We’ve all seen films in which people with black skin were treated as though they were less than human. We’ve heard the derogatory remarks of so-called white folk who still maintain that being descendants of the Neanderthal (as most European whites are) is superior to being descended from kings and queens of the ancient Middle East, Pacific Islander, Asian or South American cultures. The fantasy of superiority of skin color or self-aggrandizing religion has been a popular dividing line internationally—often leading to mass murder named cleansing. For some, war justifies hateful blanket beliefs.
The 2016 film SOPHIE AND THE RISING SUN, based on a novel by Augusta Trobaugh, is set in 1941 South Carolina, a place where some in the small town feel confident that dark people were never meant to mingle with whites. As a young girl, Sophie was thrashed by her mother for having a best girlfriend who was black. By the time the film opens, Sophie’s mother is deceased and Sophie is an introverted young woman who lives alone catching and eating sea crabs to sustain her as she paints landscapes by the river. She watches warily as Ann, a good-hearted woman who’s her only friend, doctors an Asian man who was badly beaten and literally dumped off a bus near her home. Ann is assisted by her black housekeeper who gradually increases in presence.
At first, the young man Mr. Ohta is merely an oddity to the local community, assumed to be Chinese. As soon as he can talk and work, he thanks his benefactress by helping her create a more spectacular garden, her life’s work. She learns he was assaulted in New York by men who robbed his funds meant to buy new stock for his family farm in California. Art is Ohta’s secondary passion after horticulture. Painting nature by the river brings him into contact with Sophie. The two outsider souls are drawn to one another by their mutual love of beauty.
Already irritated by the fact he looks Asian and dares to kiss Sophie, the townspeople become incensed when they discover he’s not of Chinese descent but Japanese—like the enemies that bombed Pearl Harbor. The lid is off their stored hatred so violence feels justified, spreading to people who’ve merely been kind to the young man. War makes holding an individual accountable for the actions of anyone of the same ancestry seem reasonable. During WWII, many American citizens of Japanese heritage, like Mr. Ohta in the film, had their properties seized as they and their families were sent to American prisoner-of-war camps, even if they served with distinction in the American military and had no other national loyalties. Unreasonable, misdirected suspicion felt like fair retribution for war.
What is it that makes suspicion and hatred so durable? In contrast, the stories of peoples who’ve never forgotten acts of friendship are heart-warming—such as the French countrymen still honoring the memories of American servicemen who were killed trying to free them, or Irish citizens thankful to the American Choctaw tribe for sending funds to help them survive famine. But grudges, hatred, and resentment often overshadow expressions of higher nature. Judgement trumps gratitude. Little wonder that people who are open about their belief in compassion and thankfulness are mocked in many circles today. Hate lends a sense of power and safety to the hater who doesn’t believe in life after death. Sophie and Grover Ohta discover the only true antidote.
