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November, 2001, LOS ANGELES - As if some atavistic urge compels me, I always seem to have a need to go to London near the end of the year. I love the crisp, bracing air; the holiday hubbub; the sound of English spoken as in Merchant-Ivory movies. This year, the urge was even more compelling. The trip to London became symbolic. It was an assertion of defiance against the terrorists. I wasn't going to be intimidated. Vigilant - yes. Careful - surely. Anxious - perhaps. I wasn't going to let the terrorists change my plans. Besides, the British people and government have been our strongest allies in the effort against terrorism. Prime Minister Tony Blair has been a true stalwart.
We got to the airport three hours before departure. As I had anticipated, the security was tedious and time-consuming. But, I was glad. The hassle was reassuring. We felt exceptionally well examined and very secure. The trip was gratefully uneventful.
The reward for my determination was a trip filled with lucky, out of the blue experiences - like a joy ride up to a spectacular view of London on our first afternoon. Last year, when we tried to take a ride on the Millennium Eye, the giant Ferris wheel on the south bank of the River Thames, it was closed because of wind conditions. And all tickets for future opportunities during our stay were sold out. This year, we just walked up to the ticket booth, bought our tickets, and got in the glass capsule that leisurely lifted us up to the highest vantage point in all London. The air was crystalline and the vista was sharp and clear. The sky churned with dramatic clouds, just like a Gainsborough painting. And all of London lay before us from the office towers of Canary Wharf off in the distance, to stately Tower Bridge rising up across the Thames, to the classic dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, all the way down to familiar old Big Ben just below us. It was a sensational experience.
I had old English five pound and ten pound notes that had gone out of circulation from some previous trip. Banks all over London wouldn't exchange them. I had to go to the Bank of England itself in the financial district of the city known simply as the City. We got there before it opened so we decided to roam about the area admiring the imposing, gray architecture of the City. Serendipitously, we chanced upon a new men's shirt shop that had just opened its doors for the first time. It was an exclusive shop that catered to the financial people of the district. As a celebration special, they were throwing in a selection of handsome ties for the price of a shirt. What a bargain! I stepped in and they promptly made a sale. Now I own a shirt and tie just like the ones worn by those British bankers.
The Bank of England should be open by now. We crossed the street and walked past the now open bronze doors of the building where British banking began three centuries ago. A stern looking security guard stood blocking entry at a second set of doors. As I approached, his eyes narrowed. They seemed to penetrate right through me. Why is he scrutinizing me like that, I wondered. I'm not going to rob his bank. He stared intently at me until I stepped up to him. Then he demanded, "You're on Star Trek, aren't you?" I was completely thrown off balance. That phrase has been like "open sesame" for me. "I love your show," he stated. Star Trek has magically opened doors for me into some of the most inaccessible places in the world. The stern guard, still unsmiling, said, "Follow me, sir." He courteously escorted into an imposing marble domed banking hall. My outdated bills were graciously exchanged for me. Then my stern friend asked, "Would you like to visit our Museum of Banking, sir?" Would I? Door after unanticipated doors opened for me into a museum of the history, not only of the Bank of England, but of banking itself in England. That was a fascinating and educational afternoon - and totally unexpected.
London, for me, is theater land. My main mission, when I'm in London, is to immerse myself in some of the best theater in the English language. I spent every night in a theater. And every night was rich and engaging. There was a perfect production of Noel Coward's "Private Lives," starring Alan Rickman, who, you might recall, played the character based on Mr. Spock in "Galaxy Quest." At the National Theater complex, I saw a big and brilliant production of John Osborne's "Luther" in the Olivier Theater and in the Lyttleton, a sensational new play, "Mother Clapp's Molley House" about commerce and prostitution in the 18th century and today. There were revivals galore - a wonderful production of "Joe Egg," a hilarious production of "The Royal Family" starring Judi Dench, and a powerful production of Lillian Hellman's "Little Foxes" with a commanding performance by an actor named Penelope Wilton. British actors seem to have a gift for playing characters of the American south. But, the serendipity for me, was in the sold out hit, Lerner and Lowe's "My Fair Lady" with Jonathan Pryce playing Professor Henry Higgins. I didn't recognize the names of the actors playing Eliza, a Martine McCutcheon, and Doolittle, played by a Dennis Waterman. The reviews that were on display outside the Drury Lane Theater gave their performances glowing raves. You can imagine my disappointment when we arrived at the theater to learn that understudies were going on that performance for Eliza and Doolittle. Thank goodness, Jonathan Pryce was there to play Henry Higgins. We settled down in our seats not without some grumbling.
The overture started up and the Cockney denizens of Covent Garden sauntered out to set the stage to perform a delightfully choreographed dance prelude. It seemed to be getting off to a good start. Eliza entered. Her first sounds of Cockney seemed "spot on" as the British say. Through her smudge-smeared make-up, one could see that she had a beautiful face. Her first exchange with Higgins went perfectly. Her first song number, "Wouldn't It Be Loverly?" revealed a gorgeous voice. She was wonderful!
When the character of her father, Doolittle, entered, we knew immediately that he was a fun-loving, conniving witted, energetic, Cockney low-life. He had the cockiness of a bantam rooster on coke. Then he exploded on stage with his first production number, "With a Little Bit of Luck." He brought the house down! Both understudies were extraordinary! I couldn't imagine the regular actors topping their performances. My bravo, bravo, bravos go to Kerry Ellis as a brilliant Eliza and to David Shaw-Parker as the best Doolittle I have ever seen. "My Fair Lady" was an unforgettable experience. And yes, as we expected, Jonathan Pryce was good as well. But the understudies, Ellis and Shaw-Parker, were our serendipitous, unexpected good fortune.
London is a place of magic that passes too quickly. All too soon, we were in a London taxi headed back to Heathrow Airport for the trip home. The driver seemed eager to chat. He talked about current events. He firmly believed that the Taliban would fall soon enough. He lamented the absence of tourists in London. He told us that the English like to take their holidays in Spain. He nattered on and on. When he said "holiday in Spain," I suddenly realized. His accent was perfect Cockney! As a matter of fact, we had Doolittle himself driving us to the airport! As we neared our terminal, he said, "with a little bit o' luck, your flight will take off on time." I almost expected him to break out in song. He was the perfect driver to see us off back to Los Angeles, California. Ah, I shall look forward to the next serendipitous return to London.
February, 2002, SACRAMENTO, CA - As the plane began descending toward the Sacramento airport, the green patterns of the farm fields below shifted to suburban housing developments, then to a scattering of rectangular high rise buildings surrounding the golden dome of the state capitol. I tried to locate the Victorian structure of the Crocker Art Museum but the plane quickly flew past the downtown area and was again descending over farm fields. I could now see the airport approaching. I was arriving for the opening of one of the Japanese American National Museum's traveling exhibits, "Henry Sugimoto: Painting An American Experience" at the Crocker Art Museum of Sacramento.
This trip, however, was more than my fulfilling my duties as the Chairman of the Japanese American National Museum. Sacramento is a special place to me. It was to this land, one hundred years ago, that my grandparents came from Hiroshima, Japan. It was here that my grandfather began farming, growing strawberries, plums, and hops. It was here, in an old Victorian farmhouse that my mother was born. It was here in the soil of Sacramento, the capital city of California, that my American roots were first planted.
The exhibit of Henry Sugimoto's paintings is also very personal to me. When World War II began, this gifted artist was among the 120,000 Japanese Americans who were rounded up by the U.S. military and incarcerated in American internment camps. He painted scenes of his imprisonment in the two camps in Arkansas -- Rohwer and Jerome. Rohwer was the camp to which my family was sent from our home in Los Angeles. I look at Sugimoto's paintings of the camp landscape and they remind me of the swampy creek where I used to play by the barbed wire fence. I remember the scenes he painted of the communal hubbub in the washroom, where babies were bathed as well as the laundry done. I recognize the picture in his painting of the long line at the mess hall where we queued up three times a day for our meals. I look at these paintings by Henry Sugimoto and I'm reminded of the fear and anxiety of fellow Americans that sent us into that barbed wire imprisonment. I hear from these images on canvas, the resonance of the fear and anxiety felt today toward people of Middle Eastern descent. These paintings of sixty years ago are profoundly relevant to our times today.
We live in a time of terror. When in public places, when in congested places, certainly when we're at the airport, we feel an indefinable sense of anxiety.
A dark, bearded person might fill us with some unease. That nervousness is not irrational. We are responding to what we have read, heard, or seen. That sense of unease might be called experiential "racial profiling." But race has to be just one part of the whole picture. That dark, bearded person might be a student or a dentist or a salesman -- nothing more. Simple racial profiling is an inadequate rationale for anxiety. Indeed, a terrorist can look like the all-American boy next door - like Timothy McVeigh.
We are Americans, the most diverse people on this planet. We look like the people of the world - every race in every shape and form. We are also a people who subscribe to the rule of law - not of racial discrimination. We believe in a system of due process where a person cannot be detained without charges, due cause or right to counsel. That is what makes our system of justice so great. Yet, at times of stress, our government can react hastily and without clear thinking. In the aftermath of September 11th, Middle Eastern immigrant men have been detained without charges and without counsel, their families uninformed of where the men had been taken or when they might be released. It was exactly the same with Japanese immigrant men immediately after Pearl Harbor. This kind of racial profiling ultimately resulted in a most egregious violation of the U.S. Constitution - the wholesale removal and incarceration of all Japanese Americans from the West Coast. There was no due process - no charges, no trial, just imprisonment by race. The scenes that Henry Sugimoto painted from his "American Experience" have this profoundly important cautionary message for our times today.
The opening of the exhibit of Henry Sugimoto's works in Sacramento was a great success. I'm told that this was the biggest opening in the history of the Crocker Art Museum. In my mother's hometown, in my state capital, where my roots go down deep, my own American experience was hugely well received. The exhibit will be in Sacramento until March 24, 2002.