Somewhere Among Read online

  I would not tell him I am hurt

  but

  he will hear it

  in my voice.

  NIGHTMARE

  All night

  a giant Masa chases me down

  the hall with a broom.

  Obaachan in her best apron

  shuffles

  down another hall

  taking her time

  waiting to ambush him

  for an apology.

  She has no idea he’s a giant Masa.

  She cannot see what I see.

  I shout out of the nightmare.

  Mom wakes

  calms me

  tells me to try to sleep,

  but I don’t want to go back to sleep.

  And I don’t want to go to that school.

  FOR SPORTS DAY

  On the playground

  or in the gym on rainy days

  we begin training.

  This class, along with half the school,

  turns our gym hats

  inside out

  showing the white sides.

  We are the white team.

  The red team, the other half of the school,

  wears the red side out.

  Teacher tells one, two, three students to darken

  their names on their gym shirts.

  We need to look neat and uniform.

  My last name is dark enough

  written recently

  on two ends of a cotton dish towel

  one half pinned to the front

  the other half to the back

  of this gym uniform borrowed

  from the school.

  From a distance, I will blend in.

  TRAINING

  Midmorning,

  we change into our gym suits.

  We practice the fifth-grade dance routine

  and sporting events

  and the all-grade relay.

  We participate in everything

  no matter our skill or speed.

  We will win events as a team.

  I am a fast runner

  which doesn’t matter

  except that

  every year I join the fastest runners

  at the end of the relay

  for an exciting finish.

  After the relay trial run

  Teacher says I will be a last runner

  and MASA will hand me the baton.

  AFTER PRACTICE

  Masa grabs, crumples, and tosses

  my math homework at me

  in front of Teacher.

  She ignores him.

  My NASA pen is missing.

  I cannot tell Teacher.

  Personal items aren’t allowed

  at school.

  BEFORE BEDTIME

  Curled in the circle of light

  from the overhead lamp, we lie

  futon to futon

  pillow to pillow

  face to face.

  Mom asks about school.

  Her cheeks,

  drained of the pink

  that flushes when she’s happy,

  fade into the pillowcase.

  Her eyes,

  flecked with the yellow

  that flashes when she’s angry,

  drown in their blue.

  My heart

  in my throat says

  lub dub lub dub lub dub

  in English.

  My heart wants to tell her

  lub dub lub dub lub dub

  I am broken

  about my missing NASA pen

  lub dub lub dub lub dub

  I am sick

  about the missing wish

  lub dub lub dub lub dub

  I am worried

  about Masa.

  I cannot let Mom hear my heart

  for this baby

  she cannot be worried or sad or mad.

  I stand up and pull the lamp cord.

  “The lunch menu looks good,” I say.

  lub dub lub dub lub dub

  That is the truth.

  SCHOOL LUNCH SCHEDULE

  Curry rice

  later

  this month.

  Soon.

  The serving lists show

  I am not in Masa’s group to serve lunch.

  That means

  we don’t walk together

  pushing the food cart to the classroom.

  That means

  we don’t serve together

  putting food on plates.

  That means

  I will have to go through the line for him to serve me.

  My name hasn’t been added to the list. Yet.

  SPORTS DAY PRACTICE IN THE GYM

  I am missing my old school

  the most during practice

  chatting, laughing, cooperating together as a team.

  Masa does not cooperate.

  Seeing him run toward me with the baton

  is a nightmare

  but then

  he comes to a dead stop

  tosses it

  makes me chase the baton bouncing

  end over end along the floor.

  Teacher tells us, “ganbatte,”

  “hang in there”

  “endure.”

  I do my best with all my strength to be patient.

  Glad it’s Friday,

  a whole weekend of escape.

  I need a break from Masa troubles.

  BAD WEATHER COMING

  “Eh-ma! Eh-ma!”

  I keep walking

  away from the schoolyard.

  “EM-MA!”

  I turn, see

  Mom and Jiichan in a taxi

  coming from her appointment

  smiling

  happy to see me.

  I give Mom the cold eye.

  Her face turns baby-seal white.

  She realizes what she has done.

  She’s put an extra m in my name.

  I look to see if Masa is around.

  The ears of the school

  my “walking to and from” group

  and possibly Masa

  hear her call me

  something that sounds like God of Hell.

  The eyes of the school

  my “walking to and from” group

  and possibly Masa

  see me turn red.

  I hide under my umbrella

  like a crab under a stone

  but walk straight

  through puddles

  alone.

  A weekend of worry is ahead.

  ANNIVERSARY OF WORLD’S TREATY OF PEACE WITH JAPAN

  Saturday morning cartoons

  then noon news:

  fifty-six years ago,

  Japan agreed to be friends with the world.

  Today fifty years ago

  forty-eight nations signed the San Francisco Peace Treaty.

  Maybe I can make a treaty with Masa.

  I look to the right.

  Obaachan sits observing

  every chopstick click.

  To the left,

  Mom ignores

  the whole table and TV scene.

  I’m stuck in the middle with Jiichan.

  It will not be easy to make peace.

  The earth quakes and rumbles

  the house shivers

  windows, doors, walls

  books, dishes

  rattle

  like the seeds inside Papa’s lotus pod.

  Eyes meet

  chopstick clicking

  stops

  begins again.

  The earth shakes them into attention

  to one another

  for a minute.

  SEPTEMBER 9, 2001

  GRANDPARENTS DAY IN AMERICA

  Dressed, fed, brushed,

  I call Grandpa Bob and Nana

  before heading out the door

  on Monday morning

  our tenth,

  Sunday afternoon

  their ninth

 
they haven’t gotten their card yet.

  ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL

  No one

  in my group

  mentions the extra m

  or my crab face last Friday.

  No one teases me

  but three members warn me not to walk alone

  because of the dangerous stranger.

  BOUNCING BATON

  Rain

  again today

  relay practice continues

  in the gym.

  It is torture.

  At least Masa says nothing about God of Hell.

  No school tomorrow.

  Big rain and winds

  from two passing typhoons

  are expected.

  TYPHOON DAY

  Before dawn,

  we sit at the TV

  the flashlight sits at Obaachan’s hand

  wind and rain rage.

  Later the TV shows

  people with umbrellas

  struggling on the streets of Tokyo

  and

  people in rain parkas

  standing in line at Disney Sea.

  It opened a week ago during typhoon season

  and two typhoons are hitting today!

  The TV tells us

  they are tropical storms, not typhoons

  but they sound like typhoons.

  Great-Grandfather’s palm

  grabs at the sky

  and other garden trees

  bang at the shutters

  like they want to come inside.

  I want outside!

  But I am glad to miss Sports Day practice.

  SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

  SHUTTERED

  I can barely breathe.

  This house

  dodges wind

  left to right

  right to left

  left to right

  like a giant Masa

  punching it

  pushing its walls

  pulling its roof

  rattling its shutters

  shouting through its cracks.

  Sirens blare

  airplanes are grounded

  trains are stalled

  power is lost

  (not in this neighborhood).

  This giant punches and roars

  for hours

  before it moves on.

  We are exhausted.

  Jiichan and I help Mom to bed.

  SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

  AFTER THE STORM

  I slide the shutter slowly, quietly,

  so Obaachan will not remind me,

  “Letting the night air in

  is not healthy.”

  Shutters slide open

  gara gara

  one after another

  house to house.

  Neighbors must like what Mom and I like—

  the sparkly air after a typhoon.

  Papa calls

  to tell me the moon and stars have come out.

  I have let in the sparkle

  but don’t even try to see the sky.

  I look at Mom,

  sound asleep,

  not enjoying the night air

  one cricket here

  one cricket there.

  TVs blare

  a news flash

  the whole neighborhood gasps.

  SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

  NOT KNOWING

  Mom sits straight up.

  “What?” she says.

  “I don’t know.”

  I scoot across tatami

  slide the door to the TV room

  but

  Jiichan, on the other side,

  holds the door in place.

  “What?” I say through a crack.

  “Good night,” he says.

  Good night?

  I look past him

  at the TV screen

  at smoke in a clear blue sky.

  A lot of smoke

  in real time

  somewhere.

  I don’t know

  what is happening

  so when Mom asks, “What happened?”

  I am telling the truth when I say,

  “I don’t know.”

  She turns over.

  Shutters closed. Eyes closed. I listen.

  The TV or the volume is turned off.

  The phone rings.

  I hear Jiichan say Papa’s name and

  “Let them sleep.”

  Jiichan rests the phone receiver

  lights the candle and incense

  strikes the prayer bowl

  and chants to open the gate of heaven.

  I don’t know what happened.

  Mom sleeps; I don’t.

  SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

  STUCK IN A MOMENT

  I remember Mom’s face

  her face before knowing,

  pale but rested.

  There is always good sleep after a typhoon.

  Clearing dishes, Obaachan suggests Mom call Grandpa Bob and Nana.

  International call service is overloaded.

  Mom is confused

  horrified

  crushed.

  Mom wants to see it,

  won’t believe it

  until the TV is turned on.

  Jiichan gently suggests no.

  Mom insists.

  Hours after the world has seen it for the first time

  we see planes hitting

  smoke fluming

  paper drifting.

  We watch the towers go down

  over and over and over.

  They keep showing it

  over and over and over.

  A dust cloud swallows New York City.

  There is more—

  a plane went down in Pennsylvania

  and

  the war department of the United States of America

  in Washington, DC

  is in flames.

  Mom sinks into the floor

  I cannot find my breath

  Jiichan calls the school

  I’m not going.

  Breakfast was our last meal in peace.

  SEPTEMBER 12, 2001

  ASHES, ASHES

  Papa cannot get to us.

  The world is on alert.

  He is at work.

  Later I hear Jiichan say to Obaachan

  behind closed doors,

  “If America falls, we fall.”

  Rooms are thick with incense,

  food tastes like burnt flowers,

  Mom will not eat much.

  Obaachan tells Jiichan, “No more.”

  He prays

  for the dead

  and the living

  without incense.

  REQUEST

  Mom says she will not

  speak to anyone

  on the phone

  except Papa,

  Grandpa Bob, and Nana.

  Friends call her.

  I say,

  “Sorry, she can’t come to the phone”

  in Japanese

  in English

  they ask if she is okay. I say, Okay.

  But she sits too close to the TV

  like she is trying to get there from here.

  She took control of the remote

  switching

  between cable and local stations.

  There is no escape for us

  from sounds surrounding us

  from images attacking us.

  Papa calls.

  Mom speaks to him

  says she needs to leave.

  She knows the world is grounded.

  She knows she’s grounded

  because of this baby.

  She knows she has to stay grounded for this baby.

  She says she needs

  to get out

  to go to church

  to light a candle.

  There is no church

  nearby.

  MESSAGES TO AMERICA

  Many nations quickly say “sorry” to America.

  REV
ELATIONS

  Five dead

  floods

  mudslides

  in Japan

  after two typhoons thrashed through.

  Death and damage reports still unknown

  in New York City

  in Washington, DC

  in Pennsylvania

  after planes went through

  and down.

  People show photos

  to the camera

  asking us

  if we have seen their

  son or daughter

  sister or brother

  mother or father

  wife or husband

  aunt or uncle

  cousin

  girlfriend or boyfriend

  fiancé

  friend

  Xerox copies

  color photos

  with names of the missing

  hang on fences

  poles

  and walls of buildings

  still standing.

  People have hope.

  MORNING NOON OR NIGHT?

  Time does not matter anymore.

  Grandpa Bob and Nana

  call again to see how Mom is

  how I am

  how we are.

  We talk

  not about towers

  and planes going down or through

  but I can hear it in their voices:

  towers went down

  planes went down

  and through.

  A foreign attack on American land.

  The world has changed for them.

  I tell them, “Hang in there.”

  But here

  on the other side of the world

  I’m having a hard time

  doing that.

  I do not feel safe anywhere.

  Obaachan asks me

  if I will go back to school tomorrow.

  I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL TODAY

  Jiichan calls without asking.

  NO COMFORT

  Mom will not light a candle

  at the family altar or

  at the table with me.

  She and Papa spend an hour together on the phone.

  “The phone bill,” Obaachan says. “Ten yen a minute.”

  Mom’s heavy book of poetry,

  the one Papa forgets to bring when he visits,

  arrives

  special delivery.

  Obaachan sees it,

  thinks it’s a Bible,

  sighs in relief.

  Mom sees it, sighs, says, “Heavenly hurt.”

  Thinking that’s the name of a poem, I open the book.