At the age of 6, I discovered a jar of brightly colored shells under my
grandmother's kitchen sink. When I inquired where they had come from,
she did not answer. Instead, she told me in broken English, "Ask your
mother. " My mother's response to the same question was, "Oh, I made
them in camp. " "Was it fun?" I asked enthusiastically. "Not really,"
she replied. Her answer puzzled me. The shells were beautiful, and camp,
as far as I knew, was a fun place where children roasted marshmallows
and sang songs around the fire. Yet my mother's reaction did not seem
happy. I was perplexed by this brief exchange, but I also sensed I
should not ask more questions. As time went by, "camp" remained a vague,
cryptic reference to some time in the past, the past of my parents,
their friends, my grand- parents, and my relatives. We never directly
discussed it. It was not until high school that I began to understand
the significance of the word, that camp referred to a World War II
American concentration camp, not a summer camp. Much later I learned
that the silence surrounding discus- sions about this traumatic period
of my parents' lives was a phenomenon characteristic not only of my
family but also of most other Japanese American families after the war.