Our Father's Club
At its peak, the Terminal Islander Club was an active social organization of former friends and neighbors. Today, their very existence threatens to fade into the background of history.
The Terminal Islander picnics usually open with the pounding of the taiko drums, relay races with screeching grandchildren running towards the finish line and the echoes of karaoke performances. At the annual event, it's much of the same for old-timers who slap each other on the backs and make comments on graying hairs and fading memories.
The annual picnic has been going strong since 1971. In the beginning there were about 1,000 members of the exclusive Terminal Islander club, a contingency of mostly Nisei bound by a shared history and geography. Most members were born or have lived on Terminal Island, once a booming Japanese fishing village, but now an industrial wasteland in the Los Angeles-Long Beach metro area.
There are only about 300 Terminal Islanders left, said Yukio Tatsumi, club president for the last 22 years. But the traditions go on. This June 10, Terminal Islanders will reunite again for their picnic in George Bellis Park in Buena Park, Calif.
Every year Yukio, 87, looks out into the crowd and sees fewer faces he grew up with.
"It's not a good feeling but that's life," said Yukio who was born on Terminal Island in 1920.
Today, the tight-knit group that survived internment and dislocation faces its biggest challenge - finding new leadership.
Min Tonai calls it the "intimidation of taking over for older Nisei." Others call it a dislocation of personal history. With virtually all of the Terminal Island Issei gone, a rapidly aging Nisei population and largely disinterested younger generations, the club is going through some growing pains.
"Poor Yuki has been looking for a successor for years," said Tonai, 78.
Club officials face the challenge of identifying potential new leaders who know the unique history of the Japanese fishing village, but are enthusiastic enough to keep annual traditions going and club members tightly stitched together.
In the early 1900s, Terminal Island was a thriving community built around fishing and settled by Japanese immigrants. By 1906, pioneering Issei and their families dominated 99 percent of a section of the island called Fish Harbor.
Because of the area's physical isolation, it was truly a place where everyone knew your name.
"Everyone knew each other on Terminal Island," said Yukio whose father, Kobei Tatsumi, was an executive of L.A. Seafood, one of the only Japanese canneries during the time.
Back then, fish was king and Issei men would spend three weeks at sea, one week at home mending their nets while Issei women worked at the canneries. They left their American children home alone because it was safe. The doors were never locked on Terminal Island.
Fishermen who worked for the canneries were provided housing - barracks for about $6 a month.
"I remember tagging along with my dad to collect rent," said Yukio.
For the most part, Fish Harbor residents never had to leave the island. All the essentials were located just steps away. A local Japanese theater played the latest samurai movies and an ice cream parlor offered a respite from hot summer days.
Tonai lived across the bay in San Pedro, but he would go to Terminal Island often as a young boy to visit his uncle, Sanzo Oka, and attend Japanese and kendo classes. He was a Terminal Island regular, so he learned to speak the pidgin dialect, a mixture of Japanese and English that was unique to island residents.
But the small fishing village's legacy is mostly wrapped up in its demise. After the attack on Pearl Harbor it took just 48 hours for the U.S. government to displace all of Fish Harbor's residents.
"They had to leave in 48 hours. Where could they go on such short notice?" said Tonai.
"The bitterness caused them to draw together more."
Fish Harbor residents were trapped between worlds. They were mistreated by the government and also ostracized by the general Japanese community because of their pidgin dialect, a derivative of Wakayama-ken language.
"On top of that they were fisherman who spoke coarsely," added Tonai.
So the group of friends and neighbors banded together. In 1971, six or seven organizers formed the Terminal Islanders. During its heyday, the club hosted two major events a year: the New Year Eve's party and the picnic in addition to group tours and other activities.
But because of the natural attrition of members, group reunions and activities have been pared down. Over the years, the activities at the picnics have evolved - more English is spoken and nihonbuyo (Japanese classical dance) performances have been incorporated to entertain participants, but some say the club is facing an imminent demise.
"It's a dying organization," said Harriet Shioji, a Sansei whose father-in-law Tatsuo Shioji was a Terminal Islander. "The Nisei are dying off and they're the ones who formed this close-knit community. They've kept in touch with each other and made these reunions happen ... Because we're the third generation, we are tied to the organization just because of our parents."
"No Sansei were born there," said Dana Shioji, Tatsuo's son. "It's nice that you have these memories, but I wasn't there."
Before his passing, Tatsuo was the unofficial photographer for the Terminal Islander picnics. He took a lot of pictures and arranged them into albums and brought them to every reunion.
"He would point at the pictures and laugh with his buddies. Of course in later years, he would point to this person and say, 'He passed away. She passed away too,'" said Harriet.
Every year, she looks forward to the picnic. Both Dana and Harriet are planning on going to the picnic this year - for the kids.
Even for the club president, it's difficult to get younger generations committed to the club. Yukio and wife Chiye, who met as classmates on Terminal Island, have tried to get their grandchildren involved and although they have attended picnics in the past they live too far away to make it a regular event on their calendars.
Right now, the Terminal Islanders are looking to pass the torch to the next generation.
"We need someone young, at least someone in their 60s," said Tonai.
Print This Article-
Email This Article