By Renee Morita (Guest Contributor)–
(Editorial note: Mike O’Brien’s blog on 10/16/17 discussed his visit to Topaz with Renee. Renee has graciously agreed to share her family’s full story again, reprinted with permission from a June 2005 article in The Salt Lake Tribune.)
Heroes do not reside merely in the movies or in books. Often the most heroic of stories arise as love and courage are applied to the simple acts of everyday life and survival. The story of my parents, Thomas H. and Chiyo H. Morita, is such a heroic story.
When I was in high school, my father told me about the painful life experiences of my parents. Dad was born and raised in San Francisco, my mother in Seattle, both American citizens living in West Coast homes during World War II. After Pearl Harbor was attacked, President Franklin Roosevelt ordered that all persons of Japanese descent in the area be removed from their homes.
In March of 1942, the mass evacuation of these Americans began. My father learned of the order when he came home one afternoon, only to find his mother sitting on the front porch. She was crying – he’d never seen her cry – and clutching a copy of it.
They were allowed only a few days to hastily sell, store or discard their belongings. They could only take what they could carry. They lost many of my grandparents’ heirlooms, sentimental items and family portraits. They asked neighbors to watch their place, thinking they may be gone for only a month or so. The month turned out to be two years for my dad’s family, and three years for my mom’s family.
My dad’s family were each issued large numbered tags to hang around their necks. Numbers replaced their identities. They were swiftly and abruptly transported to hastily constructed assembly centers that were transformed horse race tracks and fairgrounds. The Santa Anita racetrack was the new “home” for my dad’s family.
Their assigned horse stall stunk and contained manure and flies. These very private people lost their privacy, lived in overcrowded conditions, showered, ate and waited in lines for toilets together.
Soon my parents were uprooted again and taken to relocation centers surrounded with barbed wire and lined with guarded watchtowers. My dad said they were herded onto trains with covered windows, so they couldn’t see where they were going.
My dad’s family was taken to Topaz in Delta, Utah – ironically, known as the “Jewel of the Desert.” Their tarpaper and wood barrack was still under construction. His family wasn’t prepared for the cold desert winters, dry climate and constant wind that blew fine desert sand into their barrack.
My mom’s family was transported from Seattle to Minidoka, in south-central Idaho. Her camp was just as deplorable, but she preferred not to talk about the painful memories. She did tell me about the steady diet of beets and pork livers served over rice.
One day she became alarmed and visited the Camp’s infirmary, thinking she had internal bleeding after going to the bathroom. To her relief, it was the steady diet of red beets that caused the appearance of internal bleeding. I didn’t know why she bated beets until then.
To get out of camp, my dad obtained a work permit. He worked for a Utah County farmer, who employed him and a few others from Topaz. The farmer helped my father contact police when he was shot at by a truckload of locals screaming anti-Japanese sentiments. My dad never forgot the kind deeds of this gentleman, whose family suffered the wrath of community members for employing “Japs.”
My father was drafted, but failed the medical exam. He continued working and saved some money. He and his family returned to San Francisco after two years, but later they returned to Utah. He met my mother here and they made it their lifelong home. Their families bought and ran small Japanese restaurants in Salt Lake’s Japantown.
My parents loved the four seasons, the kindness of the people and the mountains here. Amazingly, their internment experience did not make them bitter. It taught them the value of freedom and education. They always told me to get a college degree so I could enjoy the opportunities denied them.
My dad warned that “freedom is a very fragile thing and you have to fight like hell to protect it, because during wartime hysteria, the Constitution can become just a piece of paper.” I said it would never happen again. He replied, “I didn’t think it would happen back then.”
He told me that history repeats itself, so it’s very important to become educated, because education eliminates ignorance and opens the door to opportunities.
My parents died about twenty years ago, but I still think of them every day. I decided before they died that I wanted to do something to honor their names and honor their remarkable experiences, commitment to college education and love. So, my husband Angus Edwards and I endowed a scholarship fund.
We used most of the proceeds from the sale of their modest Salt Lake home to start the Thomas H. and Chiyo H. Morita Endowment at the University of Utah. With the addition of generous donations from others, we have been able to award an annual scholarship to deserving students since 1999.
My parents found each other, as well as their adopted Utah home, amidst the horrors of the internment of Japanese Americans. Then, together, they unselfishly transformed those horrors into opportunities for others. I know no better definition of heroism.
Renee Morita received undergraduate and master’s degrees from the University of Utah and is a human resources professional living in Salt Lake County.
