M. stanley bubien biography

oshiro Mastumotu sat in his wheelchair, his face a staunch, unyielding stone---the same mask that he'd worn so many times over the past fifty years. The funeral progressed before him, yet neither the flag-covered coffin, nor the mourners, veiled in black, hands clutching handkerchiefs, moved Yoshiro to alter his expression.

"These Americans," he thought, "they are a people without honor." And with those words, he confirmed yet again that he, Yoshiro Mastumotu, belonged amongst them.

A young man stepped past the row of soldiers wearing dress-black uniforms, standing at attention in perfect stillness.

The wind whisked across his suit as he approached the podium with head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. He paused before the microphone, taking a breath, and, finally facing the crowd, he said, "Thank you all for coming.

I am saddened by the passing of my father, but at the same time, I am proud---proud of who he was, and proud of what he accomplished.