her hair was tangled in itchy, painful knots. All Yuki could think was, I’ve lost myself, the world is ending, and I’m only eight years old. Then she cried. She hadn’t cried since her father had died. Her tears were silent, but they were tears, dampening her stiff pillow in two dark circles. Yuki thought of the days when everything was going to be all right. Days passed, and the same thoughts and feelings passed through Yuki’s mind again and again, and she made no progress, whatever that could possibly be. She was a powerless, silent, motionless fire. She wobbled around on the creaky wooden floor, realizing that her legs were no longer functional. She tried to stretch her arms, but they were too stiff. She tried to squeeze her eyes closed in pain, but they were filled to the top with fresh tears and dried with dry ones. The last of Yuki’s personality was dying down, as was her life. She was struggling to live. The fierce temperatures seeped into her. Everything had to be over, there was no other way she could be living in such pain. This thought calmed her. Just take a deep breath, and in moments it will be over, and you