Japanese Internment Sculpture Story
On a quiet corner in downtown San Jose, a bronze sculpture immortalizes one of America's most shameful chapters: the incarceration of peaceful, patriotic Japanese-Americans during World War II.
The double-sided sculpture, a bas relief constructed from clay, depicts the atrocities perpetrated against 120,000 Japanese-Americans unjustly accused of disloyalty.
Ironically, the sculpture greets visitors to the Robert F. Peckham Federal Building Courthouse, a bastion of justice.
As a reminder of the conditions, a strand of barbed wire spans either side of the panel.
On one side, the wire is crooked, a makeshift fence constructed by newly arrived Japanese-American immigrants.
Here, the panels depict the evolution of their experience in idyllic terms.
A recent immigrant bids farewell to Taiyo Maru, the transpacific steamliner used to bring waves of Japanese to the United States.
Farmhands pile in the back of a pickup truck, eager for work.
Women sort an abundance of fruit to organize into crates for delivery.
On the other side of the sculpture, the scene turns bleak; the wire tenses into a rigid line, forming a boundary.
Now, we see deadpan soldiers herding terrified migrants from trains toward the cramped stables that will be home for the foreseeable future.
Families attempt to go about their lives with quiet dignity, eating in confined quarters elbow to elbow; burying the dead.
Details of their faces are scarce, but the brutality of their situation is evident in the dramatic, gritty texture of the etchings, which feel claustrophobic and mechanical.
Though noble and obdurate like a rock, the memorial quietly sits right in front of us, a gentle reminder to never forget.
The double-sided sculpture, a bas relief constructed from clay, depicts the atrocities perpetrated against 120,000 Japanese-Americans unjustly accused of disloyalty.
Ironically, the sculpture greets visitors to the Robert F. Peckham Federal Building Courthouse, a bastion of justice.
As a reminder of the conditions, a strand of barbed wire spans either side of the panel.
On one side, the wire is crooked, a makeshift fence constructed by newly arrived Japanese-American immigrants.
Here, the panels depict the evolution of their experience in idyllic terms.
A recent immigrant bids farewell to Taiyo Maru, the transpacific steamliner used to bring waves of Japanese to the United States.
Farmhands pile in the back of a pickup truck, eager for work.
Women sort an abundance of fruit to organize into crates for delivery.
On the other side of the sculpture, the scene turns bleak; the wire tenses into a rigid line, forming a boundary.
Now, we see deadpan soldiers herding terrified migrants from trains toward the cramped stables that will be home for the foreseeable future.
Families attempt to go about their lives with quiet dignity, eating in confined quarters elbow to elbow; burying the dead.
Details of their faces are scarce, but the brutality of their situation is evident in the dramatic, gritty texture of the etchings, which feel claustrophobic and mechanical.
Though noble and obdurate like a rock, the memorial quietly sits right in front of us, a gentle reminder to never forget.
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