“We Hold These Truths:” Ambivalence Across Asian-America

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

“Deru kugi wa utareru.”

The one-man show begins without warning. José de la Fuente stands in a theater aisle and recites an excerpt from the Declaration of Independence. He proceeds to take the role of Gordon Hirabayashi and echoes the Japanese proverb repeated to him by his parents, which translates to, “The nail that sticks out gets hammered down”—conform to survive.

The opening minutes of “We Hold These Truths” establish a framework for the rest of the play: a struggle between an unwavering belief in the U.S. Constitution and the struggles faced by Japanese-American immigrants.

Written by Jeanne Sakata in 2007, “We Hold These Truths” follows the story of Gordon Hirabayashi, a political dissident of Japanese-American internment during World War II. The play was performed in Stuyvesant’s theater on Monday, March 26, and was organized by English teacher Sophie Oberfield.

The stage is empty except for a stool with two water bottles, a stand, and de la Fuente, who does not move from center stage for nearly the entire 90 minute performance. Standing in the dim theater and illuminated by a spotlight, he uses various accents to delineate between Hirabayashi at different ages, parents, friends, and government officials.

De la Fuente delivers an emotionally powerful rendition of Hirabayashi’s adolescent struggles to find a place in American society. Upon seeing his own face in that of his Japanese friend, Hirabayashi realizes he is permanently “Other,” a moment described in trembling tones. Segregated public facilities slowly build rage, and de la Fuente cries out in a desperate tone as Depression-era Seattle treats him like a “Jap.”

Yet he does not despair. Hirabayashi attends the University of Washington, displays faith in his rights, and becomes an active member of the YMCA. During his studies, the Japanese attack Pearl Harbor. Deep, ominous voices play over the sound system, most of them espousing government fear of Japanese-American spies. The use of pre-recorded voices emanating from an invisible source, as opposed to de la Fuente acting them out, allows the audience to experience the terrifying power of the federal government over immigrant populations.

An 8 p.m. curfew is established for Japanese-Americans. At first, Hirabayashi adheres to the Japanese proverb and conforms to the curfew. But one night, upon seeing the American flag, he has an epiphany: the race-based curfew violates his Constitutional rights. Though it allows the plot to pivot toward Hirabayashi’s belief in the Constitution, the American flag scene is cliché and somewhat stilted—Hirabayashi’s internal monologue suddenly breaks into a recitation of Constitutional amendments.

For similar reasons, Hirabayashi refuses the order for internment. A dialogue with his parents fleshes out his inner turmoil and displays a generational conflict. Hirabayashi’s parents want him to obey the internment order to prove Japanese loyalty, while he stands by his Constitutional rights as an American-born citizen; he wants to stop conforming and assert the power of Japanese-Americans, while his mother says anything done to an Issei (first-generation Japanese immigrant to the U.S.) will also be inflicted upon a Nisei (second-generation Japanese-American, born in the U.S.), rendering civil disobedience pointless.

His mother is correct in that Hirabayashi is arrested, without regard to the Constitution. Again, rather than despairing, Hirabayashi reaffirms his belief in the American legal system and challenges his arrest in court.

Sakata infuses his legal struggle with nuance: a friend plans to protest internment with him, but cannot because as an only child he needs to take care of his parents, showing how morality and motivation cannot be judged with a broad brush. Hirabayashi’s court case is taken up by the ACLU, then abandoned because a board member supports Executive Order 9066.

While waiting for his case to be appealed, Hirabayashi spends time at a prison in Tucson, Arizona. He interacts with a Hopi Indian, who tells him that fighting for Constitutional rights is pointless. Hirabayashi, filled with hope that the Supreme Court will rule in his favor, says that even if the Constitution has systematically failed indigenous peoples, it can still be redeemed for Japanese-Americans, and that he has an obligation to try. The play avoids the obvious follow-up question: why should Japanese-Americans try to gain rights and acceptance within a system that is predicated on the exclusion of indigenous populations, and why do Japanese-American lives outweigh those of Hopi Indians?

In an excruciating moment, Hirabayashi discovers that the Supreme Court unanimously upheld his sentence. Justice Murphy calls Japanese-American internment the “brink of Constitutional power,” which breaks Hirabayashi’s heart. A long pause on the word brink, which Hirabayashi repeats to himself, reveals his questioning of who decides where the “brink” is. The ensuing speechlessness, as opposed to Hirabayashi’s normally verbose inner monologue, provides an emotionally devastating contrast.

Yet he continues to be undaunted. Hirabayashi refuses to fill out the infamous Loyalty Questionnaire, which targeted Japanese-Americans, on the basis that the questions are discriminatory. Almost proudly, he serves another year in jail.

Hirabayashi’s resilience allows “We Hold These Truths” to end on a hopeful note: Hirabayashi reconvenes with his parents. The reunion is another bittersweet, pathos-heavy moment: both he and his parents are emaciated from internment, but express only joy at seeing each other. Soft, wavering tones make every word emotional, and Japanese exchanges add to the untranslatable, but deeply visceral and personal, effect of the play.

In cyclical fashion, Hirabayashi’s final words return to the Declaration of Independence and Japanese proverb, with an addendum: the nail that sticks out will be hit, unless the nail is bigger than the hammer (meaning conformity is not always the answer). And in 1987, Peter Irons, an attorney, revisits his case, and Hirabayashi’s conviction is partially overturned.

De la Fuero’s brilliant performance tells a powerful, little-known story. Yet the positive conclusion about political agency feels artificial. A white attorney vindicating Hirabayashi 40 years too late is not an instance of the Constitution working. Moreover, the 1987 decision was purely symbolic: concurrent with Hirabayashi’s victory was a rapid increase in anti-Japanese sentiment due to the perception that Japanese companies such as Mitsubishi were threatening white labor (a striking parallel to the imprisonment of Nisei because the Japanese military was deemed a threat). Hirabayashi’s protest is procedural: a disagreement with the people enforcing the Constitution. But on the level of substance, he continues to conform—he never disagrees with the Constitution itself.

There is no clear answer to why the Constitution is so important to Hirabayashi, why the Constitution’s validity should be taken for granted, and why his struggles don’t devolve into a sort of cruel optimism: from the Alien Land Law to internment to Vincent Chin’s death to ICE detention camps, immigrant rights have not progressed very far. “We Hold These Truths” fails to reconcile Hirabayashi’s investment in the Constitution with the eternal recurrence of racism.