I don’t speak Japanese. The war took the urge from my grandparents to pass it down to my father, and to me.
I am mixed-race. The war discouraged my father’s parents from settling in neighbourhoods with other Japanese. His stories of internalized racism are not mine to tell. But they are no less real.
We are still lost. I am lost both in this city and neighbourhood with the only historic Japantown in the entire country. Despite it being where my grandparents were born and grew up. The war took that from me. Where my family was rumoured to have a noodle shop now stands a bar that shares a name with the Prime Minister that gave the order. The irony is lost on far too many.