From a Town on the Hudson (2 page)

THIS FIRST chapter does not have to do with my life in America but with my decision to write about it. I was motivated by my enormous admiration for a professor who taught me English literature at a women's university in Kyoto from 1965 to 1967.

Because the thirty-four-year-old gentleman at that time was witty, earnest, and attractive, he got the enthusiastic support of his young students. Even when his classes were over, nobody would let him go. We used to catch him on the bench in front of the fountain on the college grounds, at a nearby temple, and sometimes at the faculty office. Not only did we meet him on campus, but one day in the fall ten students visited him at his home in Fushimi in the southern part of Kyoto. I remember our sitting close to one another in the narrow living room with his lovely wife and two children. Moreover, several students even visited his parents' home in Shimane Prefecture during the summer vacation. Each time we talked about English literature with the professor, I felt as if I could easily master the English language, create poems in English, and even write long stories in English. His ardent passion for English literature told us how worthwhile learning English was. He was such a vigorous and great teacher to us all and always treated everyone with the same consideration.

One warm June evening, however, at a streetcar station called Higashiyama Shichijo near the university, I happened to meet him on the way home. Hanging on to a strap in the rattling streetcar I was lucky enough to be given a private lecture about Shakespeare's
Macbeth
. But I couldn't concentrate on the lecture at all, because I was so excited by the unexpected encounter. While walking to the Kyoto Station terminal building after we had gotten off the streetcar, and before I said good-bye to him at the main wicket, I was just thinking how jealous my classmates would be of me the next day when they heard that I had had our favorite professor all to myself. I recall that I jumped with joy and almost whistled as I bounded up the steps to the platform for Osaka. The next day I was actually shunned by a jealous classmate, the first person I had told of my "betrayal."

The last time I saw the professor was at Kyoto Station in the summer of 1968, when he left for England to study at Oxford University. I had nothing to do with English for many years after that. I got married and enjoyed making a home and raising two sons. I even forgot how to spell "Saturday" or "January." When our younger son entered nursery school, I began to think about what I, as a person, liked most all my life. It was English. The words of that professor, who died of cancer in 1975 at the age of forty-four, rang in my mind. I felt that his humorous, wise, high-spirited, and warm-hearted style which he had shown us students was about to lead the way to my learning English again.

"NO, I WONT go to America." At the end of January 1985, the story opened with our sons refusal to be transferred with their father's job to New York the coming spring. They said that they could live with their grandparents in Japan. The two boys' reaction was unexpected. However, it was impossible for us to leave our thirteen-and eight-year-old sons in Japan. Although we were living in what was soon to be the twenty-first century, when the techniques of broadcasting had greatly improved, we still couldn't see what the real world was like as long as we stayed in Japan. This would be a chance for our school-age boys to see the world outside of Japan. My husband and I insisted that our family should live together even though we would be living abroad, and we told the boys that we would like to have a new life together in the United States. Then the two brothers seemed to reconsider the move and forgot to fight with each other for a few days. They still seemed to be worrying about their pet lovebirds and goldfish, but they agreed with us in the end.

"Mother, do you understand English?" Actually, I had majored in English. Besides that, I had had the experience of living abroad: I had been in Philadelphia in 1974 with my husband when he was studying at the Wharton School. Nevertheless, I couldn't be confident about English. In Philadelphia, I could neither catch what Americans said nor make myself understood in English very well. I remembered regretting that I was unable to express what I thought. This would be my second time in America and, besides that, our sons were growing. I didn't have to look after my family all day. This would be an occasion for me to master spoken English. I was optimistic. In January 1985, I never imagined that I would return to Japan in 1990 still being unable to speak English well.

"What school will I go to?" "Will I be able to speak English soon?" "Are the American teachers friendly?" "What kind of lunch will I eat at an American school?" "Will you really help me if I have trouble?" "What do American boys do for fun?" Both of our sons worried about what they would undergo in the United States. As parents, we naturally would help them whenever they needed it. My husband and I tried to alleviate their fears as much as possible. If the new experiences in the United States could become a positive part of their lives, that would be wonderful. For the younger son, who was born in 1976, it would be the first time to live in America. In reality, especially in the beginning, they struggled with many things in their American schools that they had been anxious about. However, both of my sons were helped by many Americans and were able to overcome their difficulties.

"I want a wife, too!" I ridiculously said to myself, counting the number of sealed boxes in our house. From February to the end of March in 1985, I was occupied with packing, doing daily household chores, looking after my children, and taking care of every other kind of preparation. But I couldn't drop my routine household chores and taking care of my children. My husband also was busy handing over his job at the bank and preparing for departure earlier than the rest of us. However, thanks to his wife, delicious meals and a Japanese-style deep bath filled with comfortably heated water were always guaranteed to be waiting for him at home. Even though I was pleased when he told me that he was happy, I was still busy. Our older son was no help because he was occupied with his tennis club activities at his junior high school until it got dark. In addition to packing, I had a gardener trim the trees as much as possible, called a secondhand bookseller, and disposed of unused articles. To prepare for renting our house to the bank my husband worked for, I also asked a housing company to check the boiler and the roof. In addition, I often took our younger son to the doctor's office, went shopping, cooked meals, washed clothes, hung them out to dry and, in the afternoon, took them in and prepared the bath as usual. I attended several farewell parties, too. After my husband had left for New York in the middle of March, I at last invited some people to our house. My mother-in-law, sixty-four then, came to help me and stayed at our house for a while. My mother, seventy then, also came but soon returned home to Yokohama because the mere sight of the chaotic rooms seemed to exhaust her. Moving was really a big job. Unlike endless housework, however, it had an ending. I, thirty-eight then, was losing weight.

"See you again!" "Have a safe trip!" "Come back as soon as possible!" On April 13th, our two sons and I arrived at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York and met my husband, who had arrived a month earlier. It was cold and the sky was gloomy-looking. We got into a limousine and headed for Fort Lee, New Jersey. Listening to my husband's description of our new home, town, schools, and car, all of which he had arranged for us, I saw forsythia blooming along the highway. It looked like a light in a gray world on our family's first day in the United States of America.

"WHAT SCHOOL will I go to?" both of our sons asked us almost every thirty minutes after arriving in New York. For all of us, that was a big problem. About the schools, there were a few choices we would be able to make: a public school, a private Catholic school, or a Japanese school in New York. For the older son, my husband and I had thought it might be better for him to transfer to the Japanese school so he would not have to struggle with the language problem. For the younger son, the choices were limited to two schools: a private Catholic school or a public school. The Japanese school did not include the lower elementary grades at that time, and he would have been in the third grade if he had been in Japan. We agreed that we would decide after checking on those schools.

About 8:30
A.M.
, April 15, 1985, two days after we arrived at our new residence in Fort Lee, my husband, who had arrived a month earlier, took us to those three schools. Both Fort Lee School #3 and Holy Trinity School were on Myrtle Avenue, in the neighborhood where we lived. We first went to the Holy Trinity School. It was a small, pretty school. Students wearing school uniforms gathered in the school yard around their principal, a woman. Then they entered the classrooms for the first period of the day. We went to the school office and waited until the principal came. The secretary gave us a kind look and said, "You don't have to be nervous" to our two sons, who had been taken to an unknown world. Soon the principal came into the office. After we greeted each other, she told us about the school. Because there wasn't room for our sons in the school at that time, she said that she couldn't enroll them. "However," she continued, "if you will come again in September, I will be able to welcome your sons."

Then we went to Public School #3. The secretary was a beautiful, friendly-looking lady. She was busy with one job after another, but she told us that our younger son could enter any time with the completed health forms and a certificate of proof that he had attended a Japanese elementary school. That was all. It didn't take even one minute. To many Japanese parents who had been accustomed to Japan's bureaucratic system, this might have been the very first moment when they noticed how open the school system of the United States is. We also knew many Japanese students were in the school. This seemed to be the most important thing for our younger son.

Then, because we had no car yet, we walked to the bus stop at the George Washington Bridge and got on a bus going over to the New York side. There we took subways and buses and then walked to the Japanese school. "It's too far." This was the first impression that we had as we made our way there. We heard an explanation about the school and that our older son would be able to transfer to the school.

We returned to Fort Lee and then went to the Lewis F. Cole Middle School. There were no students around since the school-day was over, and we felt assured by the open atmosphere of the school. A secretary at the office looked kind, and she explained a little about the school, just as the secretary of School #3 had done that morning. Our older son could be accepted any day after submitting a health report.

Each school had its good points. However, as we couldn't wait until September, we gave up the idea of going to Holy Trinity School. This meant the younger son would go to School #3. That night we talked about the schools that we had visited during the day. As parents, my husband and I decided it would be best for our sons to choose their own schools. We weren't being irresponsible; we hoped that the boys would become people who could take responsibility for making their own decisions. That night was the very first time for our two sons to make an important decision concerning their new lives in the United States. After a while, they said that they liked the public schools.