A Thousand Stitches
Page 7
The culmination of all this training, in our fifth year at Matsuchu, was the day we marched to Matsuyama Regiment and fired real bullets on the shooting range. And in the summer of our last year, the officers assigned to all the schools in Matsuyama organized a huge event. Again we were marched to Matsuyama Regiment. There the officers divided us into a Red Force and White Force, gave us orders, and set the two groups at each other in a mock battle that lasted all day. When we finally finished, we were hot, dirty, and exhausted. But we had to line up in formation again. Before we marched back to our schools, the regiment Commander inspected us, and gave a talk about how important our military lessons had been and how proud our parents and our teachers were of us. He concluded by telling us that we should be proud of ourselves and the work we were doing to prepare ourselves to serve our nation. As tired as I was, I was jolted into shock when his talk turned to China and Japan’s mission there. His use of the derogatory term Chankoro brought to mind my Raymond Weill friend and classmate Henry Fong. I thought that maybe Chink was the English equivalent, but no teacher at Raymond Weill would have tolerated hearing that term from any of the students, much less use it themselves—any more than they would have tolerated or used the term Jap.
English language training, in those days, began in secondary school, and my experiences with English at Matsuchu were always challenging—not in terms of the language itself but in terms of everything else associated with studying English. The only good experiences with English I had while at Matsuchu were outside the classroom, with Yamamura-sensei and the Grahams. Somehow I was unlucky enough to never be assigned to Yamamura-sensei’s class, but he knew about my struggles, was always supportive, and made time to speak English with me. My first bizarre experience came just a few weeks into the first semester, in algebra class. One day, Mr. Kashiwagi, the teacher, suddenly said, “Imagawa, I understand you speak perfect English. Come up to the front of the room. I think we need a demonstration.”
I was scarlet with embarrassment by the time I reached the front of the room. Matsuchu was still new, and no one knew this about me. I even think that my few Bancho friends who were with me at Matsuchu had forgotten about the perfect little English-speaking gentleman from San Francisco. I’m sure I blushed even more when Mr. Kashiwagi announced what he wanted. “Tell us the fairy tale of Momotaro in English. I think we’ll all be interested to hear something so familiar in another language.”
I stumbled through as best I could, trying not to be insulted that I was being made to perform like a trained monkey and forced to recount such a childish tale to boot. When I finished, my classmates laughed and clapped, and one smart aleck in the back of the room let loose a loud whistle. Mr. Kashiwagi silenced the commotion with a stern look and then turned to me, “Well, Imagawa, I couldn’t understand a single word, but it sounded good to me. You may return to your seat.” I did, yearning for my lost anonymity and desperately hoping this humiliating experience wouldn’t be repeated.
Mercifully, it wasn’t. Mr. Kashiwagi’s curiosity was satisfied, but my troubles with English were far from over. I thought the worst was when I realized I couldn’t, without great effort, understand the teachers on the few occasions when they actually spoke English. I got in trouble when I pronounced words correctly rather than repeating their mistakes. But the worst really came when we studied grammar. To me it seemed like astrophysics—something extraordinarily abstract and complex with no relationship to anything connected to everyday life. I just couldn’t make myself memorize and spew back all the rules, which in my view, had nothing to do with English. By the end of my time at Matsuchu, I was a C-minus English student.
Even though I was never in his class, Yamamura-sensei was my best teacher at Matsuchu. On the second day of our first year, the principal explained all the club activities, and before the end the day, Yamamura-sensei sought me out and told me that he would save me a place in the band. I loved music and took every chance I got to sing. I thought about it all week, and by the time I went to the first meeting of the music club, I had decided that I wanted to learn the trumpet. Yamamura-sensei suggested the saxophone, but I was determined—I wanted to play the trumpet. But wanting it wasn’t enough; one of the seniors had the school’s only trumpet. The next best thing was the cornet. As the cornet player, I was a member of the school’s marching band. The first-year students didn’t march in public, but we spent a lot of time practicing on our instruments, marching around the schoolyard after classes.
Our first public performance was at the opening day ceremony of our second year. I was proud to stand with the rest of the band. During the parts of Kimigayo when I wasn’t playing, I loved having the music flow through me, happy to be part of something so big and so beautiful. Two weeks later the school band marched to the station with a group of recruits. Mother came to watch the parade, and at dinner talked about how proud she had been to see me. “Isamu, do you remember the first parade we saw, when we had just returned and were staying with your Auntie and Uncle? And now, just four years later, you’re in the band yourself. You looked great today.”
We accompanied recruits to the station three more times that year, but my real initiation to the world of military bands came at the beginning of my third year, when one of the military officers assigned to Matsuchu pulled me out of class. “Imagawa, if you can play the cornet, you can play the bugle. From now on you’re the bugler.” And I was, starting with practice that afternoon.
I soon came to appreciate what at first I thought was nothing more than pure military caprice. As the bugler I was always at the front of the band, following right behind our leader, Yamamura-sensei, and when the Matsuchu students were on military maneuvers, I didn’t have to crawl across fields, roll in trenches, shoot blanks at my friends, and charge “enemy” lines. My only task was to stand by the commanding officer and sound the bugle at his direction.
6. SAM
Matsuyama, 1939–1940
My last year at Matsuchu was the beginning of a period of disappointment and confusion. The next step was university, one of the military academies, or a local college. Many from the class ahead of me, and even some in my own class, had already left home to follow these paths. At the start of my last year, in April 1939, it was time to start making decisions. I secretly yearned for Keio or Waseda in Tokyo. I was confident I could do the work. It was all I could do to ask Mother and Father if I could try for a private university in Tokyo. I didn’t dare to mention which ones I was thinking about. They would have thought I was aiming too high. It took them several days to come back with their answer, and it was no.
“We’re sorry, we can’t agree to let you go,” said Father. “Not with the war the way it is. And you know that your mother may be conscripted into the Nurse Reserve Corps. We can’t let you go to Tokyo now.” At this point, the National Mobilization Law had been in effect for a year; my parents’ concerns that Mother could be called to service were completely justified. The nation was on a war-time footing.
So my options were Matsuyama Higher School or Matsuyama Commercial College, the two local colleges, since the military academies weren’t really discussed in my family as an option. The school year was off to a dispiriting start. I saw my future coming, and couldn’t generate much enthusiasm about my prospects.
Despite the disappointments, there was one somewhat auspicious occasion early that last year, one that boosted my confidence in a most unusual way. It had to do with an addition to the schoolyard. In some ways this event paralleled the appearance of the Kinjiro statue at Bancho, but it was a much more serious matter. The first day it was there, we had no idea what it could be. The new wooden structure just inside the main gate of Matsuchu was about seven feet tall and three feet wide. It had the curving roof of a Shinto shrine. At the next assembly we were told that it was a storage facility, of a very special type. The only things it housed were portraits of the Emperor and Empress. When explaining it, Principal Sato and Colonel Matsuura, our army drill master
, referred to it as a Hoanden.
What? I thought I was past not knowing Japanese words. I finally understood everything about the ceremonies like the one that had mystified me on my first day at Bancho, but I had no idea what this new word was or what it could mean. My fellow students had the same blank looks on their faces. This was news to everyone. Actually, I don’t think any of us learned the meaning of the word; we just learned what we were supposed to do. The big Kodansha Japanese-English dictionary I keep on my desk informs me that the proper translation is “Enshrinement Hall.”
Now that Matsuchu had this Hoanden, there were new rules. Veneration of the Imperial portraits was now a full-time requirement. They might not be on display when locked in the Hoanden, but we still had to show our respect. Every time we passed through the school’s main entrance we had to stop, take off our caps, and make the deepest bow possible before the Hoanden. It went without saying that the bow was to be accompanied by a prayer for long life for the Imperial couple and prosperity and victory for the nation. Even if we came through an entrance to the schoolyard that wasn’t near the Hoanden, we were supposed to stop as soon as we were on the school grounds, face the Hoanden, and pay our respects. Needless to say, this ritual was honored most often in the breach. But for some reason, I was captivated and promised myself I would never fail in this new duty. I realize now that I was still working to fit in.
At the end of our morning assembly about a month after the Hoanden was installed, the principal stepped up on the podium and told us that Colonel Matsuura would make a few remarks before we went to our classrooms.
“Boys,” the Colonel said, “I am distressed that I must remind you of your duties to the nation and the gratitude, respect, and obedience you owe to the Emperor. Some of you are shirking those duties when you enter the school grounds and fail to pay your respects to the Hoanden. Just because no one is looking—or you think no one is looking—doesn’t mean that the rules don’t apply. The heavens have eyes and I too have been observing. You should let Imagawa be your model. He obeys the rule at all times; he always shows his respect. Follow his example.”
I was flabbergasted. Me, a role model? I thought I was just doing what I was supposed to. As my friends and classmates—who I thought of as truly Japanese—turned to look at me, I tried to stand up tall and look proud rather than embarrassed by the attention. I realized with a rush of pride that I had finally succeeded in my quest to be completely Japanese myself—and maybe I was even a bit more Japanese than some of my peers.
We were hot and tired. As always, it was thrilling to march with the military, but this was the third time that week we had been to the station. Another group from the Matsuyama Infantry Regiment was heading for the front. It was our job to send them off in style.
A mounted officer led, and I was in the group of ten buglers behind the first column of soldiers. The rest of the troops followed behind. The instruments gleamed, the music blared. The soldiers moved forward to their futures, through the heat, through the dust.
As we neared the station, we swept past the groups of high school girls waving flags and shouting encouragement. “Banzai! Banzai!” And the families. The old grandparents, the parents, the little brothers and sisters. A few of the mothers and grandmothers were trying to hide their tears, but most were beaming with pride. I spotted Michiko in the crowd with her parents and realized that her second brother must be in this group, following his older brother to Manchuria, leaving Michiko alone at home with her parents. I knew she saw me and hoped she admired my uniform.
It was high summer, and my parents and I were staying at the Ishii Village house. As the parade broke up, Yamamura-sensei, on duty as music director, said, “Imagawa, I know your family is out at Ishii this week. I’ll give you a ride on my scooter. Otherwise, it’ll be dark by the time you get home.”
When we arrived, no one was home. I was sure Father was across the fields, fishing in the local stream. Yamamura-sensei and I decided to take a walk and see if we could find Mother in the orchards behind the vegetable garden.
“How are things in Suzuki-sensei’s class?” he asked.
I didn’t know how to answer. Everyone in the school knew I had gotten in trouble during the last pronunciation test, by writing my true best guess—bear instead of bell. Did Yamamura-sensei know that Suzuki-sensei had no idea how to properly pronounce English words?
“Well,” he continued, not waiting for an answer, “it’s not easy studying systematically. You know English in your bones and your heart. But Suzuki-sensei has the job of analyzing it and teaching his students how to do the same. And you have the difficult job now of learning how to analyze.”
So knowing how to speak wasn’t important—at least in the classroom this year. My job was to listen and to accept the word of the teacher.
“And, besides, who knows how much longer any of us will be able to teach English.” I wasn’t sure what Yamamura-sensei meant, but he switched topics before I had much time to think about it. “How are the Grahams?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Still singing?”
“Yes.”
“Still eating all those gaijin foods?”
“Yes.”
“Are you and Morgan still speaking English?”
“Yes, the whole family climbed up to the Castle last Sunday. We haven’t done that for years. Morgan’s dad says the view of the Seto Inland Sea up there ‘nourishes his soul.’”
“More poetic than the Buddhist priest,” said Yamamura-sensei.
We hadn’t found Mother and had tramped so far into the orchards that we sat down to rest. The heat was receding. It would be light for a bit longer, but the birds were beginning to find their way to their perches, their day winding down, as was ours. We sat down under the large oak at the end of the orchard. Yamamura-sensei began to quiz me in English, expecting the answers in Japanese.
“Listen Isamu. Ears first. Now tell me.”
“Kakko?”
“Yes, and the other?”
“Tsutsudori.”
“Yes. Listen, I think I hear a woodpeeker too.”
“Woodpecker, Sensei.”
“Thank you. Now tell me the name.”
“Ao-gera?”
“Probably, and now the names of the others.”
“Oaka-gera, ko-gera, and…and…”
“And what about our old friend Basho and the woodpeckers?”
I stumbled, but once he prompted me with the first word, it rolled out, “‘Kitsutsuki mo / io wa yaburazu / natsukodachi.’”
“Yes,” he said, “yet another word for woodpecker. How can we translate this haiku into English, Isamu?”
“I don’t know, Sensei. It’s hard. Maybe, ‘The woodpecker doesn’t tear at the thatched cottage in the summer grove,’ but I don’t think it sounds as good in English.”
“I agree. It needs something. Maybe we could switch it around, but we still have to get the idea that the woodpecker, who usually loves to attack anything wood, is leaving the humble thatched cottage alone. How about, ‘In a summer grove, the woodpecker doesn’t peck, sparing the thatched cottage’? Still isn’t exactly right. Ah, how difficult speaking and thinking in another language is.”
“Yes, Sensei,” I said.
“I think we’re almost finished with the birds, but I want you to learn the words komadori and meboso mushikui too. I’ll show you the pictures in my book next week. Maybe you’ll know the English. They’re warblers. You’ll like their songs. Now it’s time for my quiz. Are your ready?”
When I had first come back from San Francisco, Mother had shown Yamamura-sensei my second grade class portrait from Raymond Weill Elementary School. She apologized for the scruffy, undisciplined-looking bunch, but Yamamura-sensei had been enchanted and loved my explanation that the photo was taken on a “Show and Tell” day.
“It’s Henry Fong holding the Songs and Tales from Mother Goose book,” he said. “That I remember. Please tell me the others.”
“I love ‘Se-man-o-vich,’” Yamamura-sensei said with a smile.
“We used to think it was a difficult name, and the Japanese kids used to tease him with, ‘Nihon katta, Rosha maketa,’ even though we really didn’t know what it meant.”
“Ah, that old playground rhyme. It’s from when I was a student. Well, now, if you believe the government, we’re winning everything, and we always will.”
“Yes,” I said, hesitantly, but he didn’t give me time to continue.
“Keep going.” I knew he wanted to hear his favorites and repeat some of the names.
“Esther Gimbel, Stanley Crowe, Arthur Miyamoto, Clarissa Peters, Nicholas Johannsson.”
He played, as he always did with “Clarissa,” trying and re-trying to get his tongue around all the slippery sounds. Again, as part of our ritual I said, “Sensei, that sounds like ‘Chris.’ We had no one named Christopher in our class. It’s Cla-RISS-ah.”