A Thousand Stitches (5 page)

She smoothed the cloth to its full length, and touched the red stitches. As she thought of the lonely days in front of the train station and all those who had helped her by adding a stitch,
samazama
again came to mind.
Samazama
, she said to herself, and then recited the words of Basho's famous poem:
Samazama no
/
Koto omoidasu /
Sakura kana.
So many things / Are brought to mind by / Cherry blossoms.

Michiko continued to finger the stitches and thought of all the years, all of her memories, and how different Akiko's must be. Falling under the spell of the cloth spread before her, she thought of all the lost cherry blossoms of the Imperial Navy. When she shook the memories away, she walked across the room to the telephone and punched in her son's number in Kamakura.

“Mariko, I hope you're well. I've been thinking of you because I know you're interested in textile arts. I have a nice
furoshiki
I think you'll like—it's white
sashiko
stitching on a piece of deep dark Matsuyama-area indigo. But I'm really calling to ask how Gen-chan is doing and tell you about an idea I have for our
ronin
.”

Matsuyama, 1932

“
So, Gran, my job is just to read and translate this story?”

“It's the memoir of an elementary school classmate.”

“In English?”

“He lived in San Francisco until he was ten. He wrote it in English first and intended to translate it but died before he could.”

“Sorry, Gran.”

“I knew him a long time ago, and I never saw him again after the war. The first chapter says 1932. That's when he—Sam, which is what the Americans made of Isamu—came back to Japan, to Matsuyama.” She handed over the manuscript, and picked up her needlework.

Gen leaned back on the sofa, smiled at his grandmother, and began.

———

My first experience
of the Seto Inland Sea made no impression on me. In the years to come, its beauty would seep into my bones. It has never abandoned me. In all the years since I left Matsuyama, thoughts of that beauty have been at the core of my homesickness. But that day, boarding the ferry was just one more in a series of first experiences flowing past an overwhelmed ten-year-old.

Two days earlier I had been awed by Mitsukoshi in the Ginza. Thronged with elegant shoppers, it sparkled with exotic merchandise. It was vast, much bigger than the Emporium in San Francisco, where a trip with Mother had been a special treat. And just three days before that, Father's niece Kazuko and her husband, Masaaki, a Tokyo University professor, had met us when the
Tatsuta Maru
docked in Yokohama. Mother had talked during the entire crossing about how wonderful it would be to be back home in Japan, and how nice it would be for us all to be together in Matsuyama, once Father finished the job of getting our affairs in order and was able to join us. I had found her talk as confusing as I had found all the talk at home since the New Year holiday. I kept remembering Father standing at the dock in San Francisco as the horn blew and the ship slipped from the pier. It had felt like I was going backward and leaving Father behind.

In the months before we left San Francisco, I had tried to stay awake to listen to the late-night talks. I remember certain words that floated up the dark stairs: stability, opportunity, prejudice, family status, Matsuchu. On the
Tatsuta Maru,
I wanted to ask Mother what “getting affairs in order” meant, but knew that there would be no answer I could understand.

Despite my worries, the trip was fun. There were other kids my age; we played every day and gorged ourselves at the buffet, which served both Japanese and Western food. Mother laughed when I ate
soba
and spaghetti at the same meal. I was happy when she joked; I enjoyed her teasing before I ran back to the buffet for even more.

When the ship bumped against the dock in Yokohama, Mother said, “Home again. Finally. March twenty-third, Showa Year Seven.”

That means March 23, 1932. I'm arriving “home” to a place I have never been.

Kazuko and Masaaki took us to a Japanese-style inn somewhere in the huge city, which felt as big as the ocean itself. Kazuko was tremendously kind, even though she and Mother had met only once before. She had lived in Tokyo for more than a decade and was our tour guide while her husband worked. We visited Yasukuni, but my only real memory is that it was the biggest wooden building and the first real Shinto shrine I had ever seen. Mother and Kazuko talked a lot about the shrine's cherry blossoms, about the trees that were ready to bloom, and how magnificent it would be in a week.

The morning we left Tokyo was bright and chilly. Kazuko came with us to Tokyo Station. Mother and I were booked to Osaka on Japan's fastest train, the
Tsubame,
the Swallow. The sleek
Tsubame
was far beyond my experience: all I knew were the boxy cable cars that inched up and then swept down San Francisco's hills. Kazuko and Mother assured me that the highlight of the eight-hour trip to Osaka would be the view of Mt. Fuji. Kazuko helped us get settled and made sure we were seated on the right-hand side. “We want Isamu's first sight of Mt. Fuji to be front row center,” she laughed. “There should be a good view on this beautiful clear day.” Back on the platform, she kept chatting with Mother through the open window as we waited for the train to get under way.

The conductor called, “All aboard.” As the
Tsubame
slid into motion, Kazuko bowed deeply, and then stood smiling and waving her hanky as we gathered speed.

Mt. Fuji, as promised, was about a third of the way to Osaka. I had heard about it my entire life and seen many pictures, but I wasn't prepared. It loomed in majestic isolation over a broad plain, completely out of proportion to everything around it. It was huge, powerful, and austerely beautiful. I was riveted and craned my neck until it slipped out of sight as the train moved south and west. Mt. Fuji meant Japan; that much I knew from San Francisco. And now I was in Japan—“home.” I was living where each new day began when the light of the rising sun struck that magnificent mountain. I would finally become really Japanese. Yes, that was it. I was to be Japanese, truly Japanese.

Up until that moment, being Japanese was something like having red hair. Kevin O'Rourke and Suzy Meecham, two of my classmates at Raymond Weill Elementary School in San Francisco, were redheads. It was their trademark. My trademark was that I was really good at music. Of course I could speak Japanese, but that wasn't anything special at Raymond Weill, which was on the edge of San Francisco's Japantown. Although most of our immediate neighbors were Caucasians, three other Japanese families lived within two blocks of our house on Cedar Street: the Sakuyamas, with four girls, and the Wajimas and the Nishizawas, each with two sons. We all played together and developed our own
patois
of our two languages. I was often in and out of their houses, as they were mine. The Wajimas had decorated their living room with portraits of the Emperor and Empress that seemed mysterious and alien to me. My family had no such thing. Nor did we have any religious pictures or paraphernalia, like the Buddhist altar at the Sakuyamas or the crucifixes at the Kellys, our next door neighbors.

Like all the
nisei
kids, I had to go to the Japanese school, Kimmon Gakuen, “Golden Gate Institute,” every day for two hours after we finished at Raymond Weill. Some of my classmates hated the extra school time, but I didn't mind. Thanks to our parents, we all spoke Japanese, so learning to read and write wasn't too difficult. The Kimmon Gakuen teachers were certified by Japan's Ministry of Education and used the textbooks students in Japan were using. The ethics class at Kimmon Gakuen was a novelty. It featured stories about historical figures famous for hard work, thrift, bravery, or some other exemplary virtue. Most of the stories were easy to understand, and hearing about Japan this way made it easier for us to understand some of the things our parents said, especially when they were trying to discipline us. I first heard the story of Kinjiro my last year at Kimmon, never imagining that a statue of Kinjiro would be a constant in my life in just a few years.

When our Kimmon classes finished, we still had time before we were expected home for dinner, and we had lots of energy to burn off after being cooped up all day. The Kimmon schoolyard was too small for ball games, so we played leap-frog, tag, and hide-and-seek. The winners of our schoolyard games always shouted
Nippon katta. Nippon katta. Rosha maketa. Japan won! Japan won! Russia lost!
I have no idea how we learned this phrase, which dated from the Russo-Japanese war of 1905. Perhaps our fathers had brought it to the States with them, and the schoolyard taunt of their generation became ours in the City by the Bay.

From
Osaka we took an overnight ferry to Matsuyama. At dawn, Mother got me up and took me out on deck. “This is the Seto Inland Sea,” she said. “Now I know we'll soon be home.” At first all I registered was that the ferry was by far the largest vessel on the water. The few small fishing boats I could see were of unfamiliar design and shape. I thought they looked
oriental
.

Mother took my hand, smiled, and turned her face to the cool breeze. As I stood there with her on the empty deck, I finally saw what was before me: it was breathtakingly beautiful—scattered deep green islands floating on a calm blue sea shimmering in the soft morning light. Right then and there, the Seto Inland Sea began taking possession of me.

When we reached Takahama, the port area of Matsuyama, at sunset, we were met by the Nishiokas: Mother's oldest sister, Yoshie, and her businessman husband. They took us by trolley—another new experience—to Matsuyama City Station, and from there we walked to their home. On the ferry, Mother had explained that the Imagawa family had a large estate in Ishii village outside the city as well as a house right in the middle of the city in a neighborhood called Yanai-machi. She and I were going to live in the city house, but first we would stay with the Nishiokas while our city house was repaired and renovated. By the time we got to the Nishioka house, it was dark. Aunt Yoshie gave her husband, Mother, and me a late night snack of
ochazuke
and explained that her daughters—my cousins—were already in bed.

The next morning, Uncle left early for work and Aunt Yoshie and Mother introduced me to my cousins Yasuko, Yoshiko, Yumiko, and Yuriko. After breakfast Mother went to Bancho Elementary School to consult with the principal about my future. Aunt Yoshie went to the kitchen to wash the dishes and told her daughters to take care of me. We all sat in the family room looking at each other. I thought, well, it's four girls, just like the Sakuyamas, so I know how to deal with this. I was still having trouble sorting out who was who, but Yasuko, the oldest, was closest to my age. Little Yuriko showed me her picture book, and we went through it picture by picture—duck, frog, cat, horse, monkey. Yuriko was inching closer, and I thought I had won them all over when Yasuko startled me by interrupting.

“This is boring. We've all read Yuriko's book a thousand times. Let's do something else. What do you want to do, Cousin?” she said, turning to me. Her three sisters stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

I stammered, “I really don't know. What do you want to do? Can we go outside?”

It was only when Yasuko's face twisted and the three younger girls pulled away physically that I realized my words had come out in English.

“Oh, I'm sorry, what do you all want to do?” I said, switching to Japanese, but it was too late.

I was
happy to see Mother when she returned. She had met with Principal Tomihisa and explained that I had finished fourth grade in the San Francisco schools. In fact, I was well into my fifth grade year when we picked up and left, and one of the reasons that my parents had decided that March was when Mother and I should return was that the Japanese school year started in April. At first the principal considered putting me in fifth grade even though I was the age of the average Japanese fourth grader, but he soon changed his mind when he learned that I had only finished the third grade materials at Kimmon Gakuen. “You'll be a Bancho fourth grader,” Mother told me.

I stuck close to Mother for the next two days, wondering what all this would mean for me. Then Monday morning, and the beginning of school, arrived. The first day, Mother explained, as she walked me to Bancho, would be ceremonial. At the front gate of the school, she delivered me to the custody of a pretty young lady. “Isamu, this is Miss Tatsukawa, your teacher,” she said.

“Welcome to Matsuyama, to Bancho, and to my fourth grade class,” said Miss Tatsukawa. She was very kind and asked me a lot of questions about my life in San Francisco. In about five minutes a bell sounded, and Miss Tatsukawa walked me into the auditorium and showed me to my seat.

As I sat down, I felt the eyes of all nine hundred of Bancho's students on me. Everyone was looking. And at that moment, I realized how wrong, how out of place I was and understood why my cousins had treated me like a visitor from outer space. I was dressed the way an American boy would be on a formal occasion—in my nice new suit, with a necktie. My parents had bought the suit for the trip, and I had worn it when we three had our portrait taken just before Mother and I departed.
That
was the problem. The boys were all wearing uniforms—black, military style uniforms, with high stand-up collars and long rows of gold buttons. And my hair! It was combed neatly, but just the fact that my hair could be combed made me stand out. All the boys had their hair cropped very short—in fact, their heads were shaved. So there I was—a nattily attired, well-coifed little gentleman the likes of which had never been seen in Matsuyama. I did not fit in. I sat there with growing dread that I never would.

I was relieved when the assembly began. The first item on the program was the singing of
Kimigayo,
the national anthem. I knew it from Kimmon Gakuen and was glad I could sing along. Next, the principal turned his back to the assembly and stepped up on a raised platform at the front of the auditorium. He made a deep bow. It was only then that I noticed that there was a little shrine on the wall. The principal slowly folded back its wooden doors, revealing portraits of the Emperor and Empress. The head teacher, who was serving as master of ceremonies, called out an order:
“Saikeirei!”
Deepest Bow! Everyone lowered their heads and kept them down until the head teacher ordered us to look up again.

Principal Tomihisa turned back toward us, moved to the front of the platform, and placed the long oblong box he had removed from the shrine on a small table. He bowed low before the box, opened it carefully, and lifted out a folded piece of Japanese rice paper. As he unfolded it, I could see that it was very large. He held it with both hands, spread his arms wide, and began reading, slowly, deliberately, and with a highly exaggerated intonation pattern. I really couldn't understand what he was saying but thought it sounded old-fashioned. The first graders at the back of the auditorium giggled, but I found it strange and mysterious. I was deeply impressed by Principal Tomihisa's sincerity and the solemnity of this ritual. There must be a good reason for him to be reading this document so seriously and in such a formalized manner. The teachers were lined up on both sides of the auditorium. They too looked serious and bowed their heads as the principal read. It seemed to go on forever, but probably only took about five minutes. When he finished, the principal refolded the paper, put it back in the wooden box, put the lid back on the box, took a step back, and made another deep bow. He then picked up the box, turned around, walked to the back wall, returned it to its repository, and closed the doors on the shrine. The entire room took yet another deep bow with him. This time we didn't need the head teacher to tell us what to do.