Kimi’s Obaachan, her grandmother, had always been a silent presence throughout her youth. Sipping tea by the fire, preparing sushi for the family, or indulgently listening to Ojichan’s (grandfather’s) stories for the thousandth time, Obaachan was a missing link to Kimi’s Japanese heritage, something she had had a mixed relationship with all her life. Growing up in rural Pennsylvania, all Kimi ever wanted to do was fit in, spurning traditional Japanese cuisine and her grandfather’s attempts to teach her the language. But there was one part of Obaachan’s life that fascinated and haunted Kimi ever since the age of eleven—her gentle yet proud Obaachan was once a prisoner, along with 112,000 Japanese Americans, for more than five years of her life. Obaachan never spoke of those years, and Kimi’s own mother only spoke of it in whispers. It was a source of haji, or shame. But what really happened to Obaachan, then a young woman, and the thousands of other men, women, and children like her? Obaachan would meet her husband in the camps and watch her mother die there, too. From the turmoil, racism, and paranoia that sprang up after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the terrifying train ride to Heart Mountain, to the false promise of V-J day, Silver Like Dust captures a vital chapter of the Japanese-American experience through the journey of one remarkable woman. Her story is one of thousands, yet is powerful a testament to the enduring bonds of family and an unusual look at the American dream.
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Interesting plot, nearly unbearable performance
Cunningham Grant's novel was an interesting account of a topic frequently glossed over by American history classes.
I rarely give any thought to the performer's voice work; however, I nearly stopped listening to this one because of Zeller's obnoxious impersonations of Kimi's grandmother.