I only knew him until I was five years old. Most of the memories I have include him watching his favorite talent show on TV on the faded pink sofa, his favorite cup, and the one that I can never seem to forget, the American flag being placed upon his casket as the men and women in uniform approached my family and I to give their condolences. I was too young to fully understand why there were people saluting, and it wasn’t until I was older that I realized my grandpa had survived one of America’s saddest moments in history: the Japanese Internment Camps.

My grandfather was born in Los Angeles into an immigrant family that had left Japan to find better opportunities in the United States. However, never did they expect the tragic events that happened from 1942 to 1945 to unfold. One fateful day in February of 1942, my grandpa, his parents, and his brother, along with the other hundreds of thousands of Japanese people living in the United States, were deported to the internment camps. My grandpa and his brother were separated from the rest of the family and taken to a camp in Arkansas. There they lived in confinement, isolated from the rest of the country and the world.

Eventually they were released, with nothing left but money for transportation out of the camp. They had lost everything: the rest of their family, their property, and three years of their life that they could never gain back. Having nothing to lose, they traveled from Arkansas to Chicago, Illinois, searching for a way to start over. My grandpa ended up becoming a mechanic for the U.S. military, while my great uncle became a military translator for the Korean War. There in Chicago working for the military, they finally had started to regain their footing and were on the path to reclaim all that they had lost. After some time, they both moved back to Southern California and began to start the life full of freedom that they envisioned for themselves.

When I look back on my grandpa’s time in the Internment Camps, it helps me realize what type of person he was. To have endured three years in that small camp, he was patient and focused. To have still served for the country that put him in that confinement and injustice, he was loyal and brave. To have gone through that experience and to have made a new life for himself and his future family, he was a hero and a big inspiration. The experience that he endured has taught me to be proud of my Japanese heritage and to stand up for myself and my culture. He sacrificed so much to be able to carry on his Japanese tradition, and it is something that I keep close to my heart. Although I would give up everything to get the chance to talk to and see him again, it brings me comfort knowing that I am always connected to him through the representation of my culture and the love of my family.