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  TO MY CHILDREN

  AND OUR JAPANESE AND AMERICAN FAMILY

  JUNE 2001

  PREPARING MYSELF

  Not enough room

  for me to give

  Mom space,

  I crouch in my corner

  fold

  clothes for three seasons

  into my suitcase

  slide

  pencil case, supplies box, assignments, notebooks, and textbooks

  into my schoolbag

  and slip my NASA pen into my pocket.

  I do not want to go

  to stay with Obaachan, my Japanese grandmother,

  but it cannot be helped.

  Every August

  I pack my summer homework

  shorts and swimsuit

  to fly to Northern California with Mom

  but this year

  I am packing

  on a school holiday

  the longest day of the year

  to go to western Tokyo.

  I will miss six months of fifth grade at my school

  I will miss our holiday by the sea with Papa before California

  I will miss a whole month of having Mom’s old room to myself.

  My friends will miss the cinnamon balls

  wrapped in pepper-red plastic

  I always bring back

  as souvenirs.

  JUNE 21, 2001

  DEPARTURE

  Our bags sit by the door, ready.

  On the balcony

  I look up into our patch of sky.

  Good-bye, View.

  At the door,

  fighting tears,

  I look into our one-room apartment.

  Good-bye, Home.

  In the elevator

  down

  floor by floor

  we greet people we see every day

  but do not know well.

  “Foreigner,” says a kindergartener,

  grabbing his mother’s hand

  before they enter.

  Somewhere someone

  who has never seen me before

  says something

  at least once a day.

  Clenching the NASA pen,

  I say “I’m Japanese”

  to the top of this boy’s head.

  Mom and Papa say nothing.

  The doors open

  I bolt past him

  running

  to the lobby

  to friends holding a sign saying

  Good-bye, Ema!

  The city’s afternoon chimes call children back home.

  We would all be saying good-bye anyway

  for the day.

  No one notices I lose the battle with a tear.

  THE LONGEST

  We wedge the bags

  into the trunk,

  on Papa’s lap in the front seat, and

  under my feet in the backseat

  next to Mom.

  The hired driver turns

  in the opposite direction

  of the airport

  and the sea.

  This trip by car could take twice as long as by train,

  but two hours

  with bus and train connections

  would be too much for Mom.

  Inching inland in traffic

  on stiff white cotton seat covers,

  I watch raindrops splatter

  Mom vomits into plastic bags

  Papa comforts her

  each time

  they apologize to the driver.

  CROSSING TOKYO

  Lights sputter on

  lamp by lamp

  along Rainbow Bridge.

  Headlights blink on

  car by car

  along the highway.

  Bulbs flicker on

  office by office

  shop by shop

  street by street.

  The driver’s eyes,

  lit by the dashboard, study me.

  A break in traffic

  and his eyes are on the road.

  We race a ribbon of light

  through twinkling towers

  with hours to go.

  After eleven years,

  I should be used to people

  trying to figure me out.

  I am not.

  I usually try not to say anything out loud.

  A BRIDGE

  Papa would say I am

  one foot here

  one foot there

  between two worlds

  —Japan and America—

  binational

  bicultural

  bilingual

  biracial.

  There, Americans would say

  I am half

  half this

  half that.

  Here, Japanese would say

  hāfu

  if they had to say something.

  Some people here and there say

  I am double.

  Mom says I “contain multitudes.”

  Like everyone else.

  MULTITUDES

  At home

  with Mom and Papa

  I am

  between

  two cultures

  two languages

  two time zones

  every day.

  Everywhere I go

  here or there

  I am different.

  Everywhere I go

  here or there

  people think I know

  half or double

  what I should know.

  Not like anyone else

  here or there

  I sometimes feel alone

  on an island

  surrounded by multitudes

  of people.

  Sometimes

  I’d rather be on the moon surrounded by multitudes

  of stars.

  WATCHERS OF THE SKIES

  NASA sent Chiaki Mukai,

  the first Japanese woman,

  into space in 1994.

  Grandpa Bob airmailed me the NASA pen.

  NASA sent Mamoru Mohri,

  the first Japanese astronaut,

  into space again last year.

  To help map

  millions of miles of Earth.

  Think beyond borders

  reach for the stars

  map your own world

  Grandpa Bob has always told me

  I can make a mark

  no matter what

  the NASA pen will work if I’m

  upside down,

  underwater or in space.

  Under any pressure.

  I carry it wherever I go

  I carry it to school

  I carry it to visit Obaachan,

  especially.

  ARRIVAL

  We tumble out of the car

  in front of Obaachan’s wooden gate

  she is all business

  paying the driver

  and

  supervising the bags.

  Jiichan, my Japanese grandfather,

  is all smiles

  being supervised

  but

  leading us through the low gate.

  The palm tree Great-Grandfather

  planted before he died

  greets us in a waving breeze.

  At the entry hall

  Obaachan i
s right behind us

  directing us each to our slippers.

  Toe to heel, I nudge my shoes off,

  slip into slippers, and

  before I can do it for myself,

  Obaachan turns the toes of my shoes to the door.

  Papa helps Mom balance.

  I step into the wooden puzzle box

  of sliding paper doors

  opening one room

  to another.

  I carry my bag

  across the wooden entry floor

  down the wooden hall

  up the stairs to Papa’s old room

  where we stay at New Year’s.

  Then, this house is like an icebox.

  Now, in the rainy season, it’s like a basement

  (Mom mentions in English).

  Soon, in summer, it will be like a hot-spring bath.

  Jiichan slides the paper door

  we slide out of slippers

  before stepping onto tatami.

  He has set the beds out for us

  like always when we visit

  three futons lie on woven grass flooring

  side by side by side

  just like at home.

  NOT AT HOME

  Mom is expecting a baby

  and needs to rest.

  Teaching English at the university

  and attending PTA at my school

  has made her too “sick and tired.”

  Grandpa Bob and Nana

  cannot leave their jobs

  and come to Japan

  so

  Obaachan will take care of us here

  Obaachan will take charge of my schoolwork

  Obaachan will take charge of us

  like she always does when we visit.

  DOWN TO BUSINESS

  Six a.m.

  Obaachan charges the stairs

  scoots out of slippers

  plods across the tatami

  and slides open the shutters.

  Mom sighs and rolls over.

  “Late,” Obaachan mutters.

  Poor Papa,

  tired after that long car ride,

  is already up and out

  on the train to work.

  He forgot to reset the alarm.

  Cloudy cool creeps

  through the window.

  No street noise just

  neighbors’ tongue scraping

  tooth brushing

  throat gargling.

  Moving a laundry hanger

  of Jiichan’s underwear and socks

  to a bar

  outside the window,

  Obaachan huffs, “Late.”

  I stretch,

  fold the futon into the closet,

  wait for her cue.

  Today is a school day.

  My first day

  at “Obaachan’s School,”

  enrolled until summer break

  at the end of July.

  I don’t want to be late.

  ORDER

  Obaachan barges past my elbow,

  empties my schoolbag

  onto Papa’s old school desk.

  Shoved into the corner,

  it takes up most of the room.

  She pushes the bag

  into the storage space on

  the straight-back chair,

  the only chair in the house.

  She says it will sit there

  waiting to go to school here in September.

  I slide my pencil case and supplies box

  into the drawer that’s mine when I visit.

  Obaachan retrieves them, saying,

  “Today’s schedule, books, pencil case,

  downstairs eight thirty,

  breakfast at seven.”

  She stuffs the rest of my textbooks and notebooks

  into a cubbyhole,

  smashing one side

  of the papery lotus pod

  that sits next to a cup of pens.

  Before she can toss it out the window,

  I tell her

  it’s old

  it’s Papa’s

  it’s my favorite thing of his.

  Papa has drawers filled with

  worn erasers,

  rusted pencil cases,

  small toys,

  old postcards,

  and faded notebooks of English exercises

  where he practiced phrases like “I have a pen”

  over and over.

  My favorite thing, really, is the room itself.

  Papa had his own room.

  A ROOM OF HER OWN

  But Mom’s room

  at Grandpa Bob’s and Nana’s

  is even better.

  Her teacups

  collected from all fifty states

  line the shelves Nana built for them

  over her desk.

  Summer by summer,

  tucked in flower-scented sheets

  fresh from the dryer,

  on a footed bed

  in a room just right

  (not too cold and not too hot),

  I would watch the nightlight twinkle

  along the rims of the cups and saucers.

  Mom did the very same thing,

  watching her collection grow

  state by state

  summer by summer.

  A CORNER

  At home

  a bookshelf and a chest of drawers

  in our shared room is the only room

  I have.

  I do my homework at the table before dinner.

  Our one room is too small

  for the desk Obaachan and Jiichan

  wanted to buy me when I started first grade.

  Obaachan insisted with suggestions.

  I have heard Mom say

  the first Japanese she learned was

  “Mind your business.”

  She probably said it about the desk,

  but I have never heard her say it to Obaachan.

  When we visit,

  Mom complains under her breath.

  Obaachan complains behind closed doors.

  Paper doors.

  I am glad Mom got her way.

  If I had a desk,

  there would be no room for this baby

  at home.

  CORNERED

  I will have to share my corner

  with this baby.

  I always wanted a little sister.

  A little brother would be okay.

  Any way

  sister or brother

  I have five months

  to wait

  for someone like me—

  this baby

  who will look like me

  understand me

  and belong with me.

  Five months

  will be a long time

  to stay here.

  Five months

  will be a long time

  to calm Mom.

  Five months

  will be a long time

  to please Obaachan.

  I am worried.

  WITH GOOD REASON

  First day down for breakfast,

  textbooks in hand,

  I am alone.

  Mom still has morning sickness

  any time of day.

  Late at five past seven,

  I ask for a tray for her.

  Obaachan says about me

  (or Mom?)

  “Best to keep a schedule.”

  Obaachan serves Mom upstairs;

  she doesn’t trust me with the tray.

  I begin to clear dirty dishes from the table;

  Obaachan tells me to prepare for school.

  I see it will be difficult to do

  my helping-at-home assignment

  this summer.

  I set out my books, my pencil case, my NASA pen.

  Obaachan tells me ink is not allowed.

  I’m in fifth grade. I know that!

  But I don’t say anything.

  Jiichan smiles at
me

  and tells me we’re testing

  the water.

  Somehow he thinks

  we will all live together someday.

  I don’t have the heart to tell him

  I already want to go home.

  O

  And I won’t tell Jiichan

  I don’t want to live

  with Obaachan

  he knows

  I feel closer to him.

  I think Jiichan knows

  it is hard

  to feel close

  to Obaachan.

  BELONGING WITH

  I am never alone in any of these rooms!

  I keep school hours

  on a cushion

  at the table

  in front of the TV

  where we have meals

  where we have tea

  where Jiichan sits most of the day.

  I miss being on my own

  going to school

  going to the park

  going to the shops

  in my neighborhood.

  Whenever we go out,

  Jiichan carries my boshi techo,

  the medical-record booklet from the city office

  with Satoh,

  the name we share,

  on the cover.

  He says, “Just in case.”

  But I know it’s because

  we don’t look like

  we belong together.

  My upside-down crescent-moon eyes,

  dark brown but not so dark that you can’t see the black spokes

  that circle my pupils

  are just like Papa’s

  but

  my high-bridge nose

  chestnut hair

  milk-white skin

  are just like Mom’s.

  WHERE AM I FROM?

  People ask,

  A-me-ri-ka?

  That’s what it is called here.

  Not “United States.”

  Maybe because the Japanese language

  doesn’t have some of those sounds.

  Like in Mom’s name, Maribeth.

  Me-ri-be-su.

  “It was good pronunciation practice for Papa,” she says.

  Japanese pronunciation wasn’t easy for Mom, either.

  She thought she was saying “Great-Grandfather,”

  but because of a mistake with one vowel

  she was really calling Obaachan’s father

  “Honorable Old Fart.”

  BECAUSE OF AN EXTRA CONSONANT

  There can be a problem with my name.

  Choosing a Japanese name is complicated.

  The number of ink strokes

  in the kanji characters,