Kazuo Mori

No

After Soldan Blewett, I attended Mizzou briefly and then transferred to UC Berkeley (Go Bears!) where I received my BA, plus my teaching credential. After teaching for two years I joined the Peace Corps in 1962 and was sent to Sarawak (now a part of Malaysia) in northern Borneo. This country was famous for having had a rajah as ruler before the turn of the 20th century, and the effort he and the British put into ending the head-hunting engaged by the indigenous people in the interior, the Ibans. They told the natives it was not "civilized" to take heads, nor was it very nice. They said to them there may be circumstance when it would be proper to do so: in which case they would send a red feather upriver instead of the usual white feather.

So, as they entered the 20th century, the Ibans were taking fewer heads than they had in the 19th century. Then along came WWII, when the Japanese invaded most of Southeast Asia, including northern Borneo. The feather that the Ibans received from the British changed from white to red, with the instructions that the heads of the Japanese were open game. They did so with some effectiveness, as they pursued the retreating Japanese during the latter part of the war, with Americans and Australians also in pursuit.

In 1962, I arrived as an American Peace Corps teacher, some 17 years after the end of WWII. I was assigned to remote seacoast village far from the interior. I arrived in Sarawak in August and I began teaching in an elementary school in September. At the end of the year, I was asked to transfer to the secondary school in town. There, one of my favorite students invited me to visit his longhouse in the interior which sounded very inviting since it would be a considerable contrast from the flat coastal sea village where I was at the mouth of a silty, brown river which flowed into the South China Sea. The interior was where the river originated, where it was swift-flowing and clear, where the land was mountainous, not just hilly.

We started our journey one Saturday morning, from the pier close to the river's mouth in a fairly large, Chinese trading vessel--it brought foodstuffs upriver. When this vessel could no longer navigate the river because it was drew too much water, we transferred to a launch which had no cabin of any sort, but was still sizable and able to transport goods in the gunwale. After going further upriver, we transferred to the last vessel for the trek: a long, canoe-like vessel with an engine in the rear, able to navigate through some swift rapids.

We finally arrived at his longhouse, which appeared appeared large to me. It was built on log stilts, high above the river where we alighted from the longboat. The ground from the river to the longhouse ladder was muddy and I did my best not to slip on the notched log, the ladder. At top of the ladder was a large platform area, a veranda and beyond it was the living quarter, a large, continuous series of living quarters, divided by a door which indicated each family dwelling. I asked how many doors his longhouse had and he modestly said it was only mid-sized, with 50 doors. His father was the longhouse chief.

He led me into his living quarters, which was the first door on the left, and had me sit and relax from the day's journey. When his father arrived, a virtual Tarzan with loin cloth, a rotan (we call it rattan when it's dry) rope on his right waist and a parang (like a machete) on his left, he asked his son why he had been so inhospitable as to not serve a weary guest some tea. He hopped to the task and soon we were all sitting on the mat, relaxing, sipping hot tea, and conversing.

He pointed to the top of his longhouse, and there, in the corner, I saw four skulls hanging from the ceiling. He pointed to them and said, "Japanese." I nodded, since I knew where they came from, from the end of WWII, when the British sent red feathers upriver instead...all of a sudden he was pointing at me and saying "You, Japanese, Japanese!" At the same time, he began to reach for his parang which was on the mat next to him and beginning to unleash from its halter.

I yelled, "No! I'm American! American, Japanese-AMERICAN!!!"

When he saw the panic in my face, he broke into a smile and said he was just joking, as he pushed his parang back into its scabbard. (Some joke...)

Never have I been so elated at being a Japanese-AMERICAN.

This is a story about the principal of our neighbor school, William Clark School, where a number of us attended, Violet, Phyllis, Marlene, etc.

I had a wonderful four years at Soldan Blewett but this story is about Mr. See, our principal at William Clark Elementary School, and still remember a wonderful life lesson he provided me.

I was playing wall-ball at lunch when the ball went out of bounds. I made the "correct" claim (!) that it went out of bounds, but my opponent disagreed. We argued the point vehemently--as kids will do--when finally in frustration, he yelled "I'm right....you Dirty Jap!" I was stunned and after a moment, began to cry. The playground teacher on supervision came over to find out what the problem was. After being told what had happened she directed us to the principal's office. We trudged our way to the second floor, where his office was located, in the middle of the the vast halls of Wm Clark Elem School (it was almost as big as Soldan Blewett--or seemed like it). My friend was probably thinking "I'm sure sorry I said that...I didn't mean to make Kaz cry." And I was thinking, "Why did I cry...I got us in trouble!"

When we finally got to Mr. See's office, his door was closed so we knocked on his door. "Come in!" boomed his voice. We entered to find him facing his window, his back to us. He turned around and peered at both of us through his spectacles, at my friend who was staring at his shoes and at me, still hiccuping through my sobs. "Well, boys, what's the problem?" Neither of us wanted to say anything. "Come, come, boys, why were you sent up to my office....were you fighting?"

"No," my friend replied, and I joined "No, no."

"Then, why are you here?!" Mr. See asked.

Finally, I said, "We were playing ball, and he called me 'a Dirty Jap." And upon blurting that out, I began quietly sobbing again.

I remember Mr. See squinting his eyes upon hearing this, and turned his gaze at my companion. He approached him and after a moment (seemed like hours), he asked quietly, "Did you say that to him?"

Mustering his strength, he quietly said, "Yes....I did..."

Mr. See asked again, "You said that...'You Dirty Jap?'"

"Yes, I."

Mr. See walked back toward the window, then twirled about and exploded in an almost uncontrolled rage, "I don't want anyone saying something like that in my school...ever! Do you hear me?! No one! Ever!!

Now it was my friend's turn to cry. He began to sob quietly and said between sobs, "I'll never say it again...never."

With that, we were dismissed from Mr. See's office and we began our walk downstairs to the playground. My friend kept sobbing, and I was getting over my sobs, feeling pretty good after experiencing Mr. See's support. I put my arm around his shoulder, by now I had stopped sobbing, and comforted him, through his sobs, "Hey, buddy, it's going to be OK. It's OK..."

What was great about Mr. See was his dramatic show of moral outrage at the prejudicial remark. It helped to give me confidence about being different--that I should be treated like anyone else. That prejudice had no place in his school, or anywhere in our society.

The postscript to this story is that I became a high school principal and subconsciously, Mr. See was right there with me



Went briefly to Mizzou after graduating from Soldan-Blewett, and from there matriculated at UC Berkeley, where I received my BA and a teaching credential.