Looking Through the Hole in the Floor

Street view of the Panama Hotel cafe sign.

Today I made a pilgrimage on foot through downtown Seattle to the International District in search of The Panama Hotel to see the hole in the floor. Many wrong turns later and after asking directions of and chatting with the engaging proprietor of the boutique Momo, I arrived at the Panama's front door, amused at how long it had taken to find it and uneasy about seeing the hole in the floor.

Perched on the hill at Main and 6th Street, the Panama was built in 1910 by a well known architect of the region, Sabro Ozasa. A gathering place for a once thriving Japanese American community, it survived the internment of the Japanese community (7,628 from Washington State; 120,000 from the West Coast) in "relocation camps" surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers across the United States during World War II. In 1942, President FDR signed Executive Order 9066, ordering all persons of Japanese ancestry to dispose of their belongings and property in several days and to pack one suitcase and report to Union Station for mass evacuation.

Takashi Hori and Jan Johnson.

In 1985, aging owners Takashi and Lily Hori sold the Panama Hotel, not to the highest bidder, but to the person with the most empathy for its history, Jan Johnson. The Horis had tried for many years to find the owners of the belongings in the basement, but without success. They offered to dispose of them for the new owner. "No," she replied, "Leave it." And she cut a hole in the cafe floor, covered it with a sturdy glass panel that allows one to peer down into the basement.

I ordered a matcha latte, the strong powdered Japanese green tea of the tea ceremony, and sat at a table next to the hole in the floor.  And there, deep down in the basement sixty-nine years later, are the unclaimed, hastily packed belongings of so many Japanese families, bearing witness to the once thriving life of a unique community and to the gross governmental misconduct against them.

The hole in the floor.

I seek solace in the bracing warmth of the matcha latte, in its verdant life-giving color because, I tell you, it was disquieting to sit next to the hole in the floor and peer down at a tiny section of belongings: the abandoned coat with the fur collar, books, men's socks and what have you. And peering down, I hear the searing wail of shikataganai ("it can't be helped") and gaman ("endure the unbearable with dignity") arising through the walls of silence, shame, and injustice. These deeply ingrained values of Japanese culture, shikataganai and gaman, shaped the response of the Japanese community not only during the war, but also wrapped its voice and self-image in barbed wire for so many years following.

View through the hole.

This silence finds a voice through the hole in the floor, just as Jan Johnson intended.

I look forward to touring the basement on my next visit.