Giant

Mom loved all her children equally, but her expectations for each of us were as distinct as we were. For Paul, my older brother, he was the family’s pride and joy—handsome, athletic, the ideal representative of our family. Mom could always count on him to shine.

I was her little princess, indulged to no end. But my relationship with Mom was complicated. You see, she spent her teenage years in a U.S. concentration camp during World War II. For nearly four years, she and her family endured imprisonment in the desert of Arizona simply for being Japanese-American. Those years shaped her deeply. As an adult, material wealth and social status became much too important to her. It’s as if I was destined to disappoint her from the day I was born.

And then there was John, her miracle child. Born premature just a year after me, John was showered with a cautious, almost self-conscious love. For him, Mom’s expectations weren’t about achievement but about protection. She wanted us all to look out for him, as if he couldn’t take care of himself.

John and I were close—not just in age but in the bond we shared. We literally grew up together, sharing a bedroom until we were 9 and 10 years old. To this day, he visits me in my dreams. Sometimes he’s silently waiting at the top of the stairs to tell me everything’s okay. Other times, we’re off on wild adventures, hiding from bad guys or monsters. It’s been eight years since he’s been gone, but I still wake up some mornings in disbelief, feeling the loss all over again.

John was a little person, a dwarf. He was born with achondroplasia, a form of dwarfism that made his body disproportionate and small. This caused him life challenges of course, but as a little kid he also had a pronounced lisp that made him hard to understand. But I always knew what he was saying—I was his interpreter, and in my mind, his protector.

Kids can be cruel, and our cousins were no exceptions.

We’d be playing together, and John would suddenly exclaim, “C’mon gath, leth go outhide and play hine n theek.” The other kids would stop and laugh.

“What’d ya say John John…. Panna panna teek teek… haha… ”

I’d feel their meanness more than John did. “He said, ‘Let’s go outside and play hide and seek, you stupid heads!’” I’d yell, fuming for days. But John? He didn’t seem to care. If they were laughing, he was laughing too. John just loved people. He wanted to be part of everything.

That summer before he started school, we practiced walking to Windsor Hills Elementary together. I taught him all the songs I knew—If You’re Happy and You Know It, Old MacDonald. But his favorite was the Hokey Pokey. “Do puther right ‘and in, do puther right ‘and out…” he’d sing on repeat, lisp and all, his face lighting up with pure joy.

We were ready for school. Or so I thought.

Then, during a shopping trip to Fedco, when I was rummaging through the boys’ clothes looking for clothes for John, Mom dropped the news.

“Oh honey, John doesn’t need new clothes. Where he’s going to school, he’ll be wearing a uniform,” she said.

“A uniform? What do you mean? He’s going to school with me,” I said, confused.

Mom smiled gently. “Oh no, sweetheart. John’s going to a special school.”

“What? No! He’s coming with me!” I shouted.

Mom tried to explain, but I was furious. “I’ll take care of him, Mom! He doesn’t need a special school!”

John, standing beside us, nodded and smiled, unaware of the argument unfolding.

“John, don’t you want to go to school with me?” I demanded of him, pointing at myself.

He shook his head enthusiastically, “Yeah!”.

Just as Mom was trying to calm me down from my tantrum, some kids walked by and stopped right in front of John, pointing at him.  

“Look at that, look at that midget… haha… look at his big head!” Laughing and pointing, which happened a lot.

Whenever this happened, Mom would grab John and lead him away from the kids, saying things under her breath like, “Oh gosh dear, don’t listen to them, don’t pay any attention to them, sweetie,” in a pained often shaky voice.

I always wished she would stand up to those kids and whack them with her purse.  I hated the way she babied him. I’d yell at the brats, “Shut up, Stupid!” Then Mom would yell at me to not talk that way, and I’d yell back at her, “Well, they are stupid!”

So as a family, we all visited John’s new school for an open house. James McBride Special Education Center. When we arrived, we were greeted by a friendly welcome team, who fawned over John and whisked him off to introduce him to the other kids.

The moment we walked into the auditorium, I froze. I was not prepared. I was 6-years-old and never encountered a child with a serious physical or intellectual disability, let alone a whole auditorium. Kids with metal claws for hands, some with no arms or legs. Kids in wheelchairs. Some with Down Syndrome or Cerebral Palsy.

It was just like Mom to not tell me anything about the school. She had a difficult time talking about anything “unpleasant”.

“This is so weird, Mom. Why are we here? John doesn’t belong here!” I blurted out, far too loud.

The adults glared, but I didn’t care. I wanted to take John and run.

After what felt like hours, I finally saw him. Across the room, John came skipping in, waving a yellow happy face flag. His smile was the biggest I’d ever seen.

John started school at McBride, and of course, he thrived. He became the star student, the friend to everyone. His smile lit up the room, his two dimples a signature of his joy.

At seven years old, a KCAL reporter asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Without hesitation, he answered, “When I grow up, I thess want to help everyone and make people feel happy.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

As an adult, John became an actor, working as a stand-in for children in films and television. He also became a pillar of the Japanese-American community, organizing cultural events and raising awareness.

John may have been small, but he lived a life bigger than most. He was a giant of a man—my brother, my partner in adventure, my forever dream companion.

(This is only the beginning of John’s story…)