Mismatch

by Lensey Namioka

  “No,” said Sue. “My boyfriend told me about taking off my shoes inside the house.”

  Mrs. Chong looked relieved. “Good! Then he also told you about Japanese-style toilets and baths?”

  Uh-oh. They have di ferent toilets? “Uh . . . I’m afraid not.”

  “All right,” said Mrs. Chong with a sigh. “I’d better show you, after we bring your things to your room.”

  Sue followed her hostess to a tiny, neat room. A desk and chair stood on one side of the room, while most of the remaining area was taken up by a thin mattress spread out on the floor.

  “This is our daughter’s room, but she is away this summer to stay with friends,” explained Mrs. Chong. “I’ve unfolded the futon for you since I know you must be tired and will want to rest. You can fold it up again tomorrow morning.” She pulled back a sliding door and revealed a shallow closet with shelves. “You can put away the futon here, and also your suitcase.”

  After Sue deposited her things, she followed Mrs. Chong down the hall and around a corner. “Here is the toilet,” said her hostess, sliding back a small door. “Have you ever used a pit toilet before?”

  Sue gulped and shook her head. Pit toilet. That sounds awful. “But I’ve heard about them. I know that they’re used a lot in China.”

  “That’s right,” said Mrs. Chong. “They’re also common in Turkey, Russia, and some other countries.”

  Sue looked down at the toilet, which was essentially a hole in the floor. It consisted of a long, narrow porcelain basin with a raised edge at one end and a big drainage hole. Judging from the lever at one end, Sue knew that it was at least a flush toilet. She guessed that the user would be squatting over the basin, facing the raised edge. “I’ll manage, I think,” she said shakily. She was too exhausted to even think about it.

  “You’ll want to take a bath, too,” said Mrs. Chong. She led Sue down the hall and into a small corner room. The floor consisted of wooden slats, placed some distance apart for drainage. Standing in a corner was a deep wooden box, about three feet square. “There’s our bathtub,” said Mrs. Chong.

  The wooden tub was set on a metal box that looked like a gas stove, and was half filled with hot water. Sue didn’t see any faucets for cold water. She stared at the steam curling up and fought down her panic. Trying to sound casual, she asked, “After bathing, how do I empty the tub and refill it for other people?”

  “You don’t have to,” said Mrs. Chong. “You soap and rinse yourself outside, and then step into the tub for a nice, hot soak. Since you’re clean when you step into the tub, we can all use the same water.”

  Ugh. And a hot bath would feel so good right now. “I think I’ll just wash and rinse myself outside the tub,” said Sue. Nothing on earth would persuade her to climb into that steaming box.

  Mrs. Chong chuckled. “We’ve had guests from America before. They always seem to want to avoid that tub.”

  Sue smiled. At least she wasn’t insulting her host.

  After that, Mrs. Chong led Sue back to her room and told her she would give her some time to freshen up. Sue had thought that she would drop from tiredness, but after washing and changing into fresh clothes, she felt clean, vigorous, and very hungry.

  Following her nose, she arrived in a small room that had a dining table on one side and a stove on the other. “My husband has gone back to work,” Mrs. Chong told Sue. “We run a convenience store that stays open late. It’s just around the corner.” She began putting dishes of food on the table. “Come and eat. Did you have a good wash?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Sue. “But I didn’t climb into the box—I mean tub.”

  Mrs. Chong laughed. “I know. After the huge bathtubs in America, our tub here must look like a box. In fact, everything must seem small to you.”

  It was true. Compared with the rooms of Sue’s house back home, all the rooms in the Chong residence felt tiny. The dining table here was the size of a coffee table, and the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen didn’t look much bigger than a picnic ice chest. “I guess we’re spoiled in America, living in a huge country with so much space.”

  Some of the food that Mrs. Chong set out looked and smelled like the stir-fried dishes Sue’s mother made. In the eating utensils, Sue found differences from both the Chinese and Japanese varieties. The chopsticks were metal, as was the soup spoon.

  The food was delicious, and Sue began to devour everything Mrs. Chong put before her. “I didn’t really expect to eat this well,” Sue told her hostess. “I like eating some kinds of Japanese food, like tempura, and I don’t mind sushi. But after a while, I get tired of things made with cold, sour rice.”

  Mrs. Chong looked pleased. “I’m glad you like my cooking. I hope it makes up for our toilet and bath facilities.”

  Sue blushed. She hadn’t realized that her discomfort had been so obvious. “I’m sorry to make so much trouble for you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to have you,” said Mrs. Chong. “As I said, talking with you brings back happy memories of my years in America.”

  “Did some of the other host families spend time in America, too?” asked Sue.

  “Maybe some of them did,” said Mrs. Chong, “but I’m not sure. I don’t know the other parents very well. Not many of them live around here, you see.”

  Something in the way she spoke made Sue suspect that there was another reason that the Chongs were not close friends with the other parents. Mrs. Chong must have read Sue’s thoughts. “When you go to the Kasei School tomorrow, you’ll discover that our family is different from the others,” she began. “For one thing, their homes are more luxurious than ours, and more modern. Most have Western-style toilets, not a hole in the floor. Their bathtubs are made of fiberglass, and the hot water comes from taps. Our house is in an old-fashioned part of town, and the facilities date back to the nineteenth century.”

  “I’m surprised there are old houses left in Tokyo,” said Sue. She had read about the Second World War, so she knew that most of the houses in Tokyo had been destroyed by American firebombing.

  “It’s true that very few old houses are left,” said Mrs. Chong. “In fact, much of Tokyo had already been destroyed by the Kanto earthquake of 1923 and the fire that followed. The only part of this house from the old days is the bathroom. It survived both the quake and the bombing. It probably dates back to feudal times!”

  Sue and her hostess both laughed. But Sue was puzzled. “It must be expensive to send your daughter to the Toho School,” she remarked. As soon as she said it, she realized that she had been tactless.

  Mrs. Chong’s lips twisted. “The school is expensive, but we can afford the tuition. I make good money giving music lessons.”

  Sue was still puzzled, and Mrs. Chong went on to explain. “We are not well acquainted with the other parents at Kasei, but it’s not just because we are less wealthy than they are. It’s because we’re Koreans.”

  Sue was shocked. She couldn’t help thinking of her own family’s relations with their neighbors.

  Again, Mrs. Chong seemed to guess Sue’s thoughts. “You don’t suffer discrimination in America because you’re Asian?”

  “Maybe a little,” said Sue, trying to be completely honest. “When I started at my new school, which has mostly white students, the other kids sort of stared at me like I was something weird. But once they got used to me, they forgot I was different.”

  “They forgot you’re not a ‘real’ American,” murmured Mrs. Chong.

  “It used to be a lot worse, though,” Sue admitted. “My parents tell me that in the old days, white people jeered at the Chinese by shouting ‘Ching, Ching, China-man!’ But it’s much better than it used to be, and our schools have programs that promote multiculturalism.”

  “Even black people are accepted these days?” asked Mrs. Chong. She looked doubtful. “When I went to school in America, there was still quite a bit of discrimination against blacks. I heard that even today the police stop black drivers much more often
than they do white drivers.”

  “Well, unfortunately, that’s true,” admitted Sue. “There’s still a lot of racial tension in America. I think it goes back to slavery. It’s a hard thing to overcome.”

  Somehow that comment brought a sudden change in the air. Mrs. Chong’s face hardened.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sue. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Do you know the history of the Koreans in Japan?” asked Mrs. Chong.

  Sue shook her head. She knew that Korea had once been invaded by Japan, but she didn’t know the details. She knew that China had invaded Korea, as well, although that had happened a lot earlier.

  Mrs. Chong took a deep breath. “The Japanese first invaded Korea in the sixteenth century, but they didn’t stay. Then they invaded again at the beginning of the twentieth century, and in 1910, Korea became a Japanese colony.”

  Sue knew that parts of China had been occupied by various foreigners. But to have your whole country made into a colony must be much worse. Sue was sorry she had mentioned the subject, but there was no stopping Mrs. Chong now.

  “During the 1940s, many Koreans were brought to Japan as forced labor,” continued Mrs. Chong. “They had to do the lowest kind of menial work. My grandparents, as well as my husband’s, were among those who were brought here.”

  Sue swallowed. “What happened after the war? After Japan was defeated in 1945, all the Koreans must have been free to go home.”

  Mrs. Chong smiled bitterly. “Some Koreans did go home. Others, like my grandparents, decided to stay in Japan until things became more stable in Korea. You see, there were various forces trying to gain control of the peninsula. Do you know anything about the Korean War?”

  Sue nodded. She had read up on the war, and she also learned some things from watching programs like M*A*S*H. Her parents had discussed the Korean War, since China—Communist China—had been fighting on the side of North Korea.

  “My grandparents’ family were from North Korea,” continued Mrs. Chong. “They didn’t like what was happening there, and they made the decision to stay in Japan.”

  “Then you’re the third generation to be living here,” said Sue. She compared Mrs. Chong’s case with her own: Sue’s grandparents had moved to America when her mother was a young girl, and Sue had been born in the States. She felt like an American. “So do you feel completely Japanese?” she asked her hostess.

  Again Mrs. Chong’s lips twisted. “We are not allowed to feel completely Japanese. Many Koreans aren’t even citizens.”

  “But . . . but . . . you were born here!” cried Sue. She knew that even babies born to illegal immigrants who had sneaked across the border from Mexico were U.S. citizens.

  “That doesn’t mean we’re automatically citizens,” said Mrs. Chong. “Koreans living in Japan have to apply for citizenship, and it is granted only after a thorough investigation of the applicant’s background. Until we obtain citizenship, we have no civil rights.”

  Sue was shocked. “In America, people are sometimes discriminated against because of the way they look—their skin color, shape of their noses, and things. But you look just like a Japanese! How can they discriminate against you if they can’t even tell you apart?”

  Mrs. Chong sat silent for a minute. Then she said, “Take the Jews in Nazi Germany. Some of them looked completely Aryan, with blond hair and blue eyes. Yet they were rounded up and sent to concentration camps. So it’s not how you look or act but who your ancestors are that’s important.”

  Sue picked the last few grains of rice from her bowl and thought over Mrs. Chong’s words. “I guess in America people don’t make such a big deal about your ancestors,” she said finally. “Maybe it’s because everybody’s an immigrant, or descended from immigrants.”

  “Exactly!” said Mrs. Chong. “You asked how people can discriminate against somebody who doesn’t look different from them. Have you heard about the Burakumin?”

  When Sue shook her head, Mrs. Chong explained. “The Burakumin are called the untouchables of Japan. Although they are completely identical to other Japanese racially, they’ve been discriminated against for centuries.”

  “You mean like the untouchables in India?” asked Sue. Her friend Nareen, who had gone to Sue’s old school, was from India, and she had told her that there were different castes, or classes of Indian society. What caste you belonged to depended on who your ancestors were. The untouchables were the lowest caste, although you couldn’t tell by just looking at them.

  Mrs. Chong nodded. “That’s a very good comparison! The Burakumin in Japan don’t look different, and some have tried to pass as regular Japanese.”

  Sue had thought the caste system in India was strange, but this Japanese untouchable class was just as weird. “What started the discrimination against the Burakumin in the first place?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Mrs. Chong. “I’ve heard it may be due to their occupation. Hundreds of years ago, certain people were hired to dispose of corpses, kill animals— do work connected with slaughtering. Many of these people became leather workers, which was considered a disgusting occupation because it involved killing animals and tanning their skins.”

  Sue thought of some friends who were vegetarians. “I know people who refuse to eat food from animals. But they don’t consider us meat eaters untouchables.”

  “Killing animals was against Buddhist principles,” explained Mrs. Chong. “So a leather worker tainted not only himself, but also his family and all his descendants.”

  “But at least these untouchables have civil rights, don’t they?” asked Sue. “So how can the rest of the Japanese discriminate against them, especially if you can’t tell them apart?”

  “Parents don’t want their children to marry the Burakumin,” said Mrs. Chong. “When young people get engaged, sometimes their parents hire a detective to look into the family of the fiancé or fiancée, to make sure there are no skeletons in the closet, like a relative who is an untouchable.”

  Sue was shocked. She tried to imagine Grandma Mei hiring a detective to see if Andy’s family was Japanese. It boggled her mind. “There’s this girl in the orchestra called Ginny,” she said. “She notices only how people look, so she lumps Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans together because we all have the same hair and eyes and skin. I bet she’d be really confused by the Burakumin!”

  “While you’re here, you may discover that some Japanese discriminate against the Chinese, especially those who came to this country looking for work,” Mrs. Chong warned. She looked curiously at Sue. “You Chinese have also suffered a lot from the Japanese invasion. Don’t you resent them for what they did to your country?”

  Sue was startled to hear the phrase “you Chinese” used in connection with herself, and to hear China called “your country.” At school, the teachers and other kids referred to her as a Chinese American. “I don’t know much about the invasion,” she muttered. “But my grandmother was in China at the time, and she saw some horrible things.”

  “But what about you?” asked Mrs. Chong. “How do you feel, now that you’re actually in enemy country?”

  Enemy country? Maybe that’s how Grandma Mei thinks of Japan, but not me. Sue remembered her father’s story about Professor Hasegawa. “Not all the Japanese people supported the invasion. Some of them openly opposed what the government did, and they paid a price for it.” She looked curiously at Mrs. Chong. She seemed so bitter, so very angry at her country. Sue knew that America wasn’t perfect, but she couldn’t imagine feeling as fed up as Mrs. Chong seemed to be. “You’ve lived in Japan all your life. Haven’t you met anybody who’s been nice to you?”

  Mrs. Chong’s mouth dropped open. Finally she said, “You’re right, of course. Once I start, I can think of a great number of Japanese who have been kind to us: the parents of some of my students, the farmer who supplies my husband with fresh vegetables, some of the teachers at the Kasei School . . .” She stared at Sue. “You’re a remarkable young l
ady. I don’t often meet teenagers with such a generous heart.”

  Sue was touched. Some girls might prefer to be called beautiful or sexy, but this compliment from her hostess was the nicest she could imagine.

  Mrs. Chong got up, put the dirty dishes in the sink, and began to run water over them. “Let me help you,” said Sue. “I can dry.”

  “No, you’d better lie down and rest,” said her hostess. “You must be exhausted by your trip.”

  Suddenly Sue realized Mrs. Chong was right. She was totally exhausted.

  “Tomorrow the Kasei School has planned an outing for your orchestra,” said Mrs. Chong. Her voice already seemed to come from a great distance.

  As Sue stumbled toward her room, she wondered how the rest of the Lakeview kids were doing with their hosts. What was Andy’s host family like?

  9

  Andy woke up at three in the morning Tokyo time and couldn’t get back to sleep. After tossing and turning for a while, he decided to try his old trick: he picked the most boring piece of music he knew and visualized the score. By the time he reached the second page of the score, he was asleep again. The next time he opened his eyes, his watch said five-thirty in the morning. At home he wouldn’t think of getting up at this hour, but considering the time difference, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep again. In fact, he felt well rested and raring to go.

  The question was, go where? Very quietly, Andy got dressed and gently slid his door open. He walked down the hall in his bare feet, afraid that his slippers would make a slish slish sound and disturb the others.

  When he reached the front entrance, he took his shoes from the shelf and slipped them on, stepped down to ground level, quietly turned the key, and slid the front door open. Then he stepped outside into the morning air.

  It was wonderful. Taking a deep breath of the cool air, Andy walked across the stepping-stones and went around the house to the back garden, which he hadn’t seen yet. It was much bigger than the front garden and was immaculately groomed in the Zen style.