In my earliest memories of Jim Ida, my great-uncle, he was already an old man. I remember him as a slender man with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, soft-spoken with a gentle smile and a slight stoop in his shoulders, which I assume was from his years working at a desk for Lockheed. Married to my grandmother’s younger sister Sada, he and his family came down to Salinas from Palo Alto for Thanksgiving and my grandmother’s annual summer barbecue, where his main responsibility was mixing drinks—even now, years after his passing, everyone still talks when we get together about how smooth and perfect his martinis were. Like most children with their extended family, I never really got to know Uncle Jim all that well, though I remember him congratulating me when I got into a top-tier engineering school for college. But I always liked him. I’m pretty sure everyone did.

The photograph above was taken in 1942 by the great photographer Dorothea Lange, who had been commissioned by the War Relocation Authority to document the removal of the 110,000 Americans of Japanese descent from their homes in the Pacific coastal regions, and their incarceration in government camps in the interior. Before this photograph, and another from the same day, I’d never seen Uncle Jim as a young man or a child before. In 1942, in this photograph, he was 17 years old.

As far as I know, my family—like most Japanese American families—doesn’t have any photographs from their time in the camps or the removal beforehand. This is unsurprising, because cameras were not allowed in the camps. The images most of us have seen, if we’ve seen any, come from WRA photographs like Lange’s, or perhaps from Ansel Adams’s famous photographs of Manzanar. We all have stories, of course. But actual photographs are rare. I first saw the above photo when I was in my late thirties.

In the moment this photograph was made, Jim and his family were on their way to the Tanforan Assembly Center, where they would be detained until later being sent on to an incarceration camp in Topaz, Utah. Tanforan is now a mall but at the time it was a racetrack. Some families were kept in hastily built barracks, while others slept in horse stalls. In Salinas, where my grandmother’s family lived (and lives), it was a similar story, with families first being sent to a temporary detention center in the Rodeo Grounds and then to a larger camp in Poston, Arizona.

I look at this photograph and I see the uncertainty and worry in Jim’s body language. The tilt of his left foot, the ankle rolled following the angle of his body as he looks off out of the frame. The way that I’d thought at first that he was holding his right fist in his left hand, but that on looking closer I see the little crook of his left pinky, how his fingertips brush along the knuckles of his other hand in just the same way I sometimes do when I need to ground myself. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen but he knows it’s not good.

At 17, Jim was not my uncle yet but he was a citizen of the United States, having been born here. So, too, were my grandmother and her siblings, and even her parents. My grandmother’s father was in the first graduating class of Salinas High School. On the other side of her family, her uncle Harry played semipro baseball—I’m told that a photo of him is part of the collection at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. Their citizenship did not protect them from being rounded up, labeled as enemy aliens, and incarcerated in the desert far from the only homes they’d ever known.

A common refrain in activist parts of social media is “our institutions will not save us.” As we look ahead toward an administration that promises to inflict great harm on many of the most vulnerable people in this country, there are still many people who believe that they will be safe because of their citizenship, or because they see themselves as fine, upstanding, hard-working members of their communities. The people in my family had committed no crimes when they were ordered to report for detention with only the belongings they could carry with them, nor indeed had the tens of thousands of other Japanese Americans who went to the camps with them. Citizenship, civil rights, character, and even innocence mean nothing in the face of a government and a country that is determined to hate and fear you.

As was true for many Japanese American families, my family lost a lot due to the incarceration. The Japanese on the West Coast had come as cheap immigrant labor in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, but by the time immigration from Japan was shut down in 1924, my family and many others had begun to prosper. The immigrant generation were not able to own property themselves, but through their American-born children they began to farm for themselves, own small businesses—barbershops or grocery stores or boarding houses. Most of that was lost during the incarceration, with Japanese-owned businesses shuttered and Japanese homes and land sold off at deep discounts, mostly to the white people who called for their removal in the first place. Still, what my own family experienced was not as terrible as what many others faced at that time in other communities or countries—to the best of my knowledge, none of my family members died in the camps, and all of them eventually returned home, or made new homes elsewhere. It could have been worse. It was bad enough.

Still, though every Japanese American family I know has stories of camp, of hardship, of losing their property and their dignity, many of them also have stories of people who helped them. People who took in their pets or stored belongings that couldn’t be brought to the camps, who looked after their homes or offered them work when they returned. In Monterey, a group of more than 400 community members signed a petition urging kindness and welcome to the returning Japanese American families. Of course, this petition only came about because of an organized effort to prevent the Japanese from returning to the Monterey Bay area. But it still mattered.

This is what I’m thinking about as we brace for what is to come. Things will break down. People will be uprooted and endangered. And though there will be protests and actions, and these may help, it will not be enough to save everyone from what’s coming. It may not be enough to save anyone. But the attempt still matters. As do the small acts of care that we can offer, one to another.

Over the course of my life, I’ve shared my family’s story of incarceration many times, to many different people. Sometimes people are shocked that such a thing could happen in America. Sometimes people are surprised that this episode of our history isn’t often taught in schools. For me, this has never been history. It has always been alive. I have never been able to talk about the Internment without becoming emotional, because even though it didn’t happen to me, it happened to people I know. Uncle Jim passed some time ago now, as have many of my family members from his generation, including both of my dad’s parents. But Auntie Sada, Jim’s wife, is still with us, still comes to Thanksgiving at the house that used to be her sister’s, where my aunt and uncle live now.

Why do I share this story so often? Why am I sharing it now? In part I’m sharing it because, as happened back in 2017, I see so many people declaring that they will fight, resist, stop the coming atrocities. And I am, of course, glad of this. It’s necessary to fight. But I wonder what will happen for people if and when the fight fails, and the atrocities cannot be stopped. How do we continue after hope fades? For me, the ability to offer care, comfort, respite to those in danger comes much less from hope than from love.

I’m reminded of a quotation from the Senegalese conservationist Baba Dioum, one that I was first introduced to when I worked a summer job at the Monterey Bay Aquarium: “In the end, we will save only what we love, we will love only what we understand, and we will understand only what we have been taught.” This story is a small thing I can share with you so that you might learn something about where we’ve been and where we’re going. To get you to consider who you love and how to turn toward that love, how to widen it and deepen it, so that you can offer care to those who need it. There will be so much need, so soon.

Dear Eva,

It's hard to believe you are already ten years old. It seems like not so long ago that you were a tiny baby, and now you're almost done with elementary school, you're a dancer, you're a fashion maven, you're just an all-around interesting person. It's been a strange year, and this is now your second pandemic birthday. Things haven't worked out the way we might have liked them to, but you've proven that you're a resilient and perseverant kid. You managed to keep up with your dance practice even when you had to use our garage as your studio with a chair for a barre. You got through a full year of online school and now you're back and doing great in fifth grade. You do six dance classes a week plus Performance Crew rehearsals, and just about every time I pick you up after practice you are smiling. It's a real joy to see you spending your time on something you love.

There are going to be more big changes coming up in the next year. For one thing, by the time it's your next birthday you'll be a middle schooler! But I know you can do it. You're a strong, smart, hard-working kid, and I'm so proud to be your dad.

Happy birthday!

Dear Mary,

Today you are seven years old. So far today we have baked two cakes and you have gotten your ears pierced. We're in a bit of a lull before the next thing, and you've just informed me that we aren't celebrating your birthday at the moment and so you are bored. This is something I know I can always count on: that you will let me know how you're feeling.

We've spent most of the past year at home, and that has been challenging for you at times. But there has also been a lot of singing and dancing, and you've made rather a lot of tiny laptops out of paper. You also started gymnastics this year, which you've taken to with gusto. And you've given me about a million hugs, all of which have been wonderful.

I love getting to be your dad, kid. I'm looking forward to what we'll do together over the next year. Happy birthday, I love you!

-Dad

Dear Jason,

Today you are officially a teenager! You've grown a lot in the past year. You've grown physically, of course—you're taller than Mom now—but you've grown as a person, too. It's been such a strange year in so many ways, one that we've mostly spent at home. You said the other day that it feels weird that in a few weeks you'll be in eighth grade since you never really got to feel like you were in seventh grade. That makes sense to me, but I also know you can do it. And even though this year has had its hardships, I am so grateful that I've gotten to spend so much time with you. And I know that whatever comes in this next year, we'll have our good times together, too.

Happy birthday!

Dear Eva,

Today you are nine years old. As I write this, I have just finished making your birthday video, and it's strange to look back over the past year and see how different the beginning of it was from now. And I wonder what you will remember from this time. You'll remember the time we've all spent at home together, and the time we've spent apart from others, I'm sure. You'll probably remember distance learning, too—it's not your favorite thing, but you've still been getting your schoolwork done almost entirely on your own. What else? Virtual sleepovers, sourdough bagels, instant noodles, Roblox, painting. It's been challenging, but I hope you'll have some good memories to take forward from this year, too. I think you will.

But that's all yet to come still. However you remember this time later, right now you are nine years old, you are excited for your birthday, and you are a great kid. You're smart and funny and fun to be around, and I'm so glad that I get to be a part of your life, and that I have you in mine.

Happy birthday, my girl! I hope this day and the whole year to come bring you so many good things.

Dear Mary,

This evening as I was drying you off after your shower, you leaned in toward me and said "I can't wait until after dinner!"

"Oh?" I said. "What happens after dinner?"

"Bedtime!" you said, and I laughed. You just wanted to do whatever you could to make your birthday arrive sooner. And, sure enough, you went to bed remarkably easily when it was time.

This is the thing about you—or anyway it is a thing about you: you know what you want, and you go for it. Sometimes that brings you into conflict with the people close to you—and, yes, that is a thing we are working on, how to say what you want without being rude. But it's also something that I'm happy to see in you, and that I hope you hang onto, because I love that you are unafraid to take up space in this world. There will be times when people will tell you to make yourself smaller, but you already know how to stand up for yourself, and I think that will serve you well. I hope so, anyway.

You are an amazing kid. You have so many talents, whether it's reading or writing or singing or drawing or dance. I like just getting to talk with you, and hearing what's on your mind—your mind which is always going. This time of quarantine has not been easy for anyone, and it hasn't been easy for you. But you've adapted and found a new groove, and it's pretty great seeing how you fill your days.

You're six years old now! I hope the day brings you much joy! Happy birthday!

Dear Jason,

Today you are twelve years old. None of us expected to be celebrating your birthday in quarantine—even when all this started, I didn't think it would still be going on by the time your birthday came around—but here we are. I think that times of adversity have a way of showing us who we are, and during this time you have shown that you are a thoughtful and kind person. It hasn't been easy being stuck at home, away from school and away from friends, but you've had a good attitude about it all. I've enjoyed getting to spend more time with you, and I've enjoyed watching you spend time playing with or helping your sisters. I'm proud, too, at how hard you've worked and how perseverant you've been. During distance learning, you pushed through and spent a lot of time every day getting your work done, even when you had to struggle with some of it. And you've stuck with our running training over the past several months, finishing your first 5K in June. It's not the most comfortable thing, running while wearing a mask, but you do it, and you don't even complain. Well, you don't complain much. ;)

I hope that the difficulties of this time mean that something good is coming, and I hope that your next year brings you a lot of joy. I know that you'll do your best, because you always do. I'm glad to get to spend the time with you, and I'm looking forward to seeing you continue to grow and continue to be the wonderful person you already are.

Happy birthday!

Dear Eva,

Last night when I said goodnight to you, I told you to get some good sleep so that you'd have a good birthday. You responded with a laugh "Yeah, I want to go to sleep!" And then you just... did. You went straight to sleep. It's something I've always envied a little bit about you, honestly, how good you are at falling asleep. I think you will have a good birthday, though.

This year you had your first audition, for the Performance Crew at your dance school. Beforehand, I asked you how you were feeling about it, whether you were nervous. And you were, a little. That's natural. But you didn't let it stop you from trying. When I asked you how you'd feel if you didn't get in, you thought about it and then said "I think I'd be sad, but that's OK." You've found something that you care about so much: dance. And now that you've found it, you work at it really hard. Sometimes it's difficult, sometimes you don't get all of the moves right away, but you never get discouraged. You just say "Practice makes improvement," which is something you came up with on your own because, as you pointed out, nobody can be perfect. You put yourself out there, and you are so, so brave. You made it through your audition and got into Performance Crew, but I know that you'd have been OK if you hadn't gotten in, that you'd have kept working and tried again next year. All of that is why I'm so proud of you.

You are talented and hard-working in so many ways, but you are also kind and thoughtful. I hope that you always stay that way. And I hope that we can always keep laughing together, the way we do now. And right now I hope that you have a very happy birthday.

I love you!

Dear Mary,

Last night as I was leaving your room after saying good night, you called out “Wait. How about one more hug and one more kiss?” And, of course, I obliged—it wasn’t so long ago that you never wanted hugs or kisses from me, and I’m happy that you like having me around. Still, when I left for work that morning and asked if I could give you a hug, you just shook your head and went back to your video. This might surprise you right now, but both of these interactions make me happy. It makes me happy that you feel comfortable and confident setting your own boundaries, that you feel control over your own body. It makes me happy that when you do decide to be affectionate, you do it with your whole self. And it makes me happy that I’ve earned some of that affection.

You have a lot of interests and a lot of talents. You love to sing, to dance, to draw, to read, to work with numbers, to learn. You love to do things on your own. More than most people I know, you are your own person. You insist on it. You can be led, but you won’t be pushed. You have a huge spirit, and that means that sometimes you will clash with others. People will try to change this about you, to make you smaller, and even though it means that sometimes I’ll be on the receiving end of your displeasure, I hope you never lose this. I hope you always keep going after what you want, and putting your whole heart into everything you do.

Very soon you’ll be starting kindergarten. Very soon to me, at least—to you that’s still a ways off. And, truth be told, it’s not as close as it feels to me. We still have time, and lots to do. But it’ll happen soon enough, and I know you’ll do great. Because that’s who you are. You are great. I’m so happy to know you, and I love you so much. I hope the day brings you much joy. Happy birthday, Mary!

Dear Jason,

Today you are eleven years old. Something I'm thinking about is how much your birthdays have changed since you were little. In the past when we would ask you what you wanted to do for your birthday, you'd want to have a party or go to an amusement park, things like that. This year, your requests were: Korean barbecue, tacos, and the beach with a few friends. There are a lot of things that remind me that you're growing up, that you're not a little kid anymore. This was one of those things. Mostly, I'm just happy to be able to have the time with you, to have things that we can do together that we all enjoy.

It feels like a milestone birthday this year, to me anyway. Does it feel like that to you? You're headed to middle school next year, and you got your first phone. Sometimes I miss you being little, but I'm always just so happy to get to know who you are now, and who you're becoming. Mostly, I'm just thankful that you're such a big-hearted, kind, funny person who always tries so hard to do what's right. You're a good kid, and you make me a good dad.

Happy birthday, Jason. I hope the day brings you much joy!