Eng. 311(Autobiographical Writing) Photo Essay
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I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor yesterday, elbow deep in dust and memories.

All of the old family photos are kept in the bottom drawer of a massive wooden hope chest that sits against the far wall of the kitchen, half hidden by a table and chairs. Mom got the chest from her father on her sixteenth birthday, and it shows every year in its scarred and scratched finish. It doesn’t help that the bird cage currently sits on the top of its stained surface, adding the undignified presence of stray feathers to its overall appearance. I found it amazing that this battered old thing held such treasures.

After moving the chairs surrounding the kitchen table, I had enough room to sit on the floor and rummage around in the photos drawer. I found pictures of babies, dad working on the house or his motorcycle, mom laughing and mugging at the camera, as well as innumerable images of other people, some I could recognize but for the most part were unknown to me. I had set a few pictures I rather liked on the side, mostly of my brother and me looking fat-cheeked and mischievous, when I had the bright idea of digging in the very back of the drawer. That was when I found it.

Underneath several ancient and cracking photo albums I found a five by seven black and white photo printed on very heavy stock. It had been treated carelessly as the right upper of the photo was heavily creased, and the upper left side and the lower right corner had little pieces missing, as if at one point someone had taken scissors to it. A purplish stain is prominent near the left of photo’s image of a little boy standing next to a young man. The back of the photo revealed their identities in the form of blue ink and graceful writing:

Maruo Kadota
Hayao ” born
Feb 16, 1913
Oct 24, 1915

Hayao. This child is my grandfather. I stared at the image of a little boy dressed in a sailor outfit, wearing shiny buttoned boots and standing solemn faced on a wooden chair. He’s leaning against his father, a well dressed man in a beautiful suit, a slight smile, and a closed hand held rigidly at his side. I held the picture up, examining my grandfather’s face in minute detail, searching for family resemblance. It may seem odd that this picture held such fascination, but to me it was worth much more than a cursory glance. This was the first time I ever saw my grandfather’s face.

Dad never talked about his father much. This always struck me as somewhat odd, because dad rarely misses an opportunity to tell stories. He marveled a bit when I showed him the old photo, yet balked and set the picture on the side when I asked for details of his father. “You don’t want to hear about my dad.” Luckily, mom overheard us and launched into her memories about my grandfather. It certainly helped that she and my father had known each other as children, and she had very clear memories of his parents. Apparently his father had been an engineer, and had worked on cryogenics and the formation of rocket fuel. He was moderately successful, but always wanted more. Mom called him “Mister America” to describe his obsession for American ideals such as the big house and fancy car. He also forced dad into the cub scouts and later into college to fit the image of an American family.

After standing silently through most of this, dad looked at the photo and finally began to talk. He told me that when his father was born, the midwife did not record his birth because no one thought he would live. When it became apparent that he would not die, they finally wrote out his birth certificate. Because of this delay, his birthday was listed several weeks after he was actually born. He began life as a nameless baby.

Since he was a sickly child as well as the firstborn son, he was pampered by his parents. In Japanese culture along with so many others, the first son born to a family is the most important child they can have. Hayao’s parents treated him with kid gloves, and as a result he grew up spoiled.

He did end up working as an engineer, but his place was not prominent in the hierarchy of his job. He wanted more, and went to night school and strove hard to achieve promotion. For all of his efforts, he did not move very high on the ladder, but was certainly not a failure. But regardless of what he made on the job, the most important thing to him was to appear successful, and he garnered much debt to keep that big house and fancy car. He also had a terrible temper, and his shouting could be heard around the neighborhood. Apparently when things did not go his way, his images and ideals went out the window, at least in the presence of his family. And for all he maintained an American public face, he kept his cultural origins–he still ate onigiri with tsukemono, saw the fish man every week and cursed in Nihongo. He was still Japanese at home.

After processing this deluge of information, I stared at the photo for awhile and thought about what mom and dad told me. Maybe he became “Mister America” because it was important to demonstrate how loyal you were to America, especially after the war with Japan. This theory has backing, especially after dad told me that during WWII his father was placed in an internment camp and yet still tried to enlist, but was rejected because of his flat feet and poor eyesight. My grandfather was also influenced by the history of his own family. His father had left Japan to escape his parent’s rule over his life, came to Hawaii to cut sugarcane, then moved to San Francisco and opened a laundry. It is evident that he dressed himself and his son in Western clothes, at least for photo shoots. I don’t know if they ever wore traditional dress after leaving Japan. And if they did, they would only stand out, when they were trying to fit in.

There is a surprising amount of power in old photographs. Not only in the history they convey to the viewer, but the potential emotional impact they contain. How it managed to break my dad’s reticence and open up, at least a little, about his own father. This photo finally allowed me to know the grandfather on my father’s side, when he had remained a mystery to me before; letting me see a face, when all I knew was a name. I think of the expression of the little boy, quiet and serious and untouched by the knowledge of the life ahead of him. I want to reach through the photo to touch his hand and at least tell him who I am. It’s me ojiisan, your granddaughter. We meet at last.