Somewhere Among Read online

  face to face

  to explain plans to bring

  nine boys and men

  of the Ehime Maru

  up from under the sea.

  They think these sons,

  brothers,

  fathers,

  husbands

  are entombed

  in the wreck.

  I feel the depth

  of sadness

  in the room

  on the officials’ faces

  on the family members’ faces

  on Jiichan’s face.

  I cannot control

  a tear from streaking

  my face.

  I smudge it into my wrist

  and join Mom and this baby

  in Great-Grandfather’s room

  cocooned among pillows,

  books, and family magazines.

  AUGUST 19, 2001

  GIANT FISH HEADING TOWARD TOKYO

  The TV tracks Typhoon Pabuk,

  named after a big fish in Laotian,

  raging across Japan,

  killing twenty people already,

  delaying trains and airplanes.

  Papa is stuck at the office

  and cannot walk to the train station

  to go home.

  And a rocket

  we’ve been waiting to watch

  is waiting for an airplane

  to bring a replacement valve

  so it can take off on the twenty-ninth.

  AUGUST 21, 2001

  CAUGHT

  Far inland

  we are

  bashed by

  wind and rain.

  Obaachan fusses at Jiichan for not

  replacing batteries

  in the emergency-supplies shed.

  Giant Fish Typhoon catches us

  with a dead flashlight

  but luckily we don’t lose power.

  CLEAR SKIES

  After four days of rain

  of staying inside

  Jiichan and I go out.

  He is stiff from sitting

  but manages raking and sweeping.

  Obaachan washes lunch dishes.

  Mom naps.

  I ride my bike to the shops

  to buy sliced pork,

  tomatoes,

  lettuce,

  greens

  for dinner

  and batteries

  for the flashlight.

  A mom passes me

  a wilted morning glory

  in her basket

  flutters its way back to school.

  Kids my age

  kids who may be in class

  with me in a week

  fill the streets.

  Some carry insect nets

  some carry cram-schoolbags

  some carry groceries in their bicycle baskets.

  Kids own the streets today!

  No one notices me

  no one knows me

  and

  summer is almost over!

  The city chimes tell us to head back

  home.

  I wish I could.

  NEWS BREAK

  For my summer read-aloud assignments,

  Obaachan makes me stand.

  But tonight, after dinner,

  I read the assignment,

  a happy story

  about forest animals,

  to Mom’s belly.

  Jiichan claps when I finish.

  Obaachan gives me a low mark for posture

  on my performance card.

  I tell Jiichan this baby is already learning.

  This baby can hear everything we say and do.

  Jiichan picks up the newspaper and reads aloud

  in Mom’s direction.

  I suggest the entertainment page.

  Jiichan’s voice booms like a drum

  and makes this baby tap, tap, tap.

  That makes Jiichan smile, smile, smile.

  He doesn’t notice he’s missed the evening news.

  ON SCHEDULE

  The sun comes in and out

  every other day.

  I finish my summer homework

  with multiple repetitions.

  Obaachan huffs in relief.

  The replacement valve

  for

  Japan’s National Space Development Agency’s H2A rocket

  made it through the storm, so it

  blasts off

  soaring into space

  to release a satellite

  hoping to keep an eye on North Korea’s

  future missile experiments.

  Jiichan sighs in relief.

  AUGUST 29, 2001

  LAST BLASTS OF SUMMER

  Hanabi, fire flowers,

  postponed by the typhoon,

  explode in partly cloudy skies

  down by the swollen river.

  We watch on TV

  smiley faces and morning glories and

  my favorite, chrysanthemums,

  bursting.

  After the finale

  firecrackers pop, whistle, squeal

  in parks, gardens, other neighborhoods.

  Papa calls to tell me

  to endure my time

  at school here

  patiently.

  I do not want to go to bed,

  but I do.

  I do not want tomorrow to come,

  but it does.

  I do not want to wake up,

  but I do.

  SEPTEMBER 2001

  ON TIME

  I open the shutters to

  the sun

  up hours before I wake

  it makes me feel late.

  When I leave the house,

  Mom says,

  “Hang in there.”

  I leave thinking I would rather stay here

  at “Obaachan’s School.”

  SCHOOL

  In an apartment parking lot,

  students and I wait

  wearing summer clothes

  holding our bags of emergency hoods

  and our bags of indoor shoes.

  I will be invisible

  until I walk into a classroom.

  But I see them

  look at me

  from the corners of their eyes.

  First graders in required yellow hats

  cluster.

  Classmates group.

  I stand alone.

  A line forms;

  two sixth graders lead

  one from the front

  one from the back.

  Mothers in threes

  along the street

  hold yellow flags at each intersection

  reminding drivers

  school has started.

  Some mothers greet us.

  We greet.

  Some mothers are statues.

  We pass in silence.

  We take our cues from them.

  Last night, a flag came to the house

  with instructions from a PTA member.

  Jiichan is on the street,

  smiling,

  filling in for Mom.

  SEPTEMBER 1, 2001

  PART OF THE DRILL

  At the shoe shelves,

  in the hall,

  in the classroom,

  I’m still invisible.

  The boy with cold eyes

  from the clump of trees at the broken gravestones is here.

  I see now he is big for his age.

  Like me.

  Teacher introduces me.

  Row after row of names is called. For me.

  Everyone sees me now

  that I have a name.

  That big boy’s name is Masa.

  No time for looking at me,

  for troublemaking or for chatting

  just time enough for

  listening to Teacher’s instructions,

  crawling under our desks,

  covering our heads with our emergency hoods.

  I think of Papa on the other side of
Tokyo

  doing drills with other salarymen.

  They practice saving each other.

  After the last drill

  Teacher leads us (wearing our hoods)

  outside to the playground

  to hand us over to our moms

  after a speech

  and a moment of silence at noon

  in memory of the big earthquake

  on this day in 1923.

  Jiichan stands in for Mom again.

  We walk his bicycle back.

  Mom is napping next to the table.

  Obaachan has cold tea and homemade onigiri waiting.

  They have already eaten.

  Jiichan eats one onigiri and nods off

  after a weeklong check of every item

  in the emergency shed.

  We are all a little more prepared for

  the Big One, one like the 1923 earthquake,

  scientists say will hit Tokyo again

  in the future.

  For now, I’m more worried about Masa,

  the boy with the cold eyes.

  And I have all Sunday to worry about him.

  STANDING OUT

  One look in the mirror

  and I know what happened.

  Last night, shutters open,

  I moved off my futon

  looking for a slice of full moon

  and fell asleep.

  This morning

  my whole right side

  is cratered

  with the imprint of tatami.

  First full day of class I face giggles

  and Masa’s baby talk at recess

  asking me if I know how to use a futon.

  Everyone laughs and runs away.

  I look kind of funny?

  Out of this world?

  hahahaha

  I understand what you’re really saying.

  FIRST SCHOOL ASSEMBLY

  The principal announces

  stranger danger on the streets.

  First week “walking to school” groups

  become “walking from school” groups too

  indefinitely.

  My first thought—

  Masa won’t be in my group!

  Second thought—

  A chance to make friends.

  Third thought—

  Yikes! Stranger danger.

  We walk along. Looking.

  What will we do when we see a dangerous stranger?

  I see Jiichan

  on his bike following us.

  I wait for him in the garden.

  He looks tired, but smiles

  and points to the sign on his bicycle basket:

  MAMA PATROL.

  Jiichan is my official mom.

  THE SCREAMER

  I hand Obaachan a note from school

  with an order form for a screamer.

  Small but loud

  it screams

  when the string is pulled.

  Teacher suggests we carry it at all times

  and move it from bag to bag

  schoolbag to cram-schoolbag to soccer bag.

  In my case, schoolbag to

  errand bag.

  Kids are alone on the street after Mama Patrol hours.

  I’m not.

  But without hesitation or complaint

  or a word to Mom,

  Obaachan fills out the form

  puts it and the money

  in the envelope

  and stamps it

  stone to paper

  with the household seal

  for everyday expenses.

  BAG BY BAG

  I am moving

  into this school.

  I hide my NASA pen

  in my desk box.

  I hold on to it

  at my desk

  sitting,

  listening,

  paying attention.

  Without my NASA pen

  at the board

  in line for lunch or for the toilet

  in the music room or in the gym,

  I look down

  at the scuffs

  and the dust

  from my old school

  on my indoor shoes.

  FLOWER HEADS

  Group by group

  we tape

  our English practice papers

  to the classroom wall.

  Teacher put a circle

  next to each correct answer.

  Instead of a number score,

  she drew

  a flower head

  at the top.

  A complete flower head,

  a center spiral with

  curly petals all around,

  is a full mark.

  Less detail,

  the lower the score.

  My paper

  has all circles,

  and at the top

  a circle spun into a spiral

  complete with petals.

  I tape it to the wall

  stand back to look at my full mark, and

  glance at the paper next to mine—

  all slashes and at the top

  the beginning

  of a spiral

  and

  the name

  written in romaji,

  the roman alphabet—

  MASA.

  I feel his cold eyes on me

  all the way back to my chair.

  INVITATION

  Sachiko from class

  and from my “walking to and from school” group

  is free on Tuesdays and Thursdays

  from ballet and piano lessons.

  She asks me to play

  (game players)

  in the park

  when it’s sunny

  but I can’t

  Obaachan says

  I shouldn’t start anything new.

  This is family time.

  There is a danger on the street.

  Besides, I don’t have a game player.

  I tell Sachiko, “Let’s play at recess.”

  Later among the papers I stuffed

  in my parent-message bag,

  I find a permission slip

  for swimming class tomorrow.

  All night I hope it keeps raining!

  CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF SWIM CLASS

  I ask Mom to sign the permission slip

  to say I cannot get into the pool.

  Like a school pool card,

  it has a checklist: fever

  vomiting

  colds

  scrapes

  bug bites

  I checked but have no checks

  except for

  the mosquito bite on my belly

  I scratched until it bled.

  Mom excuses me.

  This is the last swim class of fifth grade.

  I do not want to swim at this school

  I missed school swim lessons this summer

  I am behind.

  I would rather sit on a bench

  and let them wonder

  what is wrong with me.

  This is the first time I’m glad

  mosquitoes think I’m tasty.

  No matter.

  All the rain made

  the pool too dirty for class.

  Sachiko and I have a chance for fun.

  We make mud balls at recess.

  SCHOOL CLEANUP

  Masa’s group has brooms.

  Sachiko’s has dustpans.

  Mine has wet zōkin.

  Sweepers sweep into dustpans,

  we follow

  washing the floor

  dipping our rags

  in pails of water.

  Masa’s not sweeping;

  he’s zigzagging through brooms

  clicking handle to handle

  everyone ignoring him.

  He runs full steam

  my group

  parts out of his way

  I freeze

  he rams my thigh with his broom.

  I sink i
nto silence

  to the floor.

  Everyone sees,

  everyone hears

  no one listens

  no one comes to my rescue

  no one does anything,

  says anything.

  I double in pain

  and disappear at my desk

  into a spot,

  ink black.

  No one has hit me before. Ever.

  Sachiko tells me to ignore Masa.

  BREAKING A RULE

  I don’t wait

  for my “walking to and from” group.

  I run headlong

  into the garden

  to Jiichan,

  ready to go on patrol.

  Panicked,

  thinking stranger danger first,

  his eyes

  become so sad

  seeing and hearing

  about the bruise

  about Masa.

  Three times

  he places his hand over the bruise,

  throws his hand back saying,

  “Pain, pain, fly away!”

  like I am a child who has fallen down.

  Obaachan hovers at the front door.

  “Please don’t do anything.

  Please don’t tell Mom. Or Papa.”

  Obaachan says nothing

  puts on a clean apron

  and waits.

  One hour. Two.

  The gate bell is silent.

  No apology is coming.

  REACTIONS

  “Unacceptable,” Obaachan says.

  Even an accident requires apology.

  She calls the school.

  The gate bell dings at dinnertime.

  Obaachan is in the wrong apron.

  Jiichan stays with Mom at the table.

  Teacher bows low to Obaachan

  gives apologies

  for the late hour

  for my bruise

  for not knowing.

  “Poor thing,” she says to me,

  wants to see it, and is surprised

  by its size. As big as a five-hundred-yen coin.

  Obaachan stiffens

  then says directly

  that it is Masa’s mother’s place to apologize.

  Teacher turns red. “That is not possible.”

  Obaachan’s silence pushes for an apology.

  Teacher tries to disappear into the wall,

  explains in a small voice,

  “It cannot be helped.”

  “I am sorry,”  Teacher tells me.

  Down close to my face, she says, smiling,

  “Tell me first if anything happens.”

  Obaachan’s slippers

  scuff

  heavier than usual

  down the hallway behind me.

  I pretend I am asleep when Papa calls.