Today marks the 73rd anniversary of the day the
United States was launched into World War II.
It was a surprise to all but those who were expecting an an act of war
against our country. The date itself
turned out to catch even the military at Pearl Harbor unaware, when Japanese
planes bombed the Naval base on Sunday morning, December 7. President Roosevelt was to give that day a
name: the Day of Infamy.
I will give an account of that time as it affected me and my
family, from this excerpt from my book, Rachel’s
Children: Surviving the Second World War (All Things That Matter Press,
2010). It is found on pages 9-10 of the
book.
“Children in American territories joined their counterparts
around the world, by spending the next few years in a climate of war and its
accompanying horrors. It was not a time
of glory, no matter how many patriotic speeches would be delivered, no matter
how many inspiring songs were sung and encouraging prayers offered. It was instead, a time of war.
“My own experience as an eight-year-old in Honolulu was
shared with classmates many times after my mother, brother and I returned to
the “mainland.” My father remained in
Hawaii where he was a pathologist with the Army Medical Corps. After the attack, he was to continue his
service as Commanding Officer of the North Sector Tripler General
Hospital. He remained at that post until
the end of the war, when he was assigned to the Army hospital at Ft. Hamilton
in Brooklyn, NY. By then I was in grade
7B at Public School 104, and wrote an essay duringthat time about my
experience of the December 7th day in Hawaii.”
From a poem in my book:
Black smoke on a Sunday morning,
planes appear from the sea
to interrupt the December weekend.
Sirens scream through streets
indiscriminate of homes and
buildings
where Japanese, Chinese, Hawaiian
and wahine neighbored. Church bells
call worshipers to services while
whine
of bullets and flash of light accent
the morning bright with hope
transformed
into fearful surprise.
Really powerful, Jean. I miss seeing you.
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