While I Was Away

by Waka T. Brown

  But the day I was set to leave, Obaasama started her morning stretches like usual.

  When Aunt Kyoko and I left, she paused only briefly to see us off at the door.

  “Ittemairimasu!” I told her. I’ll go and come back!

  “Itterasshai!” she responded. Please go and come back.

  The same as every day, like my leaving was nothing special. I guess she wasn’t going to miss me after all.

  On the way to Aunt Kyoko’s house, we passed a bamboo grove. Unlike the single tree my classmates and I decorated for the Tanabata Festival that only looked full when decked out in paper ornaments and tanzaku, natural bamboo groves looked full on their own—the branches bending and waving in the wind. Just like in the Tanabata song, the bamboo leaves made a sara sara sound in the breeze.

  In contrast with my grandmother’s dark, wooden house, Aunt Kyoko and Uncle Bushy-Bushy-Black-Hair’s home was light, bright, and modern inside. Their toilet had a small sink basin and faucet on top where the lid would normally be. When I flushed, clean water for washing hands flowed out of the faucet, and then the dirty water ended up in the tank to be used for flushing. Upstairs, there was a room with woven-straw tatami mats on the floor like the one I slept in at Obaasama’s house. There was also a TV like at Obaasama’s house, but on the TV was Little House on the Prairie.

  “Have you seen this show, Waka-chan?” my aunt asked. “It’s really popular right now.”

  Have I seen it? I’d only read and reread the books and watched the TV show whenever it was on, reruns included. Not only had I seen Little House, but Annette and I used to pretend we were Mary and Laura. Taking turns, of course, because we both wanted to be Laura. Nellie Oleson was imaginary because neither of us could bring ourselves to play her, even for the sake of story.

  I plopped down on a zabuton cushion in the tatami room and watched the first American TV I’d seen in two months. Little House in Japan was a bit different from Little House in the US. For one, Pa spoke in a gruff Japanese that made him sound like a grumpy bad guy. Ma’s voice was high-pitched and girly. Watching their lips move out of sync with what they said in Japanese struck me as hilarious, and I ended up giggling in parts that weren’t supposed to be funny. I sat seiza with my legs tucked under me since I was in my brick-red skirt my mom had sewn and it was shorter on me now than it was when she made it. But my aunt Kyoko told me, “Relax! You don’t need to be so formal with us!” and I unfolded my legs. It felt like letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding in.

  Two days later, Aunt Kyoko traveled with me to Aunt Noriko and Uncle Makoto’s house. I hadn’t gotten together with them or my other cousins since I arrived in Japan, and I couldn’t wait to see them all again. Although a normal Japanese girl my age would have made the journey on her own, Aunt Kyoko had to accompany me since I was still unfamiliar with the public transportation system to Chiba, where my other cousins lived. We traveled by train for close to an hour and a half to reach the station near their house. As we changed trains, Aunt Kyoko told me, “So you’ll need to change platforms here. Follow these signs and make sure you’re headed toward this station before you get on. The next train you’ll board is orange.” For her to take me to my other aunt’s house, it would take her another hour and a half to get back to her own house. I needed to learn how to travel on my own.

  I told myself the hard part—that traveling by plane over the ocean by myself—was over. Still, the Japanese train network scared me. When I was nine years old, I had to go by train with my siblings to the international school where I barely learned any Japanese. Japanese trains are so packed in the mornings that uniformed railway workers have to push passengers into the trains and hold them there so the train doors could slide shut—like trying to zip your pants after eating a huge Thanksgiving meal! One morning, I got off at the right stop for my school, but my older brother and sister couldn’t. They were stuck in the crush of people, and so I watched helplessly as the doors closed and the train took them to who-knows-where. I waited, frozen in place on the station platform. After fifteen very long minutes, they arrived back where they had left me. Since then, I always worried about getting lost on the trains and never being able to get back to where I was supposed to be.

  When I arrived at my cousins’ house, Hina and Maki greeted me at the door just like they did when I arrived in Japan. They took my red canvas backpack just like they did two months ago. When I slipped off my shoes, I remembered to turn them so they faced out. That part was different.

  “Waka-chan, hisashiburi. Asobou!” My cousins’ greeting was short and to the point. It’s been a while. Let’s play!

  “Un, asobou!” My response was too. Yeah, let’s! The words came easily now. That part was different too.

  Even though we played, Japanese summer vacation wasn’t all fun and games. Not only was Japanese summer break half the length of American summer vacation, but the teachers assigned homework students had to complete before school began again at the beginning of September. It was okay because I had assigned myself homework too. When Maya, Hina, and Maki studied, I studied. They didn’t have to take turns to entertain me like last time. I was also a Japanese student now, and I had things to do, just like them. First, I had to keep a journal:

  ７月28日昭和５９年

  Shichi-gatsu nijuuhachi-nichi Showa gojuu-kyuu nen

  今日はあつかったです。３８どぐらいでした。いとこと遊びました。

  Kyou wa atsukatta desu. Sanjuu-hachido gurai deshita. Itoko to asobimashita.

  たのしかったです。勉強もしました。

  Tanoshikatta desu. Benkyou mo shimashita.

  If you’re curious about what I wrote, here’s the translation.

  July 28, in the 59th year of Emperor Showa’s reign (basically, 1984)

  Today was hot. About 38 degrees (Celsius, in case you thought, “That’s cold, not hot!”). I played with my cousins.

  It was fun. I also studied.

  Not earth-shattering literature. But it was more than I could write two months ago. Not to mention as an added bonus, I threw in some new kanji I had learned.

  Speaking of kanji, I also made plans to study those while on “break.”

  “I will read, I will read,” I told myself. “I will read in front of all you bozos, every single one of you. Who’s a gaijin now?” Nothing motivated me more than the prospect of showing up a bunch of bozos.

  Even though summer break wasn’t all fun and games, there were fun and games, like going to the brand-new Tokyo Disneyland! I’d never even been to the original Disneyland in the US. “Oh my Gawd, it was, like, so awesome!” gushed one of my classmates last year. “Disneyland really is, like, the best place on earth!” Most of us were annoyed she couldn’t stop talking about it, but I admit it: We were jealous too. Totally.

  “Tokyo Disneyland, here we come!” my cousins said on the short train ride from where they lived. They smiled as they jumped up and down inside themselves because Japanese people didn’t jump up and down outside themselves like Americans did.

  I was excited, but worried about the unknown—what if it wasn’t as wonderful as we heard it would be?

  When we walked through the gates to the park, the sidewalks sparkled like they were made of diamonds. The Disney castle, looking exactly like the fairy-tale castles of my imagination, made my heart beat faster. Could it be Disneyland was every bit as magical as I hoped it would be? I didn’t mind the wait for the rides because there was so much to see and take in. Larger-than-life Disney characters strolled around, waving, bowing, sometimes hugging. Some of the younger kids cried and screamed when six-foot-tall Pluto approached. Understandable. If Pluto tried to hug her, Obaasama might have popped him in the nose.

  When Cinderella and her Prince Charming made their entrance, I stopped and stared. “Welcome to our kingdom, hello!” they said in English as they smiled and waved at everyone walking by. They sounded American. Then it struck me—these were the first
Americans I’d seen since arriving in Japan. They were gaijin, foreigners, like me. Little girls dragged their mommies toward blond and beautiful Cinderella, but then shied away and hid their faces when she leaned over to speak to them. I thought about approaching the Disney royal couple too, with a “Hello! Where in the US are you from?” How surprised they’d be! Would they recognize my Kansan twang and ask where in the US I was from? Or would they tell me I spoke English “real good”? I ended up not saying anything—I didn’t want to destroy the illusion of Cinderella and Prince Charming for all the little girls . . . or for myself either.

  “Space Mountain, Space Mountain! Have you heard of Space Mountain?” my cousins asked. “We have to ride Space Mountain!”

  I’d never ridden a roller coaster before and I didn’t know what to expect. Annette loved the roller coasters at Worlds of Fun, the amusement park in Kansas City, but my family had never been despite years of begging.

  Annette. I hadn’t thought of her or Kris since the beginning of summer vacation. I felt a twinge of guilt because I received letters from them that I hadn’t responded to yet—I had been too busy getting ready to visit my cousins. I made up my mind to write as soon as we got back to the house.

  The line moved at a snail’s pace up and inside the “mountain.” Unlike the sunny outside, the loading area was like night. When it was finally our turn to load into the “rocket,” I tried to move the restraint they had lowered, but it didn’t budge at all. That meant I was safe, right? The ride started slowly but then all of a sudden, careened around curves, swerved, and dipped so much I felt like I was being sucked into a black hole. I was too scared to even scream. We were in total darkness except for occasional streaking pinpoints of light—which only served to show exactly how fast we were going. Get me outta here! I thought as we slowed to a stop and the restraints lifted. Oh heck, that was awful.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Annette . . . and maybe Obaasama too. Just a hunch, but I bet she was a roller coaster type, deep down inside. I felt another twinge of guilt. I hadn’t thought much about her either, with all the fun I’d been having.

  For my Disneyland souvenir, I bought a necklace from one of the fancy shops. It was a small bunch of delicate, lilac-colored glass grapes on a silver chain. It had two light-green glass leaves on it too. I couldn’t wear it at my Japanese school. We weren’t allowed to wear jewelry—we weren’t even allowed to have pierced ears! But I tucked it away and tried not to think about how long it would be before I could wear it someplace.

  A trip to the beach was the final activity with my cousins for my summer break. It was the one I looked forward to most because I grew up landlocked and beachless. When we arrived at their rustic beach cottage, my aunt, uncle, cousins, and I took down the wooden shutters from the outside and opened all the windows and doors. We removed the faded bedsheets that covered and protected the furniture while they had been away, and swept the floor, freeing it from the dust and sand that had crept in while the cottage waited for its owners’ return. It was sunny and warm—Obaasama’s feet wouldn’t be cold here! I hoped my red socks were keeping her feet warm while I was away.

  “Waka-chan, come on! As soon as we finish our homework, we can go to the beach!” The excitement in Maki’s voice reminded me where I was. I wrote as quickly as I could in my journal:

  August 9, in the 59th year of Emperor Showa’s reign

  It’s hot today—about 40 degrees Celsius. I ate breakfast.

  There, done. Time for the beach!

  Our feet kicked up dust from the road, and the sun beat down our backs for what felt like an eternity (it was only a mile). We heard the dull roar of the ocean before we saw it, and when we finally caught sight of the waves, my cousins and I ran toward them.

  “Wanna dig for clams?” Hina shouted. She pointed at the little holes dotting the beach. “These are clam holes!”

  We didn’t bring any shovels so we scooped up the wet sand with our hands. We dug as fast as we could, before a wave came and filled up our efforts. When they did, we laughed and dug again. Sure enough, one handful revealed a dozen tiny clams that were pale gray with a lavender tint. We squealed in celebration, and squealed again when the clams tried to escape, pointing their narrow edges down as they burrowed back into the sand as quickly as they could. Working together, we caught more than a dozen.

  “Where should we put them?” I yelled.

  “What?”

  The sound of the surf pounded in our ears. I asked again.

  Maki pointed to our sandals. We set them there, far from the water, no chance of them getting away again.

  Another reason I loved the beach was that language—kanji, kasu-RI no mon-PEH, or kasuri no monpe, whatever it was—didn’t matter out here, only the mighty ocean did. The ocean I flew over months ago, I now waded in, splashed in, played in.

  The cool water and white sea foam bubbled and swirled around my waist.

  Across this ocean was my old school, Annette and Kris, my family. I wondered how they were. I wondered if they ever looked across the wide Kansas fields and thought about me. The waves that crashed before me pushed me toward the golden sands of the beach.

  I turned my back on the ocean and thought about everyone who was here for me in Japan. My cousins, aunts, uncles, Reiko, and . . . Obaasama. When the waves retreated to the ocean, they pulled me away from the shore.

  Over and over, the waves crashed and pushed, retreated and pulled. If I stood here long enough, where would the ocean’s tug-of-war leave me?

  “Don’t go too far, Waka-chan! The currents are strong here!” Hina shouted and motioned me back closer to them.

  We returned to the beach house after hours of play, crusted in sand and salt, tired, dusty, and happy. I carried the clams back in the pocket of my shorts and gave them to my aunt.

  “Wow, you caught so many!”

  “I thought you could put them in a soup,” I explained.

  She nodded. “I’ll see what I can whip up.”

  I forgot all about the clams, though, when we gathered around the cottage’s small TV to watch the Olympics. Like the solar eclipse I missed because I was in Japan, I was missing this in a way too. Los Angeles hosted the Olympics this year, but I couldn’t watch them in real time because I was over here.

  It was the women’s gymnastics competition that night. A graceful Romanian girl and a perky, powerful American girl battled it out for the gold. When the American girl scored a perfect ten and clinched the gold with her explosive last vault, a smile took up over half her face. The commentators called it “megawatt.”

  “Yay!” I cheered.

  My uncle shook his head, though. “I thought the Romanian girl was better.”

  “She only lost because the Olympics are in the US.” My aunt agreed.

  The Romanian girl certainly was very graceful, but the American gymnast’s last vault was even better! My relatives’ comments made me think, though. Was the judging fair? And it was okay her win made me happy . . . wasn’t it?

  We also watched the women’s 3,000-meter race and gasped when it looked like the South African runner tripped the American athlete favored to win. My heart hurt for the American when she stumbled to the track and was carried off in tears. When the South African runner tried to apologize afterward, the American woman snapped, “Don’t bother.”

  My uncle shook his head again. “It certainly looked like there was some bumping going on, but that American woman is a very bad sport.”

  My aunt agreed again, “Yes, she has a very bad attitude.”

  I had a feeling Obaasama would think so too.

  One after another, the American athletes racked up medal after medal. I didn’t cheer anymore, though. I didn’t like feeling my relatives and I might be on different sides. When an American won the first women’s Olympic marathon ever, I kept my happiness inside. It wasn’t even close—she deserved the gold, fair and square. Night after night, we watched countries compete, and all too soon the closing ceremonie
s signaled that in addition to the Olympics, my summer with my cousins was also coming to an end.

  Seventeen

  “Tadaima,” I called out to let Obaasama know that I’d returned.

  When Obaasama appeared from the kitchen to greet me and Aunt Noriko, I hoped for a smile, but I didn’t get one.

  “Oh,” Obaasama responded. “Welcome back.”

  Why did I hope she missed me? That she was lonely while I was away? No, I didn’t want that, but . . . well, maybe that meant she had a nice break too.

  The morning after my return, Obaasama did her calisthenics while she watched a news report about the Olympics. She asked, “Did you watch them?”

  “I did,” I responded. “It was fun watching the Americans—”

  “Made me want to cry,” she interrupted. “We Japanese are not as big. Not as strong or fast. Watching all our athletes try so hard and barely win anything.”

  Cry? It was hard to imagine my grandmother crying about anything.

  I talked so much during my summer break with my cousins. With Obaasama’s comment, I felt silence descending upon me again.

  While the summer had been hot, I didn’t really notice it when I was with my cousins. But the August city heat felt different from beach heat. With no ocean breeze to move the air, the humidity weighed me down and slowed my thoughts, movements, and time in general. Should I help Obaasama in the garden? I thought. Nah, the mosquitoes would just feast on me—and she never seemed to want me to. Instead, I stayed close to the green katori senko mosquito coil with its constant orange ember and lazy plume of smoke that wrapped me in its musky, sweet haze.