By Naomi Fujimoto
“Hi. I can’t find my mother.”
At the Japan Airlines counter at Narita, two young men and a girl respond with blank stares, not the English I had hoped for. I try again: “Gomen nasai. Nihongo wakarimasen.” I practiced this with my mother. My accent is respectable as I say, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand Japanese.”
When I was two years old, my parents taught me some Japanese. Food was atsui (hot) or oishii (delicious). A toddler with a bowl haircut, I could already issue a warning or express appreciation.
Now, at 34, I’m looking for the right words, in a foreign language.
“I can’t find my mother,” I repeat.
One of the men closes his eyes and rubs his brow. “My muzzer, my muzzer,” he puzzles, trying to massage the translation out of his slim face.
“My mother,” I repeat. I can’t think of the word in Japanese.
“I — my mother — is a Japanese citizen. I … am … not. I’m American.” I take out my passport and feel a flash of hope when the men look at it politely. The girl wanders away. My left pinkie toe throbs, chafing under the stiletto that was made for a willowy girl.
I’m used to feeling out of place. In Wauwatosa, the middle class suburb of Milwaukee where I grew up, Mom brought sushi to the summer block parties — before it had earned the culinary respect it has today. During high school, a good day was one when my peers were too busy admiring my Forenza sweater and ankle-zip Guess jeans to make fun of my slanted eyes. I couldn’t imagine why I’d need to know Japanese, with its elaborate greetings and attendant rituals. I didn’t want to speak a language that none of my friends could understand.
My mother never complained that I didn’t learn Japanese. When I did disappoint her, she reacted with silence. And to hear her chatting on the phone with her mother in Japanese, her lightheartedness made her even more remote. She had an entire life that I couldn’t understand — not because it was abstract, but because I couldn’t recognize the little things that made her laugh.
My failure to speak Japanese had other costs. When I escaped small-town life for Berkeley and UCLA, I found respite from looking like a foreigner but felt like a sellout. My Chinese and Korean friends spoke both fluent English and a “native” language with their parents. I wanted to merge my Japanese and American experiences but didn’t know where to start.
I moved back to Milwaukee, ten minutes away from my parents. I didn’t see them often, and phone calls tended to be short, pragmatic, “Can you feed the dog tomorrow?”-type exchanges. So when I had the chance to go to Japan, it seemed like a good way to spend time with my mother and see her where she felt at home: with her mother.
Suitcases in tow, we departed from Chicago. In row 66, away from other passengers, we kept a polite seat between us. About an hour into the flight, turbulence shook the plane. I looked at my mom, who said nothing but gave me a wide-eyed stare. More silence.
When we landed, my mother left me for a different customs line. After waiting in line for an hour, I showed my passport.
And now I’m lost.
If I didn’t look the way I did, maybe the Japan Airlines crew would treat me like they would a hapless hakujin. As I struggle to find the word for “mother,” it amazes me that I’ve made a living as an editor, as someone who offers the right word at the right moment.
I try once more: “I am… American citizen.” If only I knew enough Japanese to get me out of the atsui water I'm in.
The other man at the counter has said nothing. He looks at me and finally speaks. “Wowww,” he deadpans, stretching the word into an almost Midwestern drawl. I laugh, probably a little too hard, at the only English he has spoken. He doesn’t laugh back, his face unreadable. Does he think I’m making fun of him?
The girl who wandered away has reappeared. Her artfully razored hair frames her cheerful face. “Naomi-san,” she singsongs, “your muzzer is waiting for you outside.”
“Thank you!” I exclaim, forgetting Domo arigato even though I’m a Styx fan.
I go outside and spot my mother. Unhindered by the rheumatoid arthritis that makes her move gingerly, she nearly runs at me. “I was waiting outside!” she reprimands. “Well, how was I supposed to know that?” I shoot back.
Later, Mom and Grandma and I snack on fun-sized Snickers and Twinings tea, Grandma’s favorite gifts from the States. In my grandma’s small living room, we tune in to sumo wrestling, watching the fleshy giants grab and totter. “Kaio! Kai-ohhhhhh!” Grandma yells, her tiny 89-year-old frame jutting forward in her chair. In just a few seconds, Kaio stumbles out of the ring, defeated. The match is over, but my mother and I look at each other and laugh, the stresses of our misadventure behind us. We’re finally sharing the same moment.
Even though language has driven us apart at times, laughter has brought all of us together. As a way of communicating, it’s definitely a better alternative.
Naomi Fujimoto is senior editor at BeadStyle magazine and the author of "Cool Jewels: Beading Projects for Teens." Her work has also appeared in Alimentum and Tennis View. She likes bratwurst, spider rolls, and playing Frisbee with her border collie, Papaya. Visit her at cooljewelsnaomi.blogspot.com.
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