History Lives in Public Spaces

By Peggy Townsend

It was early June, and a hot, dry wind blew across the Owens Valley in California. To the west, the Sierra Nevada rose grey and jagged, like dragon’s scales. To the east, the desert stretched flat and forbidding, a land of bitterbrush, saltbrush and Mormon Tea.

I was at Manzanar National Historic Site where more than 10,000 people of Japanese descent had been imprisoned during the chaos and fear that followed the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

I’d seen the photos taken by Ansel Adams and Dorothea Lange: a family huddled near a wood stove during a harsh winter, a row of third-graders kneeling on the floor to do their schoolwork, a group of men and women looking stiff and uncomfortable as a tall, white man in a suit directed what was called the “camp choir.” But standing in the spot was different. Standing in the spot made it real.

I peered into the re-created barracks and imagined families living between bare wood walls with no privacy and little space. I stood by the stone-lined plot where inhabitants of Block 12 had once planted a garden and considered this small act of hope. I saw the pillared monument that marked the cemetery. More than 100 people died at the camp.

Then, I went to the Visitor Center and was gut-punched by history.

I knew my friend, Jeanne Wakatsuki Houston, had been imprisoned at Manzanar when she was seven. She, after all, had written the seminal book on that shameful chapter of our history, “Farewell to Manzanar.” But when I opened the flip book that listed every inhabitant of the camp, I felt suddenly as if I couldn’t breathe.

There was her name in smudged type, along with the names of her mother, grandmother and nine siblings: “Jean Toyoko Wakatsuki, F, 9/26/34.”

I pictured Jeanne as I knew her. Shining dark eyes, long black hair, high cheekbones and that wonderful smile. I thought of her as a small child being bused to this desolate place by a nation that had ignored its founding principles of freedom and equality because it was afraid of someone who looked like her. I remembered how she wrote that being here made her feel like a criminal and how her imprisonment shamed and humiliated her.

It was at that moment that I was hit with the realization that not only was our freedom and democracy more fragile than I imagined but letting fear erode our Constitutional rights was a dangerous act of cowardice .

I felt a deep wave of sadness for my friend, but also a determination that I needed to step up to make sure this kind of thing didn’t happen again. An idea which, apparently, scares the heck out of the current administration.

On May 20, Interior Secretary Doug Burgum delivered an order requiring the park service to post signs at all national parks and monuments that, among other things, encourages visitors to report content that “inappropriately disparage Americans past and living.”

It seems as if the administration is afraid that if we understand our past, we will become what it fears most, which is a country of independent thinkers who question authority and don’t fall for fear-mongering tactics designed to keep us in line. So, it took aim at the storytellers, the preservers of our past. In this case, the National Park Service.

Theresa Pierno, president and CEO of the National Parks Conservation Association, said she believes these required signs “could have a chilling effect on rangers just trying to do their jobs and tell the truth. When the Trump administration tries to rewrite American history, it is the American people who will suffer most.”

I believe Pierno is right.

I’ve toured historic parks like Gettysburg and Alcatraz. I’ve visited places like Pu’uhonua o Honaunau National Historic Park and Ford’s Theatre National Historic Site. Each time I’ve left with a deeper understanding of our nation’s struggles and triumphs and what brought us to the place where we now are. Sometimes I’ve felt good about the progress we’ve made, even though there is still much to be done. Sometimes, I’ve felt a renewed responsibility to stand against tyranny, discrimination and hate.

To me, there’s just something about standing in a place where history happened that stamps the lessons of our past on our souls and changes us—and that’s a good thing. Orders that might silence our National Park Service goes against the very foundation of our country: the right to speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

If you agree about the dangers set within Secretary Burgum’s order, you may write your Representative or Senator or make a contribution to organizations like the National Parks Conservation Association. And, the next time you meet a park ranger, you also might thank them for continuing to tell the truth.

Peggy Townsend is a former award-winning journalist and the author of the novel, “The Beautiful and the Wild,” and the upcoming, “The Botanist’s Assistant.”

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