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.
Somewhere Among Page 2
