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Summary
Summary
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * "An impressive, bitter, and sweet debut that explores the age-old conflicts between father and son, the beauty and sadness of what happened to Japanese Americans in the Seattle era during World War II, and the depths and longing of deep-heart love."--Lisa See
"A tender and satisfying novel."--Garth Stein, bestselling author of The Art of Racing in the Rain
In 1986, Henry Lee joins a crowd outside the Panama Hotel, once the gateway to Seattle's Japantown. It has been boarded up for decades, but now the new owner has discovered the belongings of Japanese families who were sent to internment camps during World War II. As the owner displays and unfurls a Japanese parasol, Henry, a Chinese American, remembers a young Japanese American girl from his childhood in the 1940s--Keiko Okabe, with whom he forged a bond of friendship and innocent love that transcended the prejudices of their Old World ancestors. After Keiko and her family were evacuated to the internment camps, she and Henry could only hope that their promise to each other would be kept. Now, forty years later, Henry explores the hotel's basement for the Okabe family's belongings and for a long-lost object whose value he cannot even begin to measure. His search will take him on a journey to revisit the sacrifices he has made for family, for love, for country.
Author Notes
Jamie Ford graduated from the Art Institute of Seattle in 1988 and worked as an art director and as a creative director in advertising. He is also an alumnus of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers and the Orson Scott Card's Literary Boot Camp. His books include Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet and Songs of Willow Frost.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (2)
New York Review of Books Review
On the eve of America's World War II internment of its Japanese residents, 12-year-old Henry Lee meets his first true love. Her name is Keiko, and she's the only other Asian at Henry's otherwise all-white Seattle elementary school. She's also Japanese, which lies at the heart of Henry's subsequent struggles - with his Chinese nationalist father; his racist, bullying classmates; and, finally, his brutally suspicious country. The hotel of the book's title is the real Panama Hotel, and that's where Ford's story begins, with the basement discovery of what Seattle's Japanese families left behind when they were sent to the camps. The tale jumps between 1986, just after the death of Henry's wife (whose name is not Keiko), and the 1940s, setting up its driving mystery: What happened to Henry's dark-eyed childhood sweetheart? Though the story of life in war-era Seattle and the detention of the city's Japanese families, including Keiko's, is rich in detail, its characters feel thin. Henry is terribly earnest and seems always too old for his age - at 12, he has the caution and calm of a 56-year-old; at 56, Ford refers to him as "Old Henry Lee."
Library Journal Review
Chinese American Henry and Japanese American Keiko bond as the only Asian students in a Seattle elementary school in 1942. The two are the victims of both racist attitudes and the patriotic fervor following Pearl Harbor. While emphasizing their deep friendship, first-time novelist Ford also conveys the minute details of that particular time and place. Feodor Chin's (Journey of a Thousand Miles) energetic, sensitive reading makes the story moving without ever resorting to sentimentality. Recommended for Asian Americans and those interested in Pacific Northwest history. [Embeddable audio clip available through library.booksontape.com; the Ballantine hc was described as "a vivid picture of a confusing and critical time in American history," LJ 10/1/08.-Ed.]-Michael Adams, CUNY Graduate Ctr. Lib. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
The Panama Hotel (1986) Old Henry Lee stood transfixed by all the commotion at the Panama Hotel. What had started as a crowd of curious onlookers eyeballing a television news crew had now swollen into a polite mob of shoppers, tourists, and a few punk-looking street kids, all wondering what the big deal was. In the middle of the crowd stood Henry, shopping bags hanging at his side. He felt as if he were waking from a long forgotten dream. A dream he'd once had as a little boy. The old Seattle landmark was a place he'd visited twice in his lifetime. First when he was only twelve years old, way back in 1942--"the war years" he liked to call them. Even then the old bachelor hotel had stood as a gateway between Seattle's Chinatown and Nihonmachi, Japantown. Two outposts of an old-world conflict--where Chinese and Japanese immigrants rarely spoke to one another, while their American-born children often played kick the can in the streets together. The hotel had always been a perfect landmark. A perfect meeting place--where he'd once met the love of his life. The second time was today. It was 1986, what, forty-plus years later? He'd stopped counting the years as they slipped into memory. After all, he'd spent a lifetime between these bookended visits. A marriage. The birth of an ungrateful son. Cancer, and a burial. He missed his wife, Ethel. She'd been gone six months now. But he didn't miss her as much as you'd think, as bad as that might sound. It was more like quiet relief really. Her health had been bad--no, worse than bad. The cancer in her bones had been downright crippling, to both of us, he thought. For the last seven years Henry had fed her, bathed her, helped her to the bathroom when she needed to go, and back again when she was all through. He took care of her night and day, 24/7 as they say these days. Marty, his son, thought his mother should have been put in a home, but Henry would have none of it. "Not in my lifetime," Henry said, resisting. Not just because he was Chinese (though that was a part of his resistance). The Confucian ideal of filial piety--respect and reverence for one's parents--was a cultural relic not easily discarded by Henry's generation. He'd been raised to care for loved ones, personally, and to put someone in a home was unacceptable. What his son, Marty, never fully understood was that deep down there was an Ethel-shaped hole in Henry's life, and without her, all he felt was the draft of loneliness, cold and sharp, the years slipping away like blood from a wound that never heals. Now she was gone for good. She needed to be buried, Henry thought, the traditional Chinese way, with food offerings, longevity blankets, and prayer ceremonies lasting several days--despite Marty's fit about cremating her. He was so modern. He'd been seeing a counselor and dealing with his mother's death through an online support group, whatever that was. Going online sounded like talking to no one, which Henry had some firsthand experience in--in real life. It was lonely. Almost as lonely as Lake View Cemetery, where he'd buried Ethel. She now had a gorgeous view of Lake Washington, and was interred with Seattle's other Chinese notables, like Bruce Lee and his own son, Brandon. But in the end, each of them occupied a solitary grave. Alone forever. It didn't matter who your neighbors were. They didn't talk back. When night fell, and it did, Henry chatted with his wife, asking her how her day was. She never replied, of course. "I'm not crazy or anything," Henry would say to no one, "just open-minded. You never know who's listening." Then he'd busy himself pruning his Chinese palm or evergreen--houseplants whose brown leaves confessed his months of neglect. Excerpted from Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet: A Novel by Jamie Ford All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
