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.