Somewhere Among Read online

  the number of syllables,

  and the sound

  have to be carefully considered.

  For good luck. And bad.

  Obaachan consulted family registers,

  books, and priests.

  Grandpa Bob and Nana asked

  for a name

  they could pronounce.

  There are sounds in Japanese

  that English doesn’t have.

  Papa came up with Ema

  Obaachan suggested E-mi-ri

  Emily in English

  with the spelling headache of r versus l.

  Mom’s university English students drive her crazy with that.

  So Papa put his foot down

  choosing a name without family consultation.

  Ema, Eh-ma.

  It was not on Obaachan’s list of possibilities.

  Trying to smooth things, Jiichan said,

  “It sounds like the name for shrine plaques.”

  (He meant the ones for wishes and prayers.)

  Mom liked the meaning of the kanji choices,

  “mercy” and “truth.”

  Americans call me Em-ma.

  They don’t know

  that extra consonant makes my name

  sound like the Japanese name

  for God of Hell.

  The god who stands at the gate and chooses who should enter.

  OF COURSE

  No one ever thinks of any of that

  when they see or hear my name,

  Mom says,

  it’s like thinking of a forest when you hear Mr. Forrest.

  Still, I insist on Ema

  here.

  This baby’s name will

  have good kanji choices

  and will be

  easy to say

  in both languages.

  I will make sure of this.

  UNNAMED BABY

  We don’t know

  if this baby is a boy or a girl.

  Every month Mom has a doctor’s appointment.

  Every month Mom has a sonogram.

  Every month Mom refuses to know.

  No name

  for a boy or a girl

  has been suggested or discussed.

  Mom is waiting to see this baby’s face.

  Other babies have almost come but were lost.

  And this baby was almost lost too.

  So far, Obaachan is silent about baby names.

  This no-name no-face baby has a lot of power.

  BUT NOT ENOUGH

  To keep Papa here with us

  he needs more hours in the day:

  working fourteen hours a day

  commuting four hours

  with

  notes from me

  beside his midnight dinner rice bowl

  notes from him

  beside my morning breakfast cereal bowl,

  Papa was only sleeping here.

  Obaachan convinced him to leave

  on our second Sunday here

  he packed his bag

  to go home

  telling me

  not to cling

  not to cry

  not to worry.

  I feel stuck on the ground.

  I look up into the palm tree

  and imagine it

  reaching for the sky

  reaching up over the houses

  reaching outward with

  its big leaf hands pulling at Papa

  down closer to the bay

  up closer to the sky

  in our company apartment

  paying low rent

  saving for a house

  saving for this baby and me.

  Papa is not home without us

  calls every night

  speaks to Mom,

  this baby,

  and me.

  It is not enough.

  NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

  Papa only on the weekend

  Grandpa Bob and Nana only on the phone

  this summer

  I will miss them.

  Grandpa Bob smiles

  all the time

  when I am with him

  in America

  he sings

  “Me and My Shadow.”

  I am his shadow.

  Nana sings I am her sunshine.

  Jiichan knows the song;

  one verse of that,

  the happy birthday song,

  and some basics he learned

  from American soldiers in Japan after World War II,

  are his only English.

  Obaachan only knows the happy birthday song.

  All of them sing that to me over the phone.

  I never spend my birthday with any of them.

  And because school lets out in late July,

  I never spend

  the Fourth of July, Independence Day,

  with Grandpa Bob and Nana.

  I never spend

  the seventh of July, Tanabata, the Star Festival

  with Obaachan and Jiichan.

  Until this year.

  Because of this baby.

  JULY 2001

  STAR RIVER

  Obaachan hands me

  a musty children’s book about Tanabata.

  I hold back a sneeze.

  She tells me to read it in my spare time.

  I hold back a comment.

  I know the story!

  The sky god turned his daughter and son-in-law

  into stars after she neglected her cloth weaving and

  he neglected his cow herding.

  He allowed them to meet once

  in July.

  I hear

  or watch

  or perform the story

  every year

  at my school.

  One time

  I was

  the star daughter

  separated from my star husband

  by the Milky Way

  waiting

  for July seventh

  for clear weather

  for magpies to gather

  to make a bridge with their wings

  so we could meet.

  Most times I was a magpie

  with paper wings.

  STACK OF PAPER

  I let Obaachan

  show me how

  to make a lantern,

  chain, and

  fishnet

  to hang on a bamboo branch

  for our first Tanabata together.

  I don’t tell her

  I know how

  to make lanterns,

  chains, and

  fishnets.

  She should know I make them

  every year to decorate our class branch.

  I do it her way,

  mirroring her folds

  and cuts.

  She eyes my every move.

  I cut too deeply

  into the fold

  of the lantern;

  it falls in pieces

  from my hands.

  She does not have patience

  about wasting paper.

  I glue the pieces together

  into shooting stars.

  BAMBOO FOR TANABATA

  Obaachan hands Jiichan

  one thousand yen

  shoos us out of the house

  tells us where to go

  all the way to the flower shop

  I tag behind

  like goldfish poop.

  Coming back

  I am like a caught fish

  clutching the tip

  of the shop’s tallest,

  fullest bamboo branch.

  Its bobbing leaves

  make me twitch, giggle, and sneeze

  at least two times,

  but I’m glad for the shade.

  I sometimes forget,

  on purpose,

  the old-lady parasol Mom makes me carry.

  RETURNING WITH BAMBOO

  The pine gate rattles

  gara gara

&nb
sp; along its runner.

  Jiichan bows low

  to enter

  I bow too

  even though

  I can make it through

  without bending.

  I let go

  of the branch;

  it bounces and whacks

  the top of the gate frame.

  Jiichan runs water

  into a jar

  placed at the front door

  the branch will not stand

  up straight by itself, so

  along the garden wall

  we comb fern shadows

  for rocks.

  He smiles,

  remembers

  hunting colorful eggs

  I brought here

  in a basket

  when I was four.

  We feed the mouth of the jar

  one,

  two,

  three rocks

  drop from our hands

  plop plop

  chapon chapon

  into the belly of the jar

  to help the branch stand

  tall.

  WISH RULE

  When Obaachan sees the size of the branch

  she says, “Looks greedy.”

  She hands me a short stack of narrow paper strips.

  She stresses me

  telling me not to wish for things.

  I know that.

  “Health and happiness and good fortune,” she says.

  BUT—

  Wishing on paper strips,

  birthday candles,

  and first stars,

  I ask for one thing—

  a room of my own.

  At home

  Papa and Mom and I

  eat, sleep, study, work, and watch TV

  in the same room.

  Only the toilet has a room of its own.

  MY WISHES

  I choose a sky-blue strip of paper,

  use my NASA pen

  to write my secret blue-sky wish.

  Reaching through leaves

  and decorations

  I hang my wish at the back

  of the bamboo

  so no one can read it.

  So Obaachan can’t read it.

  I make a healthy-baby wish too.

  I don’t write sister.

  It’s too late to wish for that.

  It has already been decided

  Obaachan reminds me

  if ever I say “little sister” out loud.

  I put my wish

  Healthy Baby

  where Obaachan can see it.

  And another:

  Better Skill in Crafts.

  These wishes will surely make her happy.

  OBAACHAN’S WISHES

  Papa always says his happiness is us

  tells me how he and Mom

  were bound to be together.

  Bound to her by a red thread

  tied to their smallest fingers,

  he pulled her here

  from across the ocean.

  “It had been decided,” he says.

  Obaachan must believe that too

  somewhere in her heart

  she believes in fate;

  she never does anything to cross it.

  Don’t kill a spider at night!

  Don’t point with your chopsticks!

  Don’t wear new shoes on a cloudy day!

  But she doesn’t know why

  Mom mumbles

  when she enters the garden gate.

  I heard Obaachan say once

  behind a closed paper door,

  “She grumbles about lowering her head when entering.”

  Mom doesn’t mind the low gate.

  No one tells Obaachan

  Mom mumbles about passing

  under the ladder at the front door

  there

  for Jiichan

  to climb up to water Great-Grandfather’s bonsai

  on the roof of the porch,

  the sunniest spot.

  For the health of the bonsai

  Papa told me not to tell Obaachan

  that some Americans believe passing under a ladder

  is bad luck.

  Obaachan was the first to hang her wishes.

  She is wishing for our health and good fortune.

  She forgot our happiness.

  JIICHAN’S WISH

  I watch each pen stroke

  of Jiichan’s wish,

  the only wish he makes,

  for a happy home.

  I make that wish too, so

  Jiichan has a better chance to get it.

  COMPROMISE

  Hanging Tanabata wishes

  is not Mom’s custom.

  I make and hang a wish for her

  Healthy Baby.

  I write it as neatly as I can

  in English

  so Obaachan will think

  Mom made a wish.

  So Obaachan has one

  less thing to fuss about.

  I translate the wish to her.

  Two healthy-baby wishes

  double the chance

  Obaachan will know

  we know

  what to do

  for Tanabata.

  PAPA’S WISH

  Papa calls

  and asks me to write and

  hang his wish

  on the bamboo.

  His wish is the same as Jiichan’s wish.

  A Happy Home.

  Everyone,

  even Obaachan, agrees

  our job

  is to keep Mom calm

  for this baby

  we need a happy home

  here

  for at least the summer.

  SHARED TRAGEDY

  At dinner, after

  wish making and wish hanging,

  no one says anything

  except the TV and Mom.

  A newscaster reports on the Ehime Maru,

  a Japanese fishing ship

  struck and sunk

  by an American submarine

  last February.

  Mom reacts to every detail of the accident.

  “Such a tragedy.”

  American divers had to map out

  a plan before searching

  and trying to raise the wreckage

  from the ocean floor.

  “Such a big job.”

  High school students,

  teachers,

  and crew are dead or missing.

  “Such a sad story.”

  No one says anything

  except the TV and Mom.

  JULY 1, 2001

  NO NEWS VIEWING FOR MOM

  The next morning

  I ask Mom

  to sit at a place setting of dishes

  so her back is to the TV.

  I want to watch, I tell her.

  The problem is she can still hear it.

  SUMMER DRESS BATTLE

  Upstairs,

  Mom pulls back the ties of my cotton dress

  close to my body.

  Downstairs,

  Obaachan loosens them.

  Upstairs,

  Mom tightens.

  Downstairs,

  Obaachan loosens.

  Upstairs,

  pulled tight,

  I hear—

  Fans!

  Altar candles!

  The kitchen stove!

  Downstairs,

  let loose,

  I hear—

  Stay cool!

  Safety versus coolness.

  KEEPING PEACE

  I agree with Obaachan.

  I want to be cool everywhere I go.

  But I don’t tell Mom.

  And I don’t understand—

  Obaachan should be trying

  to help Mom

  stay calm.

  Tightening and loosening

  my dress myself

  is impossible.

  I don’t want to get Jiichan in trouble

  so I d
on’t ask for help.

  To avoid this battle for Mom

  I start wearing shorts.

  One pair on.

  One pair on the laundry hanger.

  Shorts are not cool, but

  less ironing and less fussing

  is best.

  A BREEZE FLUTTERS

  Wishes at doorways

  of neighbors

  of shops

  of stations

  of shrines

  of schools

  ding ding

  chirin chirin

  painted glass chimes

  tell which way

  the breeze blows

  ding ding

  chirin chirin

  withered bamboo leaves

  wave good-bye

  as it goes

  ding ding

  chirin chirin

  colored paper strips

  push wishes

  toward the stars.

  AS WE COME AND GO

  Our wishes remind us

  of our hope

  to try better

  to do better

  to be better.

  Under the stars

  with prayer

  our wishes gather power.

  Jiichan is praying a lot lately.

  UNANNOUNCED

  The doorbell gurgles along a wire

  and buzzes into the room where we sit.

  I have never heard it before.

  Deliverymen just open the front door and shout.

  From the entry hall, Obaachan calls for me.

  Mom’s co-teacher, Dorrie,

  has Wednesdays off and

  has shown up without telephoning.

  Obaachan makes sure

  I make sure

  she puts on guest slippers.

  Scuffing down the hall

  Dorrie slides out of them

  takes them off and

  carries them.

  Obaachan follows her,

  inspecting her sweaty footprints

  on the shiny floor

  and disappears into the laundry room for a rag.

  I tell Dorrie to keep going.

  Seeing her holding slippers,

  Mom hushes a giggle.

  She flushes with excuses

  seeing the sparklers Dorrie brought, and

  gushes with happiness

  seeing the books she unpacks.

  BEST MEDICINE

  Mom and Dorrie laugh and gossip

  and after two cups of cold barley tea

  Dorrie goes to the toilet room.

  She steps out

  onto tatami wearing the toilet slippers.

  Obaachan muffles shock and busies herself with rags.