Henry Lee Character Analysis

Henry kept staring at the photo albums, faded reminders of his own school days, looking for someone he’d never find. I try not to live in the past, he thought, but who knows, sometimes the past lives in me.

“‘I am Chinese,’” Chaz read out loud. “It don’t make no difference to me, shrimp, you still don’t celebrate Christmas, do you?”

[…]

“Ho, ho, ho,” Henry replied. […] We do celebrate Christmas, along with Cheun Jit, the lunar new year. But no, Pearl Harbor Day is not a festive occasion.

“I. Don’t. Speak. Japanese.” Keiko burst out laughing. “They don’t even teach it anymore at the Japanese school. They stopped last fall. My mom and dad speak it, but they wanted me to learn only English. About the only Japanese I know is wakarimasen […] It means ‘I don’t understand’—understand?”

He listened to his father during these lopsided, one-way conversations, but he never talked back. In fact, Henry rarely talked at all, except in English to acknowledge his advancing skills. But since his father understood only Cantonese and a little Mandarin, the conversations came as waves, back and forth, tidal shores of separate oceans.

“Why do you like jazz so much?” Keiko asked.

“I don’t know,” Henry said. […] “Maybe because it’s so different, but people everywhere still like it, they just accept musicians, no matter what color they are. Plus, my father hates it.”

“Why does he hate it?”

“Because it’s too different, I guess.”

His father had devoted most of his life to nationalist causes, all aimed at furthering the Three People’s Principles proclaimed by the late Chinese president. […] as Henry grasped the point of his father’s enthusiasm in these small local conflicts with Japanese Americans, it was mixed with a fair amount of confusion and contradiction. Father believed in a government of the people but was wary of who those people were.

But more than that, Henry hated being compared with his own father. In Marty’s eyes, the plum hadn’t fallen far from the tree; if anything, it was clinging stubbornly to the branches. That’s what I’ve taught him by my example, Henry thought.

“I told you he was a Jap on the inside!”

Henry knew the voice. Turning around, he saw Chaz. Crowbar in one hand, and a wadded-up poster of an American flag in his other. A different kind of flag duty, Henry thought. The wooden door behind Chaz had long gashes where he’d scraped the poster off.

Henry had been given dirty looks before but he’d never experienced something like this. He’d heard about things like this in the South. Places like Arkansas or Alabama, but not Seattle. Not the Pacific Northwest.

The other children, and even the teachers, seemed unaware of the Japanese exodus from Bainbridge Island. The day had come and gone in relative quiet. Almost like it never happened. Lost in the news of the war—that the U.S. and Filipino troops were losing at Bataan and that a Japanese submarine had shelled an oil refinery somewhere in California.

“I can be Chinese too,” she teased him, pointing at Henry’s button. “Hou noi mou gin.” It meant “How are you today, beautiful?” in Cantonese.

“Where did you learn that?”

[…] “I looked it up at the library.”

“Oai deki te ureshii desu,” Henry returned.

For an awkward moment, they just looked at each other, beaming, not knowing what to say, or in which language to say it.

There was a mix of crying toddlers, shuffling suitcases, and soldiers checking the paperwork of local citizens—most of whom were dressed in their Sunday best, the one or two suitcases they were allowed packed to the point of bursting. Each person wore a plain white tag, the kind you’d see on a piece of furniture, dangling down from a coat button.

“What if they send them back to Japan? Keiko doesn’t even speak Japanese. What’ll happen to her? She’s more of an enemy there than she is here.”

[The soldiers] were busy arguing with a pair of women from a local Baptist church who were trying to deliver a Japanese Bible to an elderly internee. […]

“Nothing printed in Japanese is allowed!” one of the soldiers argued.

[…]

“If I can’t read it in God’s plain English, it ain’t coming into the camp,” Henry overheard one of the soldiers say.

It made Keiko’s situation, while bleak, seem so much more appealing. Henry caught himself feeling a twinge of jealousy. At least she was with her family. For now anyway. At least they understood. At least they wouldn’t send her away.

“[My father]’s disowned me. My parents stopped speaking to me this week. But my mother still sort of acts like I’m around.” The words came out so casually, even Henry was surprised at how normal it felt. But communication in his home had been far from ordinary for almost a year; this was just a new, final wrinkle.

Through the slosh of the rain, Henry heard music from the camp. The song grew louder and louder, straining the limits of the speakers it came from. It was the record. Their record. Oscar Holden’s “Alley Cat Strut.” Henry could almost pick out Sheldon’s part. It shouted at the night. Louder than the storm.

He’d wondered what his father would do to occupy his time now that the Japanese had surrendered. Then again, he knew the war would go on in his father’s mind. This time it would be the Kuomintang, the nationalists versus the communists. China’s struggle would continue, and so would his father’s.

Standing in front of him was a woman in her fifties, her hair shorter than he remembered […] Her chestnut brown eyes, despite the lifetime she wore in the lovely lines of her face, shone as clear and fluid as ever.

The same eyes that had looked inside him all those years ago. Hopeful eyes.

Henry kept staring at the photo albums, faded reminders of his own school days, looking for someone he’d never find. I try not to live in the past, he thought, but who knows, sometimes the past lives in me.

“‘I am Chinese,’” Chaz read out loud. “It don’t make no difference to me, shrimp, you still don’t celebrate Christmas, do you?”

[…]

“Ho, ho, ho,” Henry replied. […] We do celebrate Christmas, along with Cheun Jit, the lunar new year. But no, Pearl Harbor Day is not a festive occasion.

“I. Don’t. Speak. Japanese.” Keiko burst out laughing. “They don’t even teach it anymore at the Japanese school. They stopped last fall. My mom and dad speak it, but they wanted me to learn only English. About the only Japanese I know is wakarimasen […] It means ‘I don’t understand’—understand?”

He listened to his father during these lopsided, one-way conversations, but he never talked back. In fact, Henry rarely talked at all, except in English to acknowledge his advancing skills. But since his father understood only Cantonese and a little Mandarin, the conversations came as waves, back and forth, tidal shores of separate oceans.

“Why do you like jazz so much?” Keiko asked.

“I don’t know,” Henry said. […] “Maybe because it’s so different, but people everywhere still like it, they just accept musicians, no matter what color they are. Plus, my father hates it.”

“Why does he hate it?”

“Because it’s too different, I guess.”

His father had devoted most of his life to nationalist causes, all aimed at furthering the Three People’s Principles proclaimed by the late Chinese president. […] as Henry grasped the point of his father’s enthusiasm in these small local conflicts with Japanese Americans, it was mixed with a fair amount of confusion and contradiction. Father believed in a government of the people but was wary of who those people were.

But more than that, Henry hated being compared with his own father. In Marty’s eyes, the plum hadn’t fallen far from the tree; if anything, it was clinging stubbornly to the branches. That’s what I’ve taught him by my example, Henry thought.

“I told you he was a Jap on the inside!”

Henry knew the voice. Turning around, he saw Chaz. Crowbar in one hand, and a wadded-up poster of an American flag in his other. A different kind of flag duty, Henry thought. The wooden door behind Chaz had long gashes where he’d scraped the poster off.

Henry had been given dirty looks before but he’d never experienced something like this. He’d heard about things like this in the South. Places like Arkansas or Alabama, but not Seattle. Not the Pacific Northwest.

The other children, and even the teachers, seemed unaware of the Japanese exodus from Bainbridge Island. The day had come and gone in relative quiet. Almost like it never happened. Lost in the news of the war—that the U.S. and Filipino troops were losing at Bataan and that a Japanese submarine had shelled an oil refinery somewhere in California.

“I can be Chinese too,” she teased him, pointing at Henry’s button. “Hou noi mou gin.” It meant “How are you today, beautiful?” in Cantonese.

“Where did you learn that?”

[…] “I looked it up at the library.”

“Oai deki te ureshii desu,” Henry returned.

For an awkward moment, they just looked at each other, beaming, not knowing what to say, or in which language to say it.

There was a mix of crying toddlers, shuffling suitcases, and soldiers checking the paperwork of local citizens—most of whom were dressed in their Sunday best, the one or two suitcases they were allowed packed to the point of bursting. Each person wore a plain white tag, the kind you’d see on a piece of furniture, dangling down from a coat button.

“What if they send them back to Japan? Keiko doesn’t even speak Japanese. What’ll happen to her? She’s more of an enemy there than she is here.”

[The soldiers] were busy arguing with a pair of women from a local Baptist church who were trying to deliver a Japanese Bible to an elderly internee. […]

“Nothing printed in Japanese is allowed!” one of the soldiers argued.

[…]

“If I can’t read it in God’s plain English, it ain’t coming into the camp,” Henry overheard one of the soldiers say.

It made Keiko’s situation, while bleak, seem so much more appealing. Henry caught himself feeling a twinge of jealousy. At least she was with her family. For now anyway. At least they understood. At least they wouldn’t send her away.

“[My father]’s disowned me. My parents stopped speaking to me this week. But my mother still sort of acts like I’m around.” The words came out so casually, even Henry was surprised at how normal it felt. But communication in his home had been far from ordinary for almost a year; this was just a new, final wrinkle.

Through the slosh of the rain, Henry heard music from the camp. The song grew louder and louder, straining the limits of the speakers it came from. It was the record. Their record. Oscar Holden’s “Alley Cat Strut.” Henry could almost pick out Sheldon’s part. It shouted at the night. Louder than the storm.

He’d wondered what his father would do to occupy his time now that the Japanese had surrendered. Then again, he knew the war would go on in his father’s mind. This time it would be the Kuomintang, the nationalists versus the communists. China’s struggle would continue, and so would his father’s.

Standing in front of him was a woman in her fifties, her hair shorter than he remembered […] Her chestnut brown eyes, despite the lifetime she wore in the lovely lines of her face, shone as clear and fluid as ever.

The same eyes that had looked inside him all those years ago. Hopeful eyes.