User blog:RedPandaPotter/Okay, lol, I Suck at Sticking to Stories

I truly do.

This is my third-blog-story idea on here, so, here goes.

At school, we've been studying a lot about WWII, and I always thought my friend (who is male, by the way, Bloody xD) was crazy for being obsessed with it, and he was just being...himself, because it was bloody and gory, and apparently boys like that stuff (no offense to those who don't!)

But we have this massive history book that's actually really interesting, and it made everything a whole lot more...well, I guess it put things into perspective. It got a sort of inside look at the Japanese internment camps, and got me started on thinking (is that even possible? To get started on thinking...?) that I should write a story about this. Now, I knew that if I didn't write it on here, or anything, like, if I did it just in a Word document or something I'd never continue/save it, so I decided to write it on here.

Where it can be appreciated!

Hopefully.

Anyway, it's going to be a sort of double-perspective, switching from Hana Hayashi to Emilie (Emma) Lansreone (she's a French-American with Italian descent). Hope you enjoy!

Chapter One - Hana
I knew nothing of prejudice before my father was taken and I was ridiculed.

Of course, no one else in my community had either, except for the German family down the street, who were still sneered at every time they visited The Tomato Patch. Abigail and Berta, the two daughters, rarely came out of the house, and I had always feared that something like that would happen to me during the war if the Japanese made a strong offensive move.

It was Saturday, December 6th, 1941, and I was eleven years old. My birthday was in two weeks and one day - the 21st of December. I was hoping for a new dress from my mother or her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Keanhien.

When I woke up, the birds were singing outside of her second-floor Portland apartment, and I could hear the stomping of feet in the third floor apartment, followed by yelling and a few swears.

I blearily rubbed my eyes, pulled on a robe, and trudged into my apartment's small kitchen, where my mother was cooking something putrid-smelling on the stove, and my father was straightening his hat and tie, getting ready to go downstairs to open shop.

The doorbell rang and Father hurried down the stairs, shouting, "Coming, I'm coming!"

I yawned, and Mother patted me on the head, gesturing to her concoction. "Oatmeal?"

I took a step back, queasily. "I...I think I'll just grab a bun and go to The Tomato Patch."

"Are you sure?" Mother repeated brightly, her spirit undampened. Her so-called 'oatmeal' gurgled sluggishly and a bubble burst on the surface.

"I'm sure," I said uneasily, and grabbed a bun from the bowl on the counter. "Just let me get dressed, and I'll be up there."

I quickly threw on a dress and scurried upstairs, shooting past the third-floor apartment and hopped up onto the rooftop garden, where Mr. Freengren was already picking his way among the pots and vegetables.

"Hi Mr. Freengren!" I said brightly, and he barely looked up, his eyes peeking around the wide brim of his hat, then dropping back to the bright red tomato in his withered hand.

Just then, a woman came into the garden, stepping elegantly through the ivy-covered archway and roaming the aisles. I walked over to her, holding out my right hand, and met her gaze.

Bright blue eyes met mine, and I stepped back, my jaw dropping.

This wasn't just any old woman.

This was the First Lady of the United States - Eleanor Roosevelt.

"Hello," she said cheerfully. "Do you sell cucumbers here?"

"Y-Yes," I stammered, "they're on aisle four."

"Thank you," Mrs. Roosevelt said politely, and stepped away, just as a young man came through the archway, sniffing.

"Mother!" he called, "Mother! Can you smell the basil?"

"Yes, of course, John," Mrs. Roosevelt said distractedly. "Dear?"

"Yes?" I hurried over to her. "Yes, Mrs.--I mean, yes, ma'am?"

Mrs. Roosevelt smiled. "Call me Eleanor. What's your name?"

"H-Hana," I replied fearfully.

"Well, Hana, I'd like to be three cucumbers and four stalks of basil, would that be all right?"

"Yes," I informed the First Lady.

"How much would that be?" she asked, taking out a small blue purse.

"F-Four dollars and sixteen cents."

"Good, good," Mrs. Roosevelt remarked. "Is it possible that I could speak to your parents?"

"Of course, just a moment, please."

I hurried down to my apartment, and was gasping by the time I got there approximately fourteen seconds later. "Mother! Mother, the First Lady is upstairs and she wants to talk to you!"

Mother widened her eyes, and dashed up to the rooftop garden.

And it sank in.

The First Lady of the United States had just talked to me.

Me, Hana Hayashi, of Portland, Oregon, a nobody, a Japanese-American, a Nisei!

Is this a dream?

A/N:
Lol, I know that was horrible. I was getting bored. xD ANYway, please tell me what you think!