Life as you knew it is suddenly over. You’re forced to leave your home, your school and your friends. No matter how painful it is, you begin to pack as much as you can in one suitcase, obey the law, and do as you’re told.

You refuse to obey the order that forces you into an internment camp. You stay behind, watching as your family packs their suitcases preparing to leave. A few days later, you’re caught and arrested. You appeal your case to the Supreme Court but you lose and are sentenced to five years’ probation. You are sent to an internment camp anyway.

Someone agrees to buy your grocery store, but knowing that he can take advantage of your desperate situation, he will only pay you half of what it’s worth. Your family has no other option and must accept his offer.

A neighbor offers to watch over the store while you’re gone. You’re hopeful he will keep it in good condition until you’re allowed to return home, but there’s no guarantee. He could end up charging your family for taking care of it or sell it as soon as you leave.

You’ve heard the agonizing yelping of neighborhood dogs left behind with just enough food and water for a few days. You can’t bear to leave Coco inside to suffer, hoping someone will rescue her. You take Coco to the SPCA, but they are already overrun with hundreds of cats and dogs that other families have left behind. You can only hope another family finds Coco as lovable as you do—before it’s too late.

Coco only responds to Japanese commands. After a few frustrating weeks, your friends get tired of a dog that won’t obey. They know the animal shelters are full, so they let Coco run out the front door. Your dog is now a stray. Maybe someone will find her and give her a home.

This may sound like a good idea at the time but when you’re sent from sunny California to the snow-covered mountains of Colorado, the clothes and shoes you bring won’t be anywhere near warm enough in a freezing winter.

You want to keep your precious family photos and the jade necklace your mother wore on her wedding day, but how will that keep you warm when you arrive at your internment camp in Colorado during a snow storm? You should have packed warm coats and boots. Then again, how could you have known? No one told you where you were going.

You enter your barracks. You and your family live in a 15’ by 20’ space separated from the others in the barracks by blankets hanging from the ceiling. A single light hangs above you. The furniture is Army cots lined against the wall. At least you’re with your family. Some internees have to share their barracks with strangers.

Several hundred yards from your new “home,” you see a long line of people outside the community bathroom. When you finally get your turn, there’s just a row of latrines. Right around the corner are the showers—one large room for boys and one for girls. No stalls. No shower curtains. No privacy.

You give your sister part of your rations. While the government provides three meals a day, they’re slim. It’s not much, but you’re still willing to share your hotdogs and potatoes with her. You don’t want your little sister to go hungry, especially while she’s still growing.

Because you’re in an internment camp, you get smaller rations than the rest of the country. Food quality is poor. Meals consist primarily of what is called “surplus” … scraps of leftover meat, hotdogs and Spam. For much of your time, you won’t even be given rice, but potatoes instead. Sometimes you walk away from dinner hungry. You hope your sister doesn’t feel the same. She needs all the nutrients she can get while she’s growing.

You can’t attend medical school like you had hoped, so you decide to work as a laborer in the fields alongside your father. Maybe one day you can use your farming skills outside the camp.

You continue studying on your own. You find people in the camp who were doctors and nurses before being sent to the camp, and ask for their mentorship. Maybe one day you’ll be allowed to leave the camp and apply to medical school.

The way you protect the sacred traditions of your Japanese American heritage is by continuing to do things the way you used to at home. At dinner, you sit together in the mess hall as a family. You keep traditions alive by incorporating them into your daily life.

You keep traditions alive by adapting them to your new surroundings. You eat picnic lunches outside the mess hall on a sunny patch of grass. You help the cooks use American food to create Japanese-inspired dishes like “hotdog sushi.” You gather your family to plant and tend a Japanese garden full of native flowers. You try to stay positive and keep moving forward.

You choose to prove your loyalty. You enlist in the United States Armed Forces and serve alongside another 3,600 Japanese-Americans. You’re honored to fight for the freedom of all people, regardless of race, color, religion or ancestry.

You’ve seen how Japanese-American soldiers are treated when they come to visit their families. Even though they arrive in full military uniform, they are still stopped at the gate, searched and checked in by an armed guard. You can only hope that one day it will be different.

You answer YES to both questions and you’re considered “loyal” to the United States. But by declaring your willingness to serve in combat in Question 27, you are essentially volunteering to enlist in the Armed Forces. That means you may end up fighting in the war overseas.

You’re angry that your loyalty is once again called into question. How can you even renounce loyalty to Japan in Question 28? You’re an American citizen. You weren’t born in Japan and have never even visited. So you protest by answering “No” to both questions and you’re considered “disloyal” to the United States. You and thousands of other Japanese Americans, known as “No-No Boys,” are sent to the high-security Segregation Center at Tule Lake. You are stigmatized by your country—and by your fellow Japanese Americans. Despite the consequences, you stand by your decision.

You try to look the other way at discrimination but it’s hard to do when you pass by a NO JAPS ALLOWED sign on the way to the post office. You keep your head down and keep to yourself. It’s no wonder Japanese neighborhoods start to pop up around town. It may be isolating but it feels safer living in a community where you’re welcome and respected.

You vow to fight in the war against discrimination at home. You become an outspoken leader in your community and a champion of civil rights. You hope to promote positive change and work to improve relationships between Japanese Americans and all those of different races in your country.