“No, we can’t speak out. We need to support the war effort.”
Over the radio, Marco Calvo has just heard the announcement that all Americans of Japanese ancestry are to be forced from their homes and incarcerated, including his close friend Sam. Despite his wife and mother’s horror over the order (“[It’s] the same with Hitler and the Jews,” says his mother), Calvo—an immigrant himself—is cautiously supportive. “Roosevelt says this will help us defeat the Nazis,” he says. “We will just have to trust him.”
Inspired by a true family story uncovered by author Josh Tuininga, We Are Not Strangers is a graphic novel both beautifully illustrated and a beautiful illustration of the complexities of the American immigrant experience. Centered on Calvo, a Sephardic Jewish immigrant, and Sam Akiyama, a Japanese immigrant, We Are Not Strangers explores its characters’ motivations for and hardships in coming to America before turning to Calvo’s efforts to prevent Akiyama from losing his business and home during the Japanese Incarceration.
While Calvo’s efforts are quietly heroic, the book’s strength lies in its portrayal of the complexities of Calvo’s thoughts and feelings about the upheaval around him. Tuininga deftly shows Calvo not as perfectly virtuous, but a man initially struggling to understand and even defend his adopted country’s actions. His characters express complex feelings toward their country of both affection and frustration. (“[Your grandfather] loved this country,” says Sam; “Why?” his daughter replies—after which Sam changes the subject).
This complex storytelling feels in short supply in our polarized climate, especially when it comes to stories about potent political issues like immigration. We strive to see one political side as purely good and the other as purely bad. Not only is this simply wrong, it makes for dull storytelling.
Reading We Are Not Strangers makes the graphic novel medium itself feel like something of an antidote to polarization. In its ability to let us linger on an image, it encourages reflection and empathy. As opposed to a book, which requires a constant flow of words, or a film or TV show, which require continuous movement with some scenes lasting a mere second, a graphic novel allows us to experience visual storytelling at our own pace. Tuininga makes great use of this contemplative space, like a scene in which Sam, after using a Japanese wood block painting as a jumping off point to tell his daughter their family’s immigration story, simply stares at the picture. Tuininga fills an entire two-page spread with the painting, encouraging the viewer to linger on it, alongside Akiyama, and contemplate its meaning to his family’s history.
At its heart, We Are Not Strangers is a tale of two Americas. The first is one of hope, a country in which Calvo fled the ruins of World War I to find opportunity and community. One in which he could bring his mother for safety after the 1934 Thrace pogroms in Turkey. The other is one of oppression, in which his friend’s family is locked up for years, in which Akiyama’s father’s friends were “killed during the riots in Tacoma,” and a place where Calvo himself was treated poorly when he initially arrived.
At his desk one night, alongside an American flag sticking out of a pen cup, Calvo comes up with a plan. For the entire length of Akiyama’s incarceration, Calvo secretly rents his house, maintains his shop, and handles his business affairs. Among all the compelling details of We Are Not Strangers, one stands out: Calvo never tells anyone but the Akiyamas about his good deed—not even his family. No one knows why.
“Maybe he thought he would get into trouble,” writes Tuininga. “Perhaps he wished he could have done more. Or maybe he just wanted to forget all about it…”
Fortunately, We Are Not Strangers helps us remember.