Following a century of anti-Asian racism and the 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor, the U.S. government forced more than 120,000 Japanese Americans into detainment camps.
Survivors want the world to remember. usatoday.com/in-depth/news/…
Two-thirds of the people interned during WWII were American citizens. They were stripped of their homes, businesses, and civil rights, but were never accused of a crime or collaboration with the Japanese military.
The "relocation" swept up immigrants and citizens alike — including @GeorgeTakei, who was 5, and Bob Fuchigami, who was 11 at the time. Their families and thousands of others were detained in horse stables for weeks before being herded onto a train.
📸: AP
In a desolate corner of Colorado, the US government hastily erected Camp Amache where 7,500 detainees would live out the remainder of World War II unless they volunteered for the front lines.
📸: AP
Now 91, Fuchigami is part of a shrinking generation of Japanese Americans who have kept alive the story of Colorado's Camp Amache and the nine other camps.
📸: AP
They worry that unless the United States confronts its racist past, it will inevitably repeat some of the mistakes of that era as a new wave of anti-Asian hate festers and anti-immigrant rhetoric ramps up.
Congress is considering legislation to make Amache a national historic site. Backers are hopeful that formal recognition will help tell the story of both the detention center and the people forced to live there.
📸: Helen H. Richardson, @denverpost via Getty Images
In Thursday’s paper:
- New climate change front line: Insurance
- Trump’s deja vu all over again
- Alaska’s grim Army suicide rate receding
Smoke descended on New York City, oceans are rising, arctic ice is melting. But one of the most significant and undeniable ways Americans will be impacted by climate change is far less dramatic: Insurance. usatoday.com/story/news/nat…
The arraignment of a former president Tuesday on charges of violating the Espionage Act was breathtaking.
Students are misbehaving more now than they did before the pandemic, according to 70% of 1,000 educators in a recent national survey. And many educators said they had no idea how to handle the rise in disruptions this year. usatoday.com/in-depth/news/…
Teachers are under pressure to help students make up for what they haven’t learned, and kids feel their stress. The combination has led to a pronounced rise in students expressing anger or sadness by lashing out and being disruptive at school.
Educators sent kids to other classrooms or school offices to be consoled by someone else, worked longer hours to try to counsel children themselves, set up physical boxes for kids to anonymously share their complaints and ramped up lessons in managing emotions.
Student attendance nationwide is nowhere close to pre-pandemic levels amid parents’ ongoing concerns about students’ health, shifting mindsets about the importance of classroom time and the expectations of school.
Chronic absenteeism can significantly reduce a child’s academic performance and odds of graduation. But since the pandemic hit, the problem has reached new proportions, despite the widespread return to classrooms and standard school routines.
The number of students who were chronically absent last spring was 16 million. That's double the 8 million of chronically absent students before COVID-19.
Donald Trump prepared for his initial court appearance Tuesday as the first former president to be criminally indicted by flying from New Jersey to Florida, continuing to fundraise and blasting the rival Biden administration. usatoday.com/story/news/pol…
More than three years after the COVID outbreak began, many children are severely behind in school. They miss class, struggle to read or do math and can hardly sit still after years of shape-shifting school days. usatoday.com/in-depth/news/…
After a day full of math and reading lessons, third grader Ashley Soto struggles to concentrate during a writing exercise. She’s supposed to be crafting an essay, but instead she wanders around the classroom.
“My brain is about to explode!” she exclaims.
Fourth grade teacher Rodney LaFleur looks for a student to answer a math question. He reaches into a jar filled with popsicle sticks, each with the name of one of his students. The first student’s name he draws is absent. So is the second. And the third.
In the year since the Supreme Court dismantled Roe v. Wade, the quiet college town of Carbondale, Illinois, came to symbolize the shifting map of U.S. abortion access. bit.ly/3WSULUP
Carbondale transformed into an important abortion destination for women across the Midwest and South, states where abortion bans and restrictions have spread.
A year ago, there were no clinics in Carbondale. Now, it is the closest abortion destination for more than 1.2 million women from states as far as Louisiana, according to an analysis by Caitlin Myers, an economics professor at Middlebury College.