essay by RICK OWENS At the end of World War II, my father was stationed in Japan as a mail carrier for the Allied troops. He later met my mother in Mexico and brought her to California to marry her. By the time I arrived, he was working as a social worker in a small conservative town, determining whether people were eligible for social benefits, which I believe ended up making him cynical, mistrustful, and somewhat bitter. The father I knew was racist, bigoted, and smugly judgmental. He did want to help people, but only on his own strict terms. But at the back of his closet was a weathered wooden trunk, brought back from his time in Japan, that was like his secret soft spot. It contained padded, softly colored silk kimonos held together with intricately braided cords; sandalwood incense; and shantung-bound albums containing photos of my father…