‘Beyond Heart Mountain’ book and movie are for sale

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Buy Beyond Heart Mountain memoir published by Winter Goose Publishing. It is available as a printed book and ebook. Signed copies can be purchased from the author. The book was released February 27th. That week coincided with the 80th anniversary of President Roosevelt’s signing of Executive Order 9066 that sent 120,000 Japanese to 10 war relocation camps, that included Heart Mountain in northwest Wyoming.

Beyond Heart Mountain book and related are now for sale.

Remember to download the Beyond Heart Mountain promotional information booklet.

Boulder Community Media (BCM) produced a documentary that aired on PBS that aired in December 2021. The Nishigawa Neighborhood is a coffee table book that will soon be released.

During World War II, Cheyenne native Alan O’Hashi’s family avoided life in internment camps such as Heart Mountain.

As a Baby Boomer, Alan documents the overt and quiet racism pervasive in Wyoming and throughout the United States during and following World War II. He relates his experiences to current violence towards Asians and the issue of civility within society.

The backdrop to Alan’s account is the history of the once vibrant Japanese community in the 400 and 500 blocks of West 17th Street in the downtown area of my hometown, Cheyenne, Wyoming.

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“My grandmother and grandfather Ohashi and their large family lived in worked in that neighborhood where I spent quite a bit of time between elementary and high school. Having been away from Cheyenne for many years, I stashed those two blocks in the back of my mind until I learned that two classmates of mine were planning to build a housing development at 509 W. 17th St. The biggest obstacle was obtaining permission to tear down an old building. It was the last structure in the Japanese neighborhood. It was the site of a rooming house operated by Mrs. Yoshio Shuto.”

Buy the Beyond Heart Mountain movie

Buy the Beyond Heart Mountain DVD is mainly about the West 17th Street Japanese community history and a general overview of Executive Order 9066 that President Franklin Roosevelt signed that relocated 120,000 Japanese into 10 internment camps, including Heart Mountain in northwest Wyoming.

I interviewed four childhood friends for the documentary. Robert Walters formerly worked at the City Cafe. He still lives in Cheyenne, where he practices law.

Terie Miyamoto and her family-owned Baker’s Bar. It was the only racially-integrated bar in Cheyenne at the time. She now lives in the Denver Metro area.

Brian Matsuyama now lives in Seattle, Washington. He resided in Cheyenne during his childhood. His family owned the California Fish Market. Carol Lou Kishiyama-Hough is in Cheyenne. She and her family purchased the Fish Market from the Matsuyamas.

Buy the Nishigawa Neighborhood coffee table book. It’s a 11 x 8.5-inch hard-cover coffee table book with over 100 color, black and white images of the neighborhood. Signed copies are available from thanks author.

Nishigawa Neighborhood coming soon

Mrs. Shuto’s tenants were mainly Japanese residents who made their way to Cheyenne. She later opened the City Cafe across the street which became a gathering place for the Japanese in town.

My grandmother was a cook at the City Cafe. Next door, my grandfather was the third owner of a pool hall.

Whenever we went out to eat, the restaurant of choice was the City Cafe. It was a gathering place for the Japanese in Cheyenne. My friends enlisted me to do a cultural and historical survey of the Japanese residents who lived and worked there from the 1920s through the 1970s.

Buy a Beyond Heart Mountain cap are also available. They are low-profile baseball-style hats. Select Beyond Heart Mountain from the dropdown menu.

The logo is an adapted version of the Wyoming state flag. One size fits most.

Analog Meets Digital: A wind-up watch, an Apple Watch, and the family stories in between.

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It’s graduation and wedding season. One of my second cousins sent me an invitation. Instead of stuffing cash into a card, I sent one of my books and, as part of my ongoing Swedish death cleaning project, one of my mother’s watercolor paintings.

Maybe it’s generational, but giving money seems impersonal.

Another kid I know made it from 8th grade to high school. I’m headed out of town and couldn’t make it to his promotion exercise.

My parents presented me with a wristwatch for barely passing algebra class. I searched through a box and gave him that wind-up watch and my first Apple Watch.

Analog meets digital.

Another second cousin is getting married.

I’m sorting through boxes of family treasures that once belonged to my grandparents. Every item comes with a story attached. I remember the story, take a picture, and cut ties with the object.

The good news is that younger family members are emerging as willing custodians. Most of my inherited “treasures” have been sitting in my office and storage area long enough to qualify for residency.

It’s time for a new lease.

As I sort through the past, I think about my own high school graduation.

My parents were practical people. They sent me off to Hastings College with a set of molded steel American Tourister luggage and a Smith Corona electric typewriter.

Not a stereo.

Not a car.

Not a television.

Looking back, I suspect they wanted to make sure I had every tool necessary to launch successfully into adulthood.

In reality, they kicked me out of the nest. “Don’t come back, unless it’s for your baseball cards and other assorted childhood stuff.”

The typewriter turned out to be one of the best gifts I ever received.

I learned to touch type in summer school before I took off for college, a prison sentence.

“Can type, ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country,’ 100 words per minute. Willing to learn other phrases.”

For those under the age of 50, generations developed repetitive stress injuries typing that patriotic declaration over and over.

At the time, I thought typing was another boring skill adults insisted was important.

Turns out it paid the bills.

Over the years, typing helped me write newspaper stories, magazine articles, grant applications, reports, blogs, books, and enough emails to fill several libraries.

I still make money because I can sit down and move my fingers faster than my brain can talk me out of an idea.

The luggage disappeared somewhere along the journey. The hinges on the Pullman started to go from packing it too full over the years. I think I jettisoned the luggage in Lander. Suitcase wheels came out around that time.

The typewriter is long gone, too, replaced by computers that have more processing power than NASA had when it sent astronauts to the moon.

One thing leads to another.

I’ve collected typewriters since I watched “California Typewriters” with Tom Hanks. I’m selling those at the Wyoming Writers Conference.

As I pass family heirlooms to younger relatives, I wonder which items will matter 50 years from now.

Will it be the painting?

The books?

The family photographs?

Or will it be some random object that’s unremarkable today?

That’s the secret.

The gifts that change our lives aren’t always the exciting ones. They’re the molded steel luggage that says, “Go see the world.”

They’re the typewriter that says, “Learn this. You’ll thank us later.”

Mom and Dad were right.

I hate when that happens.

From Taboo to Trendy: What Happened to Japanese Culture?

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I wandered through the Rocket Fizz candy store today, looking for a Goo Goo Cluster. On the way out, a shelf packed with Japanese candy sidetracked me.

Matcha Kit Kats.

Pocky.

Gummies in flavors I can’t pronounce.

A few days ago, I read about a Japanese convenience store opening in Longmont, Kawaii Conbini.

Part of me smiles.

Another part of me wonders, “What happened?”

I’m Japanese American. Growing up, my Nisei parents did not celebrate being Japanese. They tried not to attract attention to it.

America had spent years teaching them that being visibly Japanese was dangerous.

My parents belonged to the generation shaped by World War II and its aftermath. The U.S. government code led Americans to believe that the Japanese should be viewed with suspicion.

More than 125,000 people of Japanese ancestry were forced from their homes and sent to incarceration camps.

The lesson my parents learned was straightforward.

Speak English.

Don’t make waves.

Don’t draw attention to yourself.

Don’t give anyone a reason to see you as different.

The result was cultural amnesia.

The Japanese language disappeared from my house. Traditional customs faded. My parents encouraged me to become as American as possible.

I remember a time when Japanese food was considered strange. Sushi was exotic. Anime was niche. Asian products occupied a tiny corner of specialty stores. I packed my lunch when I was in junior high school. I never included maki sushi or teriyaki chicken, two of my faves to this day.

Today, the situation is the reverse.

Sushi is sold in supermarkets. Anime fills Comic-Con events. Japanese video games dominate popular culture. Japanese cars became symbols of quality and reliability.

People seek out Japanese knives, Japanese whiskey, Japanese electronics, and Japanese candy.

What changed?

The generations that fought World War II are largely gone. For younger Americans, Japan is not associated with wartime enemies. It is associated with technology, design, food, entertainment, and innovation.

Another factor is globalization.

When I was growing up, culture moved slowly. Today, a teenager in Wyoming can watch the same anime series as a teenager in Tokyo. A TikTok video featuring a Japanese snack can reach millions of viewers overnight. The world has become smaller.

That’s how I learned about Goo Goo Clusters. When I was in Nashville for a cohousing conference, I tried the caramel-peanut-chocolate candy for the first time. Prior to 1912, candy consisted of one ingredient. A Goo Goo Cluster was the first to combine a variety of ingredients.

America has changed, too.

The old expectation was assimilation. The goal was to become indistinguishable from everyone else.

Today, there’s a greater appreciation for cultural diversity. Americans are curious about differences rather than fearful of them. Food, music, language, and traditions once viewed as foreign are now opportunities to learn something new.

That doesn’t mean prejudice has disappeared. It hasn’t.

There’s been a shift, and the irony is impossible to ignore.

My parents grew up in a world where being Japanese made you a target. Today, consumers seek out Japanese products.

The candy aisle at Rocket Fizz may seem trivial, but standing there, I couldn’t help thinking about the cultural journey.

Maybe that’s progress, or a reminder that cultures survive when people are pressured to set them aside and wait for a new generation to rediscover them.

As I looked at those shelves of Japanese candy, I thought about my parents.

They spent much of their lives trying not to stand out.

I wish they could have seen a day when the once suspicious stood in line because they wanted a taste of what being Japanese had to offer.

Rocket Fizz did carry Goo Goo Clusters, but it was an expensive gift pack. I’ll wait to get one the next time I’m near a Cracker Barrel.

The Papa Burger and Princess Leia

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Sorting through old myths, one cheeseburger at a time.

There’s a Swedish television show where three cheerful Scandinavians arrive at cluttered American homes and gently remind people of an inconvenient truth.

When you die, your relatives will either fight over your stuff, donate it to Goodwill, or haul it to the dumpster.

The Swedes call it “death cleaning.” Americans call it “my garage.”

I’ve been doing my own version lately. A few boxes at a time. Not because I’m planning an imminent departure from the planet, but because I’ve reached the age where I open a box and wonder why I thought it was important enough to move across three states.

This week’s excavation uncovered two sets of toys I once used as visual aids during gender-bias trainings when I worked in domestic violence prevention.

Leia and Luke over the years.

I’d pull out old Star Wars figures and Barbie dolls to make the point that popular culture starts socializing children early. Boys become dominant. Girls become decorative. By adulthood, everybody needs therapy.

The original 1977 Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker figures looked like underfed exchange students. Skinny. Plain. Awkward.

Over the years, both evolved into action heroes with toned abs and revealing wardrobes.

Ken especially transformed from suburban boyfriend into a plastic MMA fighter. Barbie’s proportions stayed pretty much the same, emphasizing that thin is better than otherwise.

Ken has bulked up over the years.

The toys worked well in trainings because every participant understood the point. You could physically see cultural expectations hardening in molded plastic.

Eventually, my teaching props became clutter.

So I sold the Star Wars collection to a collector in Berthoud. After an acupuncture appointment in Longmont, I drove over to make the delivery. One more box removed from the archive of my former lives.

Of course, no trip to Berthoud is complete without stopping at the A&W Restaurant.

The drive-in feels like a surviving artifact from “American Graffiti.” I pulled in, pushed a button and ordered through a two-way speaker, The curbhop brought out a tray that hooked onto the partially rolled-down car window.

Baby Boomers somehow managed to eat entire meals in their cars without permanently staining the upholstery, although now that I think about it, my old Ford Falcon may have always smelled faintly of french fries.

I ordered the Double Papa Burger combo: fries and a large root beer float, another stop on my ongoing cheeseburger field research project.

Double Papa Burger Combo

The Papa Burger today is wetter than I remember. Not worse. Just overcommitted to condiments.

The burger arrived dripping special sauce and sliced tomato fluid. I inhaled the monster with no evidence of chewing, which may explain indulgent health trends.

Compared to the other burgers I’ve sampled over the past few months, the Papa Burger holds up well.

There’s no brioche bun or truffle aioli. It’s a big, messy American cheeseburger served at a drive-in where you’re expected to eat like napkins are optional.

The afternoon felt connected in a strange way.

I sold toys that represented old ideas about masculinity and femininity. Then I celebrated by eating a burger large enough to challenge modern cardiology.

America remains a land of contradictions.

The trip would have been perfect if the kids meal had come with a Mandalorian toy.

Of course, that’s the domain of Burger King.