Hippo

 Hirose Paul Shibata swam on our Y.M.C.A. team.  Of course he did.  He was built like a barrel, and moved through the water like what they called him -- “Hippo.”

He was what is termed “Nisei”... first generation American born of Japanese ancestry.  When I asked him why he had Japanese first and surnames, but a Christian middle name, he explained it was customary for Asian families to give their American born children American middle names.  He said that most families from Europe don't because it is common for kids just to “Anglicize” their European versions.  But Asians don't have even the same scripts, let alone adjustable names that can be Americanized.  By giving their children both English and Asian names, the children have an option. 

       

I never heard anyone say either “Paul” or “Hirose,” though.  He was “Hippo.” Well, except for his father.  The only thing I ever heard his father say to him (other than Japanese streams of words that didn't sound exactly endearing) was “Klaysay!”

Actually, that didn't sound endearing either. Anyway, our teammate  “Hippo.”

       

After December 7th,  Hippo vanished.  A bit later, the “Y” coach received a letter from Hippo from the internment camp. He and his family had been hauled off.   It was a typically upbeat Hippo.  Even in this false detention, he was having fun.

The war eventually ended. I was in San Francisco for a day for something or other.  Out of the mass of people on Market Street popped Hippo, and we took some time to update each other.  Over lunch he told me that the military had offered young Niseis release from the camps if they volunteered into military service.  Hippo prepared to put on a uniform. 

He had been sent home to await orders. (I don't know where Hippo's “home” could have been at that time.  Maybe his family's home wasn't confiscated.)  He had a few days on his own until a letter arrived with train tickets to Madison, Wisconson.

       

Hippo was puzzled; but he knew that “good soldiers” don't ask questions.  He boarded the train and eventually got to what he realized was S.H.A.E.F.-- the war's supreme command center.  This didn't look much like Camp Roberts. An M.P. took his letter, led him to a barracks building and a bunk, then told him he'd be led to an officer in the morning.  Again, this didn't seem like foot soldier prep.  In the morning he was ushered into an office with numerous desks. From there he was sent to collect his uniform, and told to return.

Back before the officer, and now clutching a wad of G.I. Stuff, he was told he would be shown where “his class" was.

        “My WHAT?” Hippo exploded.

        “Your class,” said the officer.  “Where you'll be teaching.”

        “Teaching what?” Hippo wanted to know.

        The officer looked surprised. “Ja... pa... nese?' he said, tentatively.

        Hippo struggled to contain himself. Finally, he got out, “But I don't know any.”

        “It says here,” and the officer began reading off a folder he had.

        “That's my father's,” said Hippo. “I speak more Italian than Japanese. I grew up near Little Italy in North Beach. I went to Galileo High school.  I heard more of my high school friends speaking Italian than English. My father wanted me to be American, so the only Japanese I ever heard was when my relatives came to visit.”

Hippo was sent to the 442nd Battalion, the most decorated in the war. I could see that he'd survived, all right, and he was still Hippo. 

*Fast forward twenty-five years.* 

Bob Hirano and I were spending as many days, even weeks, as we could walking every wilderness trail we could reach. This usually involved evenings with topo maps, access routes, and lists, supplies, etc.  During one of our discussions, I happened to mention Hippo.

       

Tazi spun around. “HIPPO?  Hippo Shibata?” she asked.  She beamed when I said, “I knew him at the Y. We were at the internment camp together!”

       

I mentioned his Madison experience, and Tazi giggled.

“Yes, That's Hippo. When Hippo was distressed with a camp guard, he'd say 'Klaysay'.”  (Crazy)

       

Bob added, “We worked on the camp newsletter a lot.”

Then I recalled that, once at a swim meet, calling out, “Hirosi,” he didn't answer.

Tiki Bark

Our bichon, Tiki sorted the cat world into two groups: those that flinched and you chased, and those that didn't, and you didn't. 

 Traveling in our trailer, we had arranged to visit a couple, but, arriving, found a note on the door.  We would have to wait awhile for their return. Our friends' front yard was  typical: a lawn surrounded by a  low fence. We dropped Tiki, Lord-of-Creation, into it. 

       

He sprinted a couple of circles, then began scouting. Suddenly, his tail snapped up.  His forelegs went stiff.  His head thrust forward. A CAT!  By the garden hose bib indeed, a cat sunned.  Cat looked at dog. Dog glared at cat.  Cat closed its eyes, dozing. What we knew, and Tiki did not, was that Cat lived with five dogs, the smallest of which weighed eighty pounds.  This thing on the lawn weighed twelve. 

The cat didn't blink.  Its tail didn't twitch. It gave Tiki a bored acknowledgment.   Tiki tilted forward and barked. Cat dozed.  Tiki barked again.  Cat dozed.  Tiki paused.  Cat was not following script.

       

Moving halfway across the yard, Tiki reared up and barked some more.  Cat's whiskers didn't so much as twitch.  Tiki peered over his shoulder toward our trailer. Then he moved closer to the cat.  He barked again, but somewhat tentatively.  Cat dozed. 

What do I do now?

Finally, he marched right over to the cat until he stood perhaps six inches away.  Mustering his best junkyard dog stance, he literally screamed at Cat. Cat dozed.  Tiki swiveled his head 180 degrees, as dogs can, until he was looking across the yard to us.  His expression said as plain as words, “What do I do now?”

Muriel's response was probably as crushing as the cat's indifference had been.  She laughed.  At that, Tiki pretended that he had never seen a cat.  He inspected a coil of hoses,  a rose bush a bit farther off, noticed a strange noise in the distance, looked over at Muriel, and, when he saw that she was still laughing, turned his back on her.  For the rest of our visit, Cat didn't exist.

He somewhat made up for his embarrassment later.  When our friends arrived, and we were invited into their living room, our friends brought out their favorite show dog, a gorgeous Samoyed. Tiki glared up at this ninety pound, superbly muscled working dog and barked so viciously, with his teeth bared and snapping we all would have thought the Samoyed was doomed ....  except that Tiki was doing all his histrionics from between Muriel's feet.

Fist Fight

I could almost see the steam coming out of both boys' ears.  Each was far too angry to speak.  I noted the bruise on the one boy's cheek and the battered ear on the other's.  For two ten year old kids, both had done a good job each on the other.  Managing at least to have gotten them seated at the same wide table and facing me, I considered where to begin.

Neither boy was one of my students, but I'd seen them enough to know that they had been good friends.  This wouldn't be resolved by telling them to keep their cools.  Whatever had brought this on would fester.

“Either of you want to talk?” I asked.  Neither did. Nor was there any sign that either would cool down soon. Proposing reason was unreasonable.  Surreptitiously, I checked my watch.  I couldn't send them to their classrooms like this unattended.  I had to get to my own classroom shortly.  The boys had a problem, and so did I.

The school had a teacher specialist who would routinely have been doing what had been dropped on me. The staff unofficially referred to him as “Mr. Fight Fixer.”  Fights were uncommon at our school; but kids are kids, and anger wrecks the useful day for everyone within range.  Our specialist was talented and a pleasure to have on board.  Only right now he wasn't. 

       

“Mr. Singer, sir. How long we be kept here?”  The boy with the roughed up ear had spoken.     I glanced over at him, and had an inspiration.

“You two don't be lookin so good,” I offered. “Yo mamas be askin how come you get them faces not so pretty.  What you tell yo mamas? It better be good, or they come longside both'n yo haids.”

For the first time, the boys sat up. Then they looked at each other. Then they both looked at me and began to giggle. They looked back at each other and broke out laughing.

       

One said, “Mr. Singer, you a teacher!”

       

The other, giggling, too, said, “What we tell our mommas?” 

       

I asked, “Baseball game maybe?” 

       

They looked at each other a moment, then nodded.

       

One nodded in agreement. “Okay,” he said, grinning at his enemy of a few moments ago. “Baseball game.”

       

As the two boys left the room, now arm in arm, one looked back and asked, “Mr. Singer, we cain't be tellin our mommas how you talk.  She gonna wanna know why.”

       

I said, “Well, it's a smaller problem than you DID have.” 

       

For the rest of the school year, they grinned at me every time we passed. One or the other would say, sotto voce, “Baseball game.”