Go fo' broke!

The families in my old Rose Street neighborhood were tight; we shared food over fences, babysat younger siblings and if any of us acted up, parents impartially yelled at the lot of us.  I never realized until much later how lucky I was to have grown up in a neighborhood with so many families with children near my own age. 

I recently attended the funeral of Mr. H., a former neighbor of many years and the father of my friend R (see "Turkey Tales," November 2010). Mr. H. was "old school"; that means he didn't always talk much but when he did it was because he had something to say and it was in your best interests to listen.  Like my grandfather, Mr. H. was gruff and did not waste time with social niceties--if he wanted something done, he said so, using as few words as possible.  He was not a big man but he had incredible presence.  I never thought to question him when he told me to do something and it never would have occurred to me to protest that I wasn't his child to order around.  Yet he was always kind to me and paid me the ultimate compliment of entrusting me with his daughter; R. is three years younger than me and if we were catching the bus to go to the beach or the movies, she could go--provided Mr. H. knew that I was going, too. 

Mr. H. took us fishing, swimming and hiking.  We helped him harvest vegetables at his relatives' farm in Kaaawa and he set up a tent in the backyard for us to spend the night in; in the back of his blue pick-up we explored corners of the island I would never have seen otherwise.  Mr. H. taught us to respect the sea and the legends of Hawaii.  I was impressed that he never failed to make an offering to the volcano goddess, Pele, whenever he visited the Big Island and if our travels included a picnic lunch, a small food offering was always placed by the side of the road.  "For the little people," he would say.

Many of my cherished childhood memories revolve around R. and her father but with all the time I spent in their company, there is one thing I never knew about Mr. H. until his funeral service; he was a member of the 442nd Regiment, the all-Japanese American regiment that fought in some of the toughest battles in WW II and became the most decorated regiment in the history of the United States.  As a history teacher, I lamented the passing of yet another first-hand witness to one of the most important events in the world's history.  As his longtime neighbor, I was saddened by the not-knowing.  How could I have spent so much time with them, at their house, and not have known of Mr. H.'s involvement with the 442nd?

At the funeral, copies of a speech made by US Army Historian Eric Saul were distributed.  The speech was given at a ceremony to honor Medal of Honor recipients on March 25, 2001.  In his beautiful presentation, Saul attributes the success of the 442nd and their willingness to "go fo' broke," despite the prejudices and mistreatment by their own government, to several very Japanese qualities; qualities like "giri" and "on" (duty, honor and responsibility), "kodomo no tame ni" (for the sake of the children), "gaman" (internal fortitude), or "shikata ga nai" (sometimes things can't be helped).

But the one characteristic that hit home for me was "enryo" or humility. Saul wrote:  "There's an old Japanese proverb that says if you do something really good and you don't talk about it, it must be really, really good!"  Mr. H., like my grand-uncle Dick who was also a member of the 442nd, never talked about their service during WW II; they didn't have to.  They went and did really, really good.  And that was all the rest of us needed to know.