Ojīchan and Mr. Parker

Mom’s father, my Ojīchan, was an ambitious, hardworking, and generous man who ran the local produce store in the once-thriving Japantown area of Salinas. The store, bearing the family name, Fujino Co., catered to the Japanese community and was always bustling with activity. Fresh produce and dairy products arrived daily from nearby farms, and the store doubled as a co-op for local sellers offering specialty goods. Shelves brimmed with jars of ume-boshi (pickled sour plums), vibrant tsukemono (pickled vegetables), packages of smoked seafood, dried fish flakes, homemade jams, marmalades, and neatly stacked boxes of manju (traditional sweet buns). Fresh tofu from the Iwamoto Tofu shop just a few blocks away was a customer favorite, often selling out by noon.

Ojīchan took immense pride in his store, knowing it was more than a business—it was a lifeline for his community. His days began at sunrise, unloading crates of lettuce, napa cabbage, daikon, sweet potatoes, strawberries, and melons from local farms. He worked tirelessly, tending to every detail: sweeping floors, spraying down produce, checking refrigeration, taking inventory, and balancing the till, often staying until late in the evening. This relentless routine defined his life for 18 years as the store owner, following a decade of service as the store manager before the previous owner retired.

Mom’s elder sisters, Grace and Laurie, often helped at the store after school. Mom would visit them and join in, sweeping floors, organizing displays, and occasionally learning to take inventory or operate the cashier. These moments made her feel grown-up, and by the time she officially started working at 15, she was ready. With her natural ambition and understanding of business, she didn’t just maintain the store—she transformed it. By 16, she was negotiating better prices with farmers, expanding the product range, and organizing Saturday cooking demonstrations to attract new customers. Her entrepreneurial spirit, combined with her talent for singing and dancing at community events, made her a standout in the family.

For decades, the store was a symbol of Ojīchan’s meticulous care and discipline, a reflection of the values he instilled at home. He and Obāchan raised ten children under one roof—a feat that required every ounce of love, patience, and resilience they could muster. But the family’s unity was shaken when their eldest son, Happo, died at 18 in what was initially believed to be a tragic football accident.

The truth was far more harrowing. Happo’s death was not a result of a single misstep on the field but of prolonged abuse. Bruises on his face and ribs, revealed through an autopsy, painted a picture of relentless torment. As a charismatic and popular young Japanese-American, Happo had become a target for classmates influenced by the bigotry of their parents. Taunts of "slant-eye Jap" and "nip" echoed in the hallways and locker rooms, and his refusal to retaliate—rooted in his graceful humility—was misinterpreted as arrogance.

Happo’s death devastated Ojīchan, leaving a wound that time could not heal. Yet, in his grief, he found a resolve to keep moving forward for the sake of his family. Tragically, this loss was only the first of many challenges they would face.

When the government ordered the family’s evacuation during World War II, Ojīchan, like many others, clung to the belief that it was a temporary precaution. He prepared to leave, trusting that they would soon return to their home and store. But he needed someone to safeguard them in his absence, and his thoughts turned to Mr. Parker, their neighbor.

Mr. Parker was an unlikely ally. A reserved man, he had shown a quiet respect for Ojīchan ever since he attended Happo’s memorial service a decade earlier. At the service, Mr. Parker had stood out—not only because he was one of the few non-Japanese attendees but because of his simple yet profound gesture: bowing his head to Ojīchan before leaving the ceremony early. Over the years, this silent acknowledgment grew into a wordless rapport. Whenever they crossed paths, Mr. Parker would tip his hat, a subtle act of kindness that resonated deeply with Ojīchan.

Mrs. Parker, however, harbored no such goodwill. Deeply concerned with maintaining her standing in their community, she disapproved of her husband’s interactions with their Japanese neighbors. Her cold demeanor and pointed avoidance of the Fujino family only reinforced the barriers between them.

When Ojīchan approached Mr. Parker for help, he brought Mom along, knowing her presence might lend weight to the request. As they stepped onto the Parker porch, Mr. Parker emerged, closing the door behind him. Mom hesitated, sensing the tension, but Ojīchan pressed forward. Extending a set of keys with trembling hands, he spoke with quiet urgency: “We have no choice but to do as the government asks. If you could, please watch over my home and my store.”

A heavy silence fell. Mom saw the conflict in Mr. Parker’s eyes as he wrestled with his conscience. Through the curtained window, she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Parker’s furious face, her arms crossed in a stance of unyielding disapproval.

Summoning her courage, Mom intervened. “Mr. Parker,” she said, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat, “we’re not asking for much. You can have everything in the store. Just protect our home. Please... don’t let them take this from us.”

After a long pause, Mr. Parker nodded. Taking the keys, he offered a reassuring smile. “Of course, we’ll watch over your home,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. It was a promise—to the Fujino family and to himself—that he would do the right thing.

As they walked away, the sound of Mrs. Parker’s angry protests seeped through the closed door. But Ojīchan and Mom held on to the fragile hope that, even in the face of prejudice, kindness could prevail.