My ninety-year-old father finally told me why he left Japan in 1952. He showed me an old, yellowed studio portrait of relatives I didn’t know existed. By this time, my father’s heavily accented English had floated away like the shriveled leaves off a dying tree. But even in Japanese, he was a man of few words. His bony finger pointed at the old photo - a proud bow-tied young man standing behind his family, “Boku no oji da. This is my uncle. He was a farmer’s son who became a doctor and then came to America.”

Judging from Great Uncle Ishii’s snappy outfit and his wife’s bobbed hair, the photo must have been taken in a California studio in the early 1920’s. The doctor stands by his seated wife who has managed to still their four or five year old son, Robert, dressed in a fussy Lord Fauntleroy outfit. Great Uncle Ishii’s hand rests on the shoulder of his daughter, Grace (Kanako), who looks about seven years old.

Great Uncle Ishii and his family looked like they fulfilled the American Dream. So why hadn’t my father told me about them until now? Why is this the only photo we have of these relatives? Five years after my father died, Covid gave me the opportunity to try to find answers. I started filling in the huge gaps in my relatives’ story. Starting at the beginning, it is mostly my imagination that fleshes out the bare bones I have. Great Uncle Ishii’s story must have started at the end of the 1800’s in the Japanese countryside:

* * *

In Kōshū of Yamanashi Prefecture, a Japanese farmer and his five year old son Ei, walked along the narrow banks of their rice paddies to the family cemetery. For generations, the family buried their dead in this tiny plot - always in view as they planted and harvested. The farmer and Ei passed the small Jizo statue put up for Ei’s dead brothers who died too young to be in the cemetery. The farmer nodded to Jizo and Ei copied his father’s greeting. The green dome of trees of the cemetery reminded Ei of the giant turtle who carried Urashima Taro to a fantastic undersea kingdom. An old tale about a fisherman who never returned.

“Otoosan. How big is the ocean?” Ei said to his father who walked before him carrying a wooden bucket and ladle.

The farmer answered, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the ocean.”

As the farmer scooped water from the bucket over his parents’ grave stones, his son touched the oldest stones. Misshapen, covered with moss, and lopsided, these stones were barely recognizable as shaped by human hands.

Ei asked, “Otoosan, where will you and Okaasan be buried?” The farmer pointed out the small empty space near his parents’ and grandparents’ stones.

Ei looked up at his father and asked, “Where will I be buried?” The farmer looked around and scratched his head, “Saa. Basho ga nai. Well, there’s no room.”

That was the first hint Ei would have to cross vast distances, like a dandelion seed caught in a typhoon. For not only was this country crowded with the dead, the land was crowded with two thousand years of the living.

That August, before the Obon festivities began in the evening, Ei was taken by his parents to the old fortune teller at the local temple in Kōshū. The Obon festival was a time to dance with the drums, commune with the dead and cool themselves with ghost stories. The cicadas buzzed so loudly, Ei had to listen carefully to hear his fortune told by the old man. The bespectacled, scholarly-looking man looked at Ei and his parents. “Isn’t this the great-grandson of a miko? A shamen who was well known for her magic?”

The farmer frowned. “Yes, but shortly before she died, my grandmother was wronged by a wealthy lord. The Yūrei is still angry. I’m afraid for my son’s future.”

The fortune teller took Ei’s small hand, and carefully examined the faint lines of his palm. “Very interesting. This child will do very well in school but…” The fortune teller took off his glasses and looked at the farmer. “There is also a sign of tragedy.”

Ei thought of his two dead brothers. Okaasan had told him about one brother who died at birth and the other who died of fever when he was a few weeks old. Jizo was taking care of them now. He asked the fortune teller, “Will I die soon?”

The old man smiled at the young boy whose strands of thick black hair were plastered against his forehead with sweat. “Botchan, don’t go looking for death. It will find you when it’s time.”

Ei thought, not if I go far away.

A few years later, Ei accompanied his father on his three day walk to the new harbor town, Yokohama, to sell their silkworm egg cards. The sale of these cards would help make ends meet. For the seven year old boy, this was the most exciting journey of his life. He felt proud to help his father but reluctant to leave his little sister, Shizuko, who had reached the age of two. Ei’s job had been to watch Shizuko while Otoosan and Okaasan carefully placed handfuls of tiny silkworm eggs onto each card, covered them with paste and dried them on racks outside their hut. The village headman told them to meet a broker in Yokohama who had sold silkworm egg cards, pottery and lacquer ware from Kōshū villagers.

Gaijin, white outside-people with large noses and pale skin, bought these goods. Another farmer begged Ei’s father to take his young crippled son, Hiroshi, along with them. Since birth, Hiroshi’s legs had been too weak for him to stand. Why not see if Gaijin could help Hiroshi as well? Ei’s father felt pity and agreed to take the little boy. Ei waved goodbye to his mother who kneeled besides Shizuko, as his father led the ox pulling the cart with Hiroshi perched inside.

Three days walk was as far as the farmer and the boys had ever been. As they approached the outskirts of Yokohama, they saw new things - the jinricksha, a graceful two wheeled cart pulled by a muscled man. Well dressed men and women going in and out of large wooden buildings with bright colored lanterns and cloth flags, and as darkness approached, here and there, electric lights which glowed brighter than any candle. When they were hungry, the farmer stopped their cart and approached a street food cart. He gestured for two bowls of noodles. One for Ei and Hiroshi to share in the ox cart, and one for himself. When the Chinese food vendor saw that the two boys would share a bowl, he suddenly took back one bowl and poured half of its contents into another bowl so each boy would have his own. The vendor walked over to the ox cart and gave each of the boys a bowl with a set of chopsticks. Ei looked at his bowl as if it were a feast and said to the vendor, “Arigato. Thank you.”

The vendor smiled and said, “Hajimete? First time?” When Ei was startled by the man’s sing song accent, the man laughed and said, “Chugoku-jin desu. I’m from China.” Ei put the bowl to his lips and sipped the broth. Oily, rich and comforting as the warm liquid flowed to his belly.

Hiroshi exclaimed, “Takaramon mitai. The food is like a treasure box.” With their chopsticks, Hiroshi and Ei picked up pale white bean sprouts, gold bamboo shoots, and black fungus lying atop the noodles.

The farmer scolded them, “Stop playing with your food. You boys need to eat everything so we can return this man’s bowls.” Ei hurried to eat. The green negi sliced as thin as grass tasted crunchy-sweet. The tiny red flakes floating in the soup burned his tongue. Ei took a mouthful of the noodles. Chewy and more delicious than anything he had ever tasted before.

That night when Ei told the innkeeper about Chugoku-jin’s food, the innkeeper told them China is only a few days ship’s journey across the Japan Sea, just on the other side of Kankoku. “The Chinese are some of the many Gaijin in Yokohama. They speak different languages. The Gaijin with the long noses came from lands much farther away than China, across the ocean.”

The next day, the produce broker who took their silkworm egg cards told them a long nose Gaijin doctor named D.B. Neal at Jūzen Hospital was willing to see poor farmers like them.

He said, “Jūzen Hospital is in the Noge area of Yokohama, the other side of town.”

They walked all morning and along the way, Ei shouted, “Otoosan! Look.” The view spread out before them, beyond the many buildings, a strip of water glimmering on the horizon like silk.

The farmer exclaimed, “That must be the ocean. It’s so beautiful.”

Once they reached Noge, Ei was impressed by the height of the large white building which they were told was Jūzen Hospital. Four floors! The boy had never seen a building so tall. Ei almost tripped as he gazed up at the large glass windows of the monstrous structure. The front steps were wider and smoother than anything he had ever seen. The inside of the building seemed to contain a whole city. People rushing about. Ei stayed close to his father who carried Hiroshi through this strange building with a ceiling so high, it made Ei dizzy. They walked by wooden doors marked with unknown symbols until finally, they found the door of the Doctor Neal.

Inside the waiting room, an old woman got up to let Otoosan sit down with Hiroshi on his lap. Ei wondered what the others were waiting to see Dr Neal for. A few were farmers like them, but most were dressed in fine clothes. When the nurse finally called for them, she told Ei to stay in the waiting room. But when Hiroshi began to cry, they let Ei come in.

Inside a room, the nurse removed Hiroshi’s clothing and had the little boy lay his twisted legs on the white sheeted table. The unfamiliar sweet and tarry smell of the solution they used to sterilize equipment stung his nose. Ei looked around the room. A large glass window faced the sky, strange equipment gleamed through glass cases, and charts with mysterious drawings covered the walls. What a wonderful place. But Hiroshi was terrified and clutched Ei’s hand so hard, his fingers began to hurt.

The nurse said, “Kowagaruna. Don’t be afraid. The doctor will help you.”

Ei tried to calm Hiroshi just as he calmed his baby sister, “Nandemonai, This is nothing.” But his heart pounded so hard, he was afraid Hiroshi would see his ruse. This was the first time for him to meet a doctor. And not just that, a Gaijin doctor of western medicine. He was a tall red haired man with pale green eyes. He wore a white coat and spoke in a rolly-twisty sounding language to a nurse who translated his words into Japanese.

The nurse spoke for the doctor, “The Doctor wishes to examine the boy.”

The farmer stood back but Hiroshi clung to Ei and whispered, “Niō mitai! He looks like Niō!” Niō was Buddha’s guardian deity. The doctor’s large pale eyes did resemble the bulging eyes of the statues who stood guard at the gate of the largest temple in Kōshū. But Ei felt this man intended to be gentle rather than frighten them as Niō did.

Ei squeezed Hiroshi’s hand as the doctor examined the boy’s frail arms and legs, tapped his back and used a strange ear piece to listen to Hiroshi’s chest. The doctor smiled and spoke. Ei listened to the nurse translate the doctor’s words, “I will give you a prescription. Instructions on what the boy should eat. If you see no improvement in three months, please return here.”

Ei thought, How does this Gaijin know what’s wrong with Hiroshi? Before the doctor could leave, Ei raised his free hand, as he had been taught by his teacher when he had a question. Otoosan frowned at Ei and said, “Kora! Don’t waste the doctor’s time!”

The doctor saw the interaction between father and son and smiled. The nurse listened to the doctor and said to Ei, “The doctor wants to know what your question is.”

Ei gulped and said, “Onegai. Please, sir. Tell me what is wrong with my friend.”

The doctor said something to the nurse who brought out a notepad with which she took notes as the Gaijin spoke. Then the doctor patted Ei on the head as he left the examining room. Finally after the nurse examined her notes, she said, “The doctor says your friend has a disease called ‘rickets’. The doctor says he learned in medical school that many children and animals suffer from this disease. But if the sick child is fed fish oil and exposed to sunlight, he will heal.”

Ei was astounded. This Gaijin learned this in ‘medical school’? What was that? He turned to Hiroshi. “Did you hear that? You will be healed!”

Over the coming years, the fortune teller’s prophecy for Ei seemed to come true, at least the part about doing well in school. Young Hiroshi’s recovery inspired Ei to study hard. But now he dreamed of going to medical school, just like the Gaijin. Not only was Ei smart. He had a sturdy farmer’s build and a work ethic which ensured he beat his classmates on the playfield as well as in the classroom. But he never gloated. He respected his elders but also adored his younger sister.

As soon as Shizuko could talk, she asked Ei questions. “Oniichan. Nani? Big Brother. What’s this?” as she pointed her finger to her eye or her nose or some other part of her body. And Ei never tired of answering his sister with careful explanations. As soon as Shizuko began school, she became obsessed with learning everything her brother was interested in. If she occasionally beat him in a word game, he never became resentful as most older brothers would. Soon the farmer and his wife could no longer keep up with their children’s conversation in the evenings about science and math.

Over the next years, like many school boys, Ei followed newspaper stories of the Japanese adventurers who became rich overseas. The newspapers wrote glowingly of their favorite sons who did well, in Japan’s 1894 war against China, and then in the Gold Rush in America. But Ei was not impressed by the thousands of miners who crowded the trails up Gold Mountain.

Eleven-year-old Ei thought, “Baka. Fools. They are like the mice who stupidly follow the scent of rice into an empty storehouse.” Ei was most impressed by Furuya, a self-made man from his own Yamanashi prefecture. From humble beginnings as a money lender to the Japanese gold rush prostitutes in Seattle, Furuya became the head of a large company with branch offices in Yokohama and Tokyo. He made his fortune from trade, business and construction deals. He was rich enough to buy the Nippon Kan (Japanese Hall) in Seattle where every night there were Japanese concerts, movies, judo and kendo competitions and community meetings. Ei never forgot the newspaper photo he saw of Furuya, proudly standing in front of the Japanese exhibit at the 1909 Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition in Seattle.

Even as Ei grew into his teens, he kept his mild character and patience, which made him popular with his teachers. His high marks earned him praise. But for his sister, such intelligence was regarded with suspicion. Some of the same villagers remarked, “That Shizuko is too smart for her own good. Her great-grandmother’s Yūrei ghost is with her.” The girl did not fit in with the other girls who dutifully followed in their mothers’ footsteps. Shizuko spent her time pouring over her books, and then examining Ei’s books.

After he finished high school at the top of his class, Ei was accepted into Keiji Medical School in Tokyo, the first from his village to go to a university. His dream was coming true. He would begin studying western medicine. As a young man, Ei resembled his good-looking father. His wide set large eyes, thick eyebrows, and a nice smile were set off by skin that retained the healthy golden glow of a people who worked outdoors.

Ei and the other medical school freshmen were invited to a welcome party at the Dean’s home. As the twenty or so young uniformed men gathered in the Dean’s front room, Ei’s handsome features were noticed by everyone, including the Dean’s eldest daughter, Mia and Kato, an ambitious freshman who planned to someday be Dean of the school. Kato noticed Mia glancing at Ei and thought, Even if the Dean’s daughter likes Ei, surely he’ll choose a more suitable successor. Someone like me with a good family. Ei’s only country bumpkin.

All of the other students were from Tokyo. Sons of doctors, government officials or rich merchants, they were refined in manner and pale in color. But Ei was embarrassed by everyone’s admiring glances and looked down. Mia was so struck by Ei’s awkwardness that she approached him and whispered, “Take off your cap.” Ei’s face flushed in embarrassment and he could only stammer his thanks as he took off his cap. At that moment, Mia was charmed by the unpretentious young man. He was so unlike the other proud young men who visited her father.

The students were surprised and a little jealous when the Dean took Ei under his wing. Perhaps this handsome young man, a poor farmer’s son, will make something of himself. The newspapers loved this kind of story. In this exciting Meiji Era, everyone was thirsty for tales of success and happy endings. News about the Tokyo Industrial Exhibition filled the students with excitement and hope.

Of course, there was much work to be done. Not only would Ei need to be educated, he would need to be properly trained in social manners. The way he walked, The way he talked. Even the way his face looked. “Warauna. Don’t smile! That’s a sign of weakness and the patients won’t respect you.” Ei did as the Dean advised. He forced himself to frown so much, his face ached. When the other students sniggered at Ei’s provincialism, the Dean turned to them and said, “Ei-kun here has a much harder job than you boys. Be grateful of where you came from.”

But over the coming months, the Dean’s defense of Ei only served to fuel the other students’ resentment towards the farmer’s son. Kato was especially irritated. As soon as the students were alone Kato would pinch his nose and say things like, “Kusai. Something stinks of ox manure in here.” Or “I’d never let my sister be examined by someone who’s worked in the mud.”

Ironically, Ei longed for the clean, fresh air of his furusato. In Tokyo, the smoke from every household’s cooking fire, the stench from the pit toilets, and the decay of refuse on the streets assaulted him everyday.

Loneliness pressed down on Ei like the rain pelting his father’s humble home. He felt like the straw roof of their farmhouse, sagging and moldy. He missed the countryside. Back in his furusato, Ei was well loved and respected for being himself. Here the Dean was always “correcting” him and when he wasn’t being corrected, he was the butt of Kato’s teasing. And now, the Dean mentioned his daughter, “Mia has taken a liking to you.” The furious silent blush on Ei’s face was taken by the Dean as confirmation of mutual feelings of affection between the young people. But Ei only wished to escape the walls pressing in on his future. The only friendly face was that of the grocer’s daughter who saw him when he bought vegetables for the week. She noticed Ei’s downcast eyes and kindly asked, “Doshitano. What’s wrong?” Her innocent concern reminded him of the villagers back home and he responded to her.

Every week when he stopped by the small grocery, Ei looked forward to talking with the girl whose name he learned was Michi. It was inevitable that the lonely medical student and the friendly grocer’s daughter would be attracted to each other. One day, Michi invited him for tea in her home behind the grocery. When Ei sat at her small kotatsu table in the sitting room, she served him green tea and sliced a persimmon. “Where are your parents?” he asked.

Michi smiled and her cheeks colored. “My parents are away in the country, purchasing vegetables.”

After the tea and persimmon, Michi led Ei into the other room and kissed him. The temptation was too great. They began an affair. Ei felt as if his thirst had finally been quenched. For the next few months, Michi let Ei know when they would have the apartment to themselves. The relief he felt at every tryst they had was so great, he longed for Michi’s body as much as he craved for food and water.

One day, Michi told Ei her parents wanted to meet him, the medical student who visited their daughter regularly. The ruddy-faced grocer and his chubby wife welcomed Ei as an honored guest, as Michi sat silently behind them. “Sensei. Thank you for your kind attention to our daughter.” They bowed in deference to the young doctor. For this poor family, such a guest was a great honor. The grocer said, “We are sorry to bother you with the news that our daughter is with child.”

Ei’s first reaction was joy. But then he thought, Should I consult the Dean? But he knew what the Dean would say. Consider the consequences of acknowledging this relationship. Ei’s rise to become a doctor meant he was expected to marry a woman of an upper class family. Someone like the Dean’s daughter, Mia. The Dean had hinted how important a suitable spouse was, He said, “I’m so lucky to have married my wife.” and left unspoken any romantic feelings. “You know, she’s the daughter of a prominent government official who’s been so helpful in my career. I owe him so much.”

Although Ei was not a big drinker, he knew not to refuse the Dean’s invitations to go out drinking. They always went to the same tiny bar, run by an attractive woman named Yano. Valuable information was shared when they drank. Important men like the Dean relaxed his usual harsh persona and spoke his mind. There was a silent agreement they would never admit what had been mentioned under the cover of alcohol, the following day. The Dean’s formal paternalistic character transformed when he drank. A drunk who told the truth, the Honne while the during the day, the Dean maintained the Tatemae. A respectable exterior. Yano would pour their drinks and murmur her approval, “That’s right. The Dean is wise.”

While the Dean drank, Ei would take sips of his sake but drank nowhere near what the Dean drank. Ei learned to act the part of a drunk. Yano also drank to keep them company. One night over many cups of sake, the Dean winked and said to Yano, “We had quite a night, didn’t we?”

Yano blushed, covered her face with her hand and said, “Yamete. Stop teasing me. What will the boy think?”

Ei looked at the two of them. Are they lovers? The Dean laughed at Ei’s look of surprise. “Don’t be so naive, my boy. Many of my friends keep a mistress or two, along with illegitimate children. It is one of the privileges of success. Yano here knows never to intrude on my professional life and my wife’s realm. I am happy to enjoy her favors while she is happy to have my support. Isn’t that so, Yano?”

The bar mistress nodded her head in agreement. “The Dean is wise. He knows the way of the world.”

The Dean affectionately tousled Ei’s hair, “My boy, you’ve got a lot to learn.”

Ei didn’t mention Michi to the Dean. After all, the baby wasn’t born yet. He brought food whenever he could to the grocer’s family and made sure Michi was in good health. She would not suffer as his mother had. His worst fear was that she would lose the baby as his mother had lost his brother. I mustn’t get emotionally involved, he told himself but he couldn’t help imagining what being a father would feel like. In 1918, Michi gave birth to a healthy girl. Ei happened to be there when Michi’s water broke and he witnessed the birth of his own child. He felt such a sudden surge of love for the baby, that his chest ached. It was a girl. She inherited Ei’s wide set eyes and forehead. Her perfect little body was a miracle. Her hair was thick and glossy like the most succulent sea weed.

A month later, when they knew the baby would survive, they took the baby to the Shinto shrine for the blessing by the priest. Ei decided to name the baby Kanako. He wore his student uniform and wished he could have bought Michi a nicer kimono. The baby was dressed in a small kimono and held like a precious bouquet by her mother. It was a beautiful spring day, sunny with the scent of colorful camellias drifting through the air. As the priest conferred his blessing on Kanako, Michi noticed a white snake with red eyes peeking through the shrine door. She whispered to Ei, pointed to the snake and said, “A good omen. A promise of prosperity and good fortune.”

Ei laughed, “In the West, the snake is evil. He is the one who tempts Eve with the apple of knowledge.”

Michi said, “But how can the snake be both good and evil?”

Ei did not have an answer. But that night he dreamed a white snake came and spoke. “Give me the baby,” the snake said. Ei was horrified and woke up in a sweat. What did that dream mean?

The following evening Dean invited Ei to Yano’s bar. After the sake had taken its effect, the Dean blurted out, “Congratulations on your baby.”

Ei laughed to cover up his surprise. “How did you know?”

Yano said, “The whole neighborhood knows about the medical student who visits the grocer’s daughter.”

The Dean playfully thumped Ei on the chest. “It’s not surprising a healthy young tanuki like you would spread his seed.”

Ei felt insulted to be described as a tanuki, but bit his tongue.

Then the Dean turned solemn. “But you ought to know something about the grocer’s family before you get too serious about one woman.”

“When Yano told me your woman was pregnant, I hired an investigator to look into her family.”

Ei didn’t like where this conversation was going but tried to look unconcerned.

The Dean put his hand on the back of Ei’s neck. “This woman’s grandmother on her father’s side was from … Kankoku.”

When Ei didn’t react, the Dean continued, “No matter that some of them have lived in our country for many years. They will never be Japanese. They are not to be trusted.”

Yano said, “I’m shocked, too. The grocer’s family are such nice people but this explains why they didn’t prosper. Kawaisoo. I pity them.”

Ei’s heart sank. It was true. Japanese had strong feelings against Kankokujin even though one couldn’t tell them apart from the Japanese. Those Kankokujin born in Japan spoke Japanese as fluently as any native. The Dean said, “I’m telling you this for your own good. Once you are associated with a Kankokujin, your career as a doctor is ruined. You’ve had your fun with the grocer’s daughter. You’re lucky she only had a girl. A girl is expendable. Now it’s time you moved on.”

For Ei, the next days passed like a fog. How can I just move on and forget about Michi and Kanako? But he knew the Dean was right. Even back in his furusato, people were harsh in their treatment of Kankokujin who worked as common laborers. After all, Ei was just a farmer’s son. Just as there were always people above them in status, there were always those below. The government’s efforts to “modernize” weren’t going to change people’s hearts. Even below the Kankokujin, there were the burakumin, those Japanese who inherited their stigma through no fault of their own.

Could the Dean be wrong? Was he using this information to keep me from marrying Michi? I can’t believe the Dean or the grocer’s family would deliberately deceive me.

He confronted the grocer. “Is this true? Was your mother from Kanjoku?”

The grocer prostrated himself on the tatami mats while his wife and daughter looked on in shock. The baby began to whimper. The grocer cried, “Yurushite! Yurushite! Forgive me. It’s all my fault. I foolishly thought I could change my past. Before my mother died, she made me promise to hide her past. She didn’t want me to suffer as she and my father did.” He turned to his wife and daughter and touched his forehead to the floor, “Forgive me!” The grocer kept his head down, unable to face the shocked faces of his wife and daughter.

Ei took the crying baby from Michi’s arms. Kanako immediately stopped crying and looked up at her father with wide eyes brimming with tears as if she too were saying, Forgive me. Forgive us. He asked himself, Why is my daughter such a beautiful child? The grocer’s wife and Michi also threw themselves on the ground, quietly crying. Their fates lay in Ei’s hands.

Ei pressed his face into Kanako’s plump body. Her tiny hands patted the sides of Ei’s head, like the wings of a bird. The baby smelled of Michi’s breast milk and the tatami mats. Her coos comforted Ei as he considered what to do.

There is no future for us in this country. I must go to America.

* * *

I’ll end my tale here for now. Once Great Uncle came to this country, there was more for me to find in the internet forest. A notation in an old census chart. Newspaper articles. Public records. An old hospital building that was built by Japanese immigrants. There was evidence of Great Uncle’s success in California as my father had said. But I also found evidence of tragedies. The worst that anyone can experience. Explaining why my father had kept these relatives hidden from me all during his life here in this country. Maybe it’s time to breathe life back into my father’s secrets and see if I can hear their stories.

The US Occupation of Japan began twenty-two days after the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Military Intelligence immediately recruited Dr Robert Ishii, an American of Japanese descent, to conduct research on their newest weapon of mass destruction.

Twenty-four-year-old Robert Ishii stared at the remains of Hiroshima — a few structures and naked tree trunks dotting a moonscape of gray rubble as far as the eye could see. All that damage from a single bomb. One bomb. The only living thing was a large white albatross floating across the blue sky. Robert didn’t expect to be so impressed with America’s newest weapon after surviving the firebombing of Tokyo several months earlier. But that spectacular firebombing of Tokyo was showers of napalm bombs released by swarms of B-29s, not a single bomb dropped by one plane.

Soon after Occupation began, Robert was overjoyed to find his brother-in-law Henry at his uncle’s Gokokuji home. Henry was also Japanese American but his MIS (Military Intelligence Service) uniform made clear his American citizenship. The two brothers-in-law were overjoyed to find the other had survived the war.

“How’s my big sister?” Robert asked. He hesitated hugging Henry in front of his Japanese relatives who stared at these Americans of color.

Henry grinned. “Grace’ll forgive me for joining MIS once she knows you’ll be coming home.”

But Henry told his younger brother-in-law that the reunion between brother and sister would have to wait until Robert agreed to help Major General Willoughby, General Douglas MacArthur’s Chief of Intelligence on a top-secret project.

As Robert held onto the noisy jeep bouncing along the dirt road, the Corporal turned and shouted, “We’ve only just been able to clear the main roads, Doctor.” Robert braced himself when the jeep came to a skidding stop in front of a concrete building, a middle school on the outskirts of Hiroshima taken over by the US Occupation forces. The Corporal explained, “Dr. Ishii, this is where you’ll be collecting information.”

The Corporal handed Robert a clipboard with papers and said, “We’re lucky General Willoughby found someone like you, Doctor. I think you’re the perfect man for this job.”

Robert’s first subject was a nurse named Ito, a woman the same age as his sister Grace. Twenty-six and experienced. Ito had apparently treated the first victims brought in on the day of the bombing, but then had become ill herself. The Corporal took Robert to a room where an elderly Japanese couple sat with Ito who was in bed. No husband or children meant she was not married. When Robert walked in, Ito smiled and asked. “Sensei, are you really an American doctor?”

Robert immediately liked the woman. She was cheerful and sunao, without the pretense of sillyAmerican girls he remembered from high school. He said. “So desu. Yes. Please forgive me for my poor Japanese.”

Ito bowed his head, “Shiranakatta. I didn’t know there are American doctors whose parents are from Japan. Thank you for coming to see me.”

The elderly couple stood and bowed to Robert. The father said, “Osewa ni narimasu. Thank you for taking care of our daughter.”

The Corporal said to Robert, “Doctor, you’ll have to ask her parents to leave so we can interview the nurse privately.”

After the elderly couple left the room, Ito’s smile vanished and she said, “Onegai. Please, doctor. Can you help me? I feel such terrible pain.”

Robert turned to the Corporal, “Can you get me morphine?”

The Corporal shook his head. “She doesn’t look like she needs it. In any case, morphine will cloud her memory. We need her information first.” And he pointed to the questions on the clipboard.

Robert was irritated. The Corporal doesn’t know how Japanese women mask their pain. And with her job as a nurse, Ito would be especially careful not to reveal her agony. He turned back to the nurse. “Gomennasai. I’m sorry, Ito-san. I need to ask you questions first.”

Robert looked at the first question. “Narubeku komakaku. Please tell us in as much detail as possible, the condition of the patients you saw on the day of the bombing.”

The young nurse leaned back and took a deep sigh. “It was around noon when the people were brought here from central Hiroshima, piled up in the back of a truck - like logs. At first, I couldn’t tell if they were dead or alive. They smelled very bad, a peculiar combination of burnt hair and dried cuttlefish. Their clothes were in tatters, exposed skin was badly burned and bloody. They hardly looked human. And they all had some type of pitch-black substance, like coal tar, stuck all over their bodies.”

Robert scribbled down notes.

“When I tried to lift one girl out of the truck, I couldn’t hold onto her limbs. They were slippery because of the blood and the wet tar-like substance. Once I got her inside, I saw the true condition.” Ito shuddered.

Robert paused in his writing and looked up.

“Countless splinters of glass, wood, and metal had pierced her face and body.”

Robert waited.

Ito continued, “The only ones who seemed to stand a chance of being saved that day were those who came later. At first, I thought their injuries were not as bad. One woman walked in and she had what I thought were rags hanging off of her arms and hands. On close inspection, I realized that her burned skin had separated from her flesh and was hanging loosely, like gloves.”

Robert took a deep breath.

“There were too many injured to keep track of. A few days later, I fell ill. Terrible headaches and stomach pain,” said Ito.

Robert leaned closer.

“But I felt much better after a week of rest. Why does my stomach seem to burn now from the inside?” Ito grimaced slightly.

Robert said to the Corporal, “Morphine”

The Corporal said, “Doctor, don’t worry about medication. We’ll take care of her later. We need you to collect information while you can.”

That day and for many days later, Robert met with other Japanese doctors, interns and nurses who survived and witnessed the first injuries. Many had written notes and collected photos. The Japanese are meticulous in recording everything. But unless Robert interpreted all this information in English, it would be useless to General Willoughby. He wrote as follows:

There seem to be three stages in the injuries from the bomb. The moment the bomb went off, invisible neutrons, beta particles, and gamma rays penetrated the bodies. In the first few hours and days after the bomb, seemingly uninjured people died. All of these people were within a half mile of the explosion. Many thousands who were farther away died within days. Although many of these dead also suffered burns and blast effects, the medical professionals I spoke with believe the radiation killed them. One doctor who examined specimens under a microscope noted that the rays destroyed body cells.. Those who did not die right away came down with nausea, headache, diarrhea, and fever, which lasted several days. Doctors were uncertain whether these symptoms were the result of radiation or nervous shock.

The second stage set in ten or fifteen days after the bombing. The main symptoms were falling hair, diarrhea and fever, which in some cases went as high as 106. Twenty-five to thirty days after the explosion, blood disorders appeared: gums bled, the white-blood-cell count dropped sharply, and petechiae appeared all over the body and inside the mouth. If the patient survived this second stage, anemia, or a drop in the red blood count, also set in.

The third stage was the reaction of the body to overcome these injuries. Keloid tumors formed over burn sites. The duration of this stage varied. Some victims recovered in a week, while others suffered much longer.

One doctor provided Robert with photos of a teenage girl, as well as his notes on her progress: The first photo showed a pretty girl, Heart-shaped face crowned with thick wavy hair. She reminded Robert of Grace in her days at Broadway High, back home. In the next photo, the girl had dark spots all over her cheeks and nose. Her hair had fallen out. The doctor’s notes recorded the grisly details of the girl’s slow death over two weeks.

One free moment, when Robert found himself alone, he went to check on Ito, his first subject. She was asleep with a drip bottle attached to her arm. Thank God. Pain medication. But when Robert looked for a label, there was none. Robert began checking on the medication for the other patients he had interviewed.

Not one of them were receiving anything labeled. Why? Then Robert remembered the Arrowsmith novel Grace had given him when he first arrived in Japan. A book she had taken from Papa’s office. It was a novel about an ambitious medical researcher who wanted to conduct a double-blind experiment to prove the effectiveness of his new vaccine. Sick patients were divided into two groups. One group was to receive the vaccine but the other group was supposed to get a placebo.

Robert wondered if Willoughby was running a similar experiment, and Ito happened to be one of the ones receiving a placebo. In that case, who was receiving the real medication? He decided to ask the Corporal about this possibility. But when he asked, the Corporal looked at Robert, “Doctor, I am not at liberty to disclose any classified information.”

This was disturbing. If the US government was developing a cure for the radiation poisoning, why wouldn’t they tell him, a pathologist, about it? Robert wondered, Was General Willoughby deliberately withholding medical treatment? But why? Surely, Americans could not be so cold-hearted.

Ito must be suffering such terrible pain. Robert couldn’t sleep. He shuddered to imagine what Ito felt as her body imploded. Grace must have felt similar pain in that car accident. She didn’t talk about it because she didn’t want to burden him when they were both in shock from losing Mama and Papa. Then he remembered. In the Arrowsmith novel, the doctor sabotaged his own double-blind trial. Although it was in the best interests of science to have a control group who did not receive any medication, the doctor couldn’t bring himself to deny his vaccine to those he knew would likely die. In the novel, the doctor failed as a medical researcher. I can’t stand the thought of denying Ito any treatment that might help her. I’ve got to get the Corporal to give me whatever medications are available.

But when Robert checked on Ito that night, the hospital bed was empty. No one could tell him where the woman had been sent. Early the next morning, Robert asked the Corporal about Ito. The Corporal looked annoyed and said, “Ito died, Doctor. But we need you to speak to the Japanese staff about her.”

Robert said, “About what?”

The Corporal went to retrieve something from the many boxes GHQ had sent. He handed Robert a large glass specimen jar. “Doctor, we need you to instruct them to harvest Ito’s internal organs and place them in this specimen jar. In fact, they will need to harvest as many of the remains as possible. As soon as the person expires.”

Robert was shocked. “But her parents will want to cremate her remains.”

The Corporal looked sharply at Robert. His look said, this is no time for sentimentality. The Nisei doctor felt a knot grow inside him and said, “I can’t agree to this.”

“This is not a decision for you to make, Doctor.” The Corporal paused. “Think of it this way. You’re a pathologist. The more we know about the effects of the bomb, the better we will be able to treat future casualties.”

Robert had no choice. In exchange for Willoughby’s help getting him settled back in the States, he agreed to conduct this classified research. He winced when he saw the Corporal’s instructions. Harvest all organs including the uterus, embryo, fetus and unborn organism. Mention of the uterus reminded Robert of that terrible car accident in Seattle when he was a teenager. Grace’s uterus was removed after it had been damaged beyond repair. Robert was too young then to really understand what that meant. But now, he knew that loss must have devastated Grace.

At least he could apologize to Ito’s parents, for this callous action of the US government. Surprisingly, her parents didn’t object. Did defeat in war numb all their emotions? Ito’s father said, “Shikata ga nai. Don’t worry, Doctor. We’re grateful you did all you could for our only child.”

When Robert went to the Corporal’s office to ask where the specimen jar with Ito’s organs should go, he overheard the Corporal talking on the phone, “Yes, Sir. DC will be happy. I think we’ll need a cargo plane to transport all the specimens…”

Specimens. That’s all that these people who died were now. Rows of hundreds of specimen jars ready to be transported to the States for research. Jars filled with hearts, lungs and brains. Some jars had babies, forever asleep in formaldehyde. These jars fueled Robert’s nightmare that night.

In his dream, he was visiting Grace in Seattle General, right after the accident. That terrible day when the cops called him out of basketball practice. Grace looked so small in that hospital bed. He sat beside her to take her hand. When she looked up at him and said, “Where’s Papa?” his heart broke.

Poor Grace, she doesn’t know yet. He said, “Papa died, Grace. I saw him in the morgue.” Then Grace said, “No, Robby. There’s Papa. Right there.”

She pointed to Robert’s lap. A large specimen jar was lying on its side on his lap. He looked down and saw Papa’s head floating inside, facing him. Papa’s face looked just as Robert remembered him in the morgue. An ashen version of the vital man he loved. Inside the jar, Papa’s eyes opened, and he looked at Robert in disappointment.

When Robert completed his research, he went to GHQ to present his report. Willoughby would be pleased. He had transcribed a thousand pages of interviews, data, and observations from Japanese medical personnel. And collected hundreds of photos donated by local residents. He met General Willoughby in the same office where they met earlier. After the General accepted the large stack of material, Robert said, “I have one final request.”

“Certainly, Dr. Ishii. We’re more than pleased with the work you’ve done. This data together with all the specimens you’ve helped us collect will keep our scientists busy for some time,” the General said in his staccato speech, the remnants of his German childhood. Robert thought, Is my American accent in Japanese as irritating as Willoughby’s German accent is in English?

“I will be at your disposal on your move back home,” said the General. “In fact, a position with the Rockefeller Institute is in the works,” he added with a smile.

Papa would have been proud. A position with the Rockefeller. Robert pulled out his American passport and placed it on General Willoughby’s desk. He spoke softly but clearly. “I wish to renounce my American citizenship.”

The General frowned and walked around his desk, and looked down at Robert like a parent scolding a naughty child. Willoughby’s eyes flashed in anger, “Dr. Ishii, you’re young. You are making the biggest mistake of your life.”

Robert said nothing. The General continued, “Eventually, we will release this report. Then you will be recognized as the world’s expert on radiation sickness. Why do you want to destroy your future?”

There was no arguing with a man like this. But Robert did not look away.

After it was clear Robert was not going to speak, the General growled, “Doctor, we’re not going to do anything rash right now. Go home and think about it for a month. If you still feel the same way, we’ll grant you your renunciation.”

Robert hadn’t spoken with anyone since he started working on this project but he desperately wanted to confide in someone. His young Japanese cousin Masa wouldn’t understand. Masa thought Robert could do no wrong. That all Americans could do no wrong. What would Grace say if she were here? She would probably say he was letting Papa down by not pursuing such an opportunity. And letting her down by not coming home. What about the promise he made to her about always staying by her side?

But he had to talk with someone. He felt as if his heart would burst if he didn’t. Henry was the only one who might understand, as a fellow Nisei. But he would be putting his brother-in-law in an impossible situation. Henry would have to choose between his wife and his brother-in-law. Besides, if Robert talked, would Henry be forced to report him? After all, Willoughby was his commanding officer. In anguish, Robert asked Henry to meet him on the Gokokuji temple grounds.

Henry listened silently to Robert’s story. As his young brother-in-law wept, Henry rubbed Robert’s back in a futile attempt to relieve the pain. A week later, Henry slipped Robert a scribbled note. Apparently, Henry had found an internal memo at GHQ and copied down its contents:

A study of the effects of the two atomic bombs used in Japan is of vital importance to our country. This unique opportunity may not again be offered until another world war. Plans for recording all of the available data therefore should receive first priority.

Robert returned to GHQ with his American passport, the only memento of his happy childhood that remained after the secret police forced Seizo Uncle to burn everything that betrayed a connection to the enemy. The last filigree to the country he and Grace loved. It was once his Holy Grail which sustained him through the dark years in Tokyo. But now his American citizenship seemed to be a bloody carcass about his neck.

Alone, alone, all all alone

Alone on the wide wide Sea;

And Christ would take no pity on

My soul in agony.

The many men so beautiful,

And they all dead did lie!

And a million million slimy things

Liv’d on and so did I.

When I hear people say, “I’m going to find the love of my life”, I cringe. Not because I have anything against love. Or I don’t want people to be happy. I just know what these people are setting themselves up for - All or Nothing. The All is the ideal lover, partner, and cheerleader. The Nothing is everyone who doesn’t fit in the All Box.

Every person these ambitious people meet is going to be put into one of these two boxes. Either they have the potential to go in All Box - or are summarily put in the Nothing Box. If you are put in the Nothing Box, then you become invisible. And if this new acquaintance can possibly go into Box A, they first have to be trimmed to fit. Do they have a good job? One corner fits. Are they smart? Another corner fits. Are they attractive? Another corner fits. But God Forbid if this person is missing any of these desired qualities. A corner will snag on the edge of the All Box and they will then be automatically thrown into the Nothing Box.

I was definitely one of those All or Nothing people. I know because I’ve been married three times (and divorced three times). I suppose the same could be said for those who have never married. When I found myself unhappy for whatever reason, I was the one who initiated the divorce. But I’ve realized in my sixties, that people are not All or Nothing.

I recently read a short novel: “Life of Chuck” written by Stephen King. It was not a horror story in the usual Stephen King style, but is described as a “fantasy drama.” The main character Chuck, is a boring accountant who lives an ordinary life until a brain tumor ends his life at the age of 39. In the All or Nothing world, Chuck is most definitely a Nothing. An common man who has a lot of bad luck. But Stephen King proposes that, what if Chuck’s life is actually All? Somehow in this fantasy world, Chuck is actually our world. So when Chuck dies, our world also dies.

Like Chuck in the movie, I’ve tried to make the most of my life, but somehow things don’t quite work out the way I planned. But each of us does live in a universe of our own making. In the film based on King’s story with the same title, director Mike Flanagan adds Carl Sagan’s description of our human existence.

In Sagan’s Cosmic Calendar, if the Big Bang occurs on January 1, the Milky Way forms in May, Earth comes into being in September, and our human civilization finally comes into existence in the last ten seconds of December 31. Everything we know about ourselves, our history, our culture is really insignificant. In other words, we are all Nothing.

But with this realization, the characters in the King story realize that life is still worth living. Chuck has one passion in his life. He loves to dance. Ever since he was a child, he loved to dance. Not as performance but as something to do with friends. Rock and roll. Swing, Moonwalk. Dance was never going to be his career but he just enjoyed it and enjoyed dancing with others. Shortly before he dies, Chuck spontaneously breaks into dance on the street during a break in a business conference he attends.

I also late in life find joy in dance. I started line dancing and enjoy it at least three times a week with all sorts of people. In fact, I’ve realized that the stuff I used to consider fluff - making music, writing stories, having lunch with friends - are actually what makes life worth living. It doesn’t matter whether people I meet go into the All or Nothing Boxes. It doesn’t even matter if I don’t find the Love of my life. We are all Nothing. As long as we can enjoy dancing, or making art, or just looking at the stars, that’s what counts.

Searching for the Love of Your Life isn’t about finding the person who fills in your gaps. The Love of Your Life is literally that. Loving Your Life, as imperfect and ordinary and boring as it is.

According to the Life of Chuck, life is not All OR Nothing. Life IS All AND Life IS Nothing. Wouldn’t it be better to find connections in life? Connection to dance? Connection to music? Connection to art? Connections to other people? The vast majority of our universe is made up of Nothing. So why not look for Something rather than trying to force every encounter into the All or Nothing boxes?

We need each other,

just as we need food

but not everyone has the same qualities.

Wine people are intoxicating, heady, addictive.

Many are Wonderbread.

It’s hard to deal with pomegranates.

Each of their tiny jewels leave me unsatisfied and hungrier than before.

Fugu intrigue me.

I find my encounter with them thrilling

because no antidote exists

for their poison.

My narration of this story:

During our Duck and Cover drill in Mrs. Howard’s class, Stanley didn’t want to get under his desk and said, “My Dad said this is stupid.”

Stanley laughed when he said that. I wasn’t sure if Stanley was right or wrong but I just gave him the evil eye. I knew he would let me beat him up. Just wait until recess. I could give him an Indian Burn.

Stanley also said my Mama looked different from all the other mothers. But Stanley didn’t know Daddy was a physicist. The Bomb was made by physicists. That bothered me a lot.

Daddy had books all over our house. Some were in Japanese but a lot of them were in English. Books with titles like: Quantum Mechanics and Relativity. The only book I liked was Aesop’s Fables. I liked the story of the Kid and the Wolf.

“Please, Mr. Wolf,” the Kid said trembling, “I know you are going to eat me. But first please pipe me a tune, for I want to dance and be merry as long as I can.”

The Wolf liked the idea of a little music before eating, so he struck up a merry tune and the Kid leaped and frisked gaily.

The Shepherd Dogs pricked up their ears. They recognized the song the Wolf sings before a feast, and in a moment they were racing back to the pasture.

The Wolf’s song ended suddenly, and as he ran, with the Dogs at his heels, he called himself a fool for turning piper to please a Kid, when he should have stuck to his butcher’s trade.

One day, Mama told me to put on my best dress and help her serve Daddy’s guests at our house. It was a Very Important Party.

Mama told me to take the snacks she made to Daddy’s guest of honor, Dr. Robert Oppenheimer. He makes the bombs! I was so scared, All the adults laughed when I couldn’t say, “Dr. Oppenheimer, would you like an hors d’oeuvre?”

On the fancy stereo system, Daddy played opera music. Whenever Daddy played opera music, I put my fingers in my ears. It was the Elf King again..

As soon as I could, I ran out of the room and hid behind the wall of the new addition. There was no one in there because the floor hadn’t been put in yet. Then I heard the door open and I saw Mama come into the new addition, with Robert Oppenheimer behind her! Why did they leave the party? Mama looked so small next to the tall physicist.

Oh no! What is he going to do to Mama? I wanted to stop Robert Oppenheimer, but I knew I couldn’t beat an adult.

Then I saw Robert Oppenheimer lean over and say something to Mama, Mama nodded but didn’t say anything. Then they both went back to the party. I stayed by myself in the addition. But I could still hear the scary Elf King music. I wished Stanley was with me to make me laugh.

(Image from Wabi Sabi and the Aesthetics of Imperfection)

At first, “Meditation for Mortals” seemed to promise to help me manage my time better. But this little self-help book did much more than that. It revealed the fissures of my life sandwiched between Japan and the US.

In the Introduction to his book, Oliver Burkeman describes his approach as:

…‘imperfectionism’ - a freeing and energizing outlook based on the conviction that your limitations aren’t obstacles to a meaningful existence, which you must spend your days struggling to overcome, en route to some imaginary point when you’ll finally get to feel fulfilled.

Burkeman’s approach sounded suspicious at first. Why was it bad to aim for perfection? Aren’t we all supposed to expunge our mistakes, whatever they are, in order to find Happiness?

When I was growing up in Boulder, my immigrant parents took me to United Church of Christ every Sunday because they believed that’s what good Americans do. And they were right. Christianity is at the heart of our country.

We emulate Jesus. After all, he was without sin. Even if we can’t reach his level of goodness, we believe that if we aim for perfection, we will be better human beings. And if we’re overwhelmed by our problems, we can turn to God for help. Burkeman’s “imperfectionism” strategy seems to counter what I learned as a kid in Sunday School.

Many of the concepts in Burkeman’s book come from Buddhist thinking. He mentions the teachings of a Zen master, Hōun Jiyu-Kennett:

Her teaching style, she liked to say, was not to lighten the burden of the student, but to make it so heavy that he or she would put it down.

This Zen master’s “burden” sounded like the emotional baggage we all carry around. At my age, I can say my baggage is definitely over the weight limit.

Unlike Jesus, Buddha had baggage. Before Buddha became Buddha, he was a wealthy Prince. When he decided to go out into the world to seek enlightenment, he left behind a young wife, his newborn baby son, and a whole slew of disappointed subjects. And Buddha had no perfect Father like Jesus did, to turn to for help.

This idea of ‘imperfectionism’ reminds me of Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. According to Britannica.com:

…kintsugi does not attempt to hide the breaks but instead draws attention to them. Fixing an object with kintsugi, a specialized and time-intensive process, not only extends the ceramic’s life but also displays its history and perhaps gives the piece greater emotional value.

I think Burkeman is onto something here. Borrowing concepts from one culture to fix the cracks in another, and coming up with something better. Using our imperfections and limitations to repair our wounds, instead of trying to erase them, can actually help us appreciate our sublime human nature.

The 1995 movie Smoke starring Harvey Keitel is a good example of how ‘imperfectionism’ might appear in story form. The original short story and the screenplay were written by Paul Auster. The film was directed by Wayne Wang who had just directed the Joy Luck Club. At first, Smoke seems to just be a comedy film, but if you pay attention, each of the five main characters have serious, tragic problems. Problems which cannot be solved, ignored or easily forgiven.

Unlike a typical Hollywood film, there is no neat, tied-in-a-bow happy ending. No clear good guys or bad guys. But we are pulled into these main characters’ lives because we can identify with their mistakes, regrets and sorrows. We want to know how these people try to deal with these problems. Although they could have done what most people do: 1) try to ignore their problems, 2) join a support group, or 3) pray to God for forgiveness, they do not.

Instead, they accept their problems, embrace their imperfections and understand their limitations. Their baggage, the emotional burdens have become so heavy they must put their burdens down. After watching Smoke, one can imagine there is no “happily ever after” for these characters. The rough, jagged cracks in their lives are not sanded down and smoothed. In fact, we know that the reality behind the scenes is probably even worse than what we see. But somehow, the characters’ feeble attempts to deal with tragedy, and their humanity serve as the luminous bond which holds everything together.

Here’s my list for 2025.

As I look back on 2025, here are three First Times that stood out:

• For the first time, the Clock lied to me. The alarm on my phone told me to get ready for work but the clock on the wall told me I still had plenty of time. Somehow, my heart broke a little when I realized I could no longer trust Wall Clock.

• For the first time as an adult (since I was 18), I have been single longer than I have been married. I embraced my single hood by starting Line Dance classes. Apparently, line dancing has gone viral on social media. I love the challenge of learning the choreography, but its biggest appeal is that there are no leads or follows.

• At Whole Foods where I work part-time as a Shopper, a co-worker asked me how long I had worked there, I said, “I started before Covid.” He responded, “Wow. I was in middle school then.” It was the first time a co-worker was young enough to be my grandchild…

Three Last Times:

• When I learned my Hilo dance teacher, Kari, was sick, I wrote an essay and sent it to her. Her response on May 18 turned out to be the last words I got. : Nanako, Thank you for sharing your beautiful story with me. Truly brought me to tears. So much I want to say to you but the nausea is at its worst these past 2 days. Trying hard to make myself eat when I know how miserable it makes me feel. I am so far making it through Round 1 in the fight of my life—and hope with each passing day that God pulls me thru this.
  I’m not finished yet, not even close.
  I will watch the (Four Seasons) show too. It sounds deeply introspective which is a lane I am in right now.
  Keep dancing…a little bit for me. And I will feel it.
  Sending my love and gratefulness your way. Kari

• This is the last time I have all my teeth. Every time I see myself in the mirror, I’m reminded of the missing teeth. The imposter in my mouth still feels out of place.

• At first, I thought - how can I possibly know when is the Last Time I do something? Unless I get terminally ill like Kari, I have no idea when I hug someone, say Thank you, or write I love you - that will be the last time. I feel pretentious limiting myself to the year 2025. Then I realized that never again will I write down these same words, think the same thoughts, and feel the same emotions as I am in this very moment.

Twenty-minute narration:

A few years ago, I joined Stitch, a social group for people over 50 and one of the first questions I had was - is this another dating site? Andrew, the founder, assured me it wasn’t but the profiles of many of the members belied his claim. People could check whether they were looking for a) Friendship, or b) Romance. Actually my own motivations for joining Stitch were a jumble of mixed feelings. Having survived multiple marriages (and divorces), I was leery of jumping into another dating site. Especially at my age of 68. Yet, like James Sexton, the infamous divorced divorce lawyer, I can’t help but still cry at weddings and romantic movies. Love Actually is one of my favorites around the holidays. I think I’m a recovering romantic. I had six, yes SIX marriage proposals. But of the three marriages I chose lasting twenty-seven years in total, they all ended. Three strikes portended I should quit this game of romance.

The name - Stitch - confused me at first. Andrew explained that he chose the name to signify his goal of connecting people. Stitching people together. A silly metaphor but I began to imagine all these Stitch members (mostly women) slowly connecting as Friends. I immediately saw the potential of Stitch to go beyond dating sites, meetups and other social groups. I was tired of starting over every time my relationships fell through.

My social life seemed to mirror what was happening everywhere. First with the GFC (Global Financial Crisis), then Covid, and now with our crazy political situation. I thought - why not give Stitch a try?

I realize now that one of the reasons I saw the potential of Stitch was because of a Japanese woman’s survival story Mom shared with me many years ago. I was in the midst of the messy ending of my 18-year marriage to the father of my three children (then ages 15, 13 and 11). Of course, I was an emotional wreck at the time and this epiphany only hit me recently, many years after the divorce.

This Japanese survival story Mom loved was told by Tei Fujiwara, an educated woman, wife of a scientist, mother of three young children (ages 5 and 2 years old, and one month old baby). Tei and her family were forced to flee from the invading Soviet army in 1945 Manchuria. Alone with her three young children, she went through China, North Korea, the newly formed 38th Parallel, and war-torn South Korea and Japan. When Tei’s memoir was first published in 1947 Japan, Mom was a teenager who had barely survived the war. She tried to tell me how Tei’s memoir impacted her life but it wasn’t until I decided to translate the memoir into English, and years later that I realized how powerful Tei’s story really was and how it influenced my thinking today.

In her memoir, Tei describes how terrified she felt when her husband left her and their three young children on a train evacuating them from the invading Soviet army. She had no idea if she would ever see her husband again.

I closed my eyes. In my mind, I took myself back to the life we had before last night. Our cozy brick house—the home we enjoyed until only yesterday. From the second floor I looked out to the yard where I had planted vegetables; the sight calmed and soothed me. The rocking and swaying of the train receded to a faint backdrop. This train was just a dream. I wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

Thankfully, I didn’t face anything as terrifying as the nightmare Tei faced. Her husband abandoned her with three small children on a open-car train evacuating them before the Soviets arrived. In 2007, I was left with three soccer-playing teens in bucolic Boulder, CO. But we all have our crosses to bear. Stitch members tell me they joined Stitch because they 1) lost their partner due to divorce, death or separation, or 2) felt lonely and isolated despite having a partner. Although not as obvious or dramatic as what Tei faced, the threats we face are just as real.

I’m not saying forget about romance. Romance appears in Tei’s memoir. Tei constantly misses her husband throughout her traumatic journey. Every time she sees a shooting star, she remembers her husband and the old days when they first married. (The Japanese title of her memoir is “The Shooting Star is Alive.”) But the romance is like embroidery. Beautiful and lovely to contemplate but it inevitably fades. I also yearn for romance even if it’s so fleeting.

Romance is comforting. In Tei’s memoir, this embroidery helps cover the disintegrating fabric of society around her. If you think things are bad now, consider what it must have felt like for this Japanese woman. Two atom bombs had been dropped on her country, the Soviets were shipping the men off to Siberian labor camps, and the for the first time in its 2000+ year history, Japan was occupied. The oldest continuous nation of the world, Japan, was at the mercy of the youngest, the United States. The world as Tei knew it was gone and she had no idea what the future held. So it’s natural that Tei would turn to romance for solace, but all she got were beautiful memories.

For the most part, Tei was forced to rely on herself and other women to survive. Her memoir is filled with moments of kindness, cruelty, tragedy, and joy with the people she meets along the way. She notes her fellow refugees’ personalities, idiosyncrasies and irritating habits. Several times she and her children were rescued by friends and kind-hearted strangers. A Korean doctor who should have turned away enemy Japanese decides to save her son:

I could no longer look at the doctor’s face. It was as if a veil fell over my eyes. I only saw the doctor’s white coat reflected inside a prism of tears. The white coat came closer. “Okusan, we are ready for the (diphtheria) injection. Please turn your child this way.”

The doctor’s voice rang through my head like a sharp bell. He understood my situation. I did as I was told. My tears flowed as he promptly gave the injection.

I was very moved by Tei’s account of how Japan’s former enemy, the United States, set up refugee camps which saved her and her children. Her story helped me firmly hold onto the American ideal of humanitarian service. As I slowly get to know fellow Stitch members, I try to look beyond first impressions and snap judgements. Who knows who will be there in moments of need? Or if tragedy strikes? It may very well be a friend or even a kind stranger. Physical limitations and illness are real challenges for many Stitch members. We’ve all gotten older. In this last chapter of my life, is it possible to build new relationships, new friendships, new connections?

The gender imbalance in Stitch as well as in Tei’s memoir is reflective of society in general. According to 2024 statisics, from the age of 50, women increasingly outnumber men in the US. In Tei’s memoir, her husband and most of the men are taken away by the Soviets. So only the women and a few disabled men remain. Traditional gender roles and relationships didn’t work anymore. Tei realizes she must adapt. Her friend Mrs. Daichii scolds her:

“If you don’t completely change right now, your family is doomed. Your problem is, you’re always trying to be on everyone’s good side. You’re a brown-noser. ”

I was shocked. “What? You accuse me of being a brown-noser?”

“It won’t do any good for you to get mad. I know your true nature. You’re really much tougher than you appear, but you try to hide it from people. You’ve been brought up to be a lady. But that’s no good now. You’re finished unless you’re willing to put yourself out there.”

I couldn’t say anything. She was right.

Like Tei, I need to recreate my identity. I doubt I’ll be satisfied with being one half of a couple again. My grown children don’t need me now. I no longer fit inside the role of a traditional wife/partner, and I didn’t want my male friends to have to live up to my old ideals. I wanted to take charge of my own life, enjoy both male and female friendships without all the expectations. While I’m healthy, I wanted to live life to the fullest. My “ikigai” was to write and tell stories.

I started learning Line Dance this year, partly because it doesn’t require a partner. Most of the students are women. Men are welcome to join Line Dancing but they aren’t necessary as they were in traditional partner dances. In fact, Line Dancing is one of the Stitch activities I promote because it is a highly social, enjoyable activity where there’s no expectation of partnering.

Hopefully, men also adapt to such a gender imbalance by changing. It’s not possible for our community to operate anymore based on traditional gender roles. It’s risky for men as well as women to expect a romantic partner to fulfill all their needs. The high divorce rate is evidence marriage often doesn’t work. Men AND women should build more connections to people as individuals, and not just limit themselves to their own partner or their own gender. The old stitches are unraveling and we need to create new patterns.

Tei notes a unlikely friendship that grew between former enemies, a young Korean policeman and the group of Japanese refugee women. After sharing music and stories over many visits, they become very close:

At the end of December, Mr. Kim suddenly stopped coming. We didn’t know why he came to visit us in the first place, and why he suddenly stopped. Until the very end, he was a dear friend to us. There were rumors that he was too friendly with us Japanese, and thus was let go by the Hoantai (Korean Police).

Ironically, former enemies may be more open to supporting each other than romantic partners. In Tei’s Afterword, she notes how, many years after the traumatic experience of escaping from Soviet occupied North Korea, she found it impossible to share her trauma with her husband. While millions of readers, like my mother, would connect with Tei’s stories, she couldn’t talk with her own husband and children.

…in the forty long years of our married life together, we hardly ever talked about that experience, the hikiage (the refugee and prisoner experience). For both of us, the wounds were too deep and painful.

In Seattle Stitch, I’m peeling back the layers of so many stories from the men and women I meet. Through posts like this, I can share my own painful experiences. 9/11, the Global Financial Crisis, Covid and the current political situation have all damaged relationships in my life. Divorce, illness, death and other tragedies have touched everyone’s lives. But often we can’t share these stories with those closest to us.

Hopefully, with this awareness of our past pain, we can be more forgiving of each other and ourselves, as we try to rebuild our lives. As I’ve let go of my old expectations and romantic ideals, I’ve given myself and others grace. I’m trying to create new relationships. New Stitches. Not in the old singular romantic mold, but in deeper and wider patterns with more people. As somebody said, “Instead of just watching Friends, we’ve got to actually BE Friends.” Stretching Andrew’s Stitch metaphor to knitting, I’m sure I’m “dropping a lot of stitches” as I struggle to create a new pattern, but I’m hopeful the results will be stronger and better.

I’m sure that raising two boys and a girl has also helped me. My sons are now 33 and 31. My daughter has just turned 29. I can see the men and woman that they are becoming. They saw their parents and those of their friends fail in marriages. In their twenties, they had to go through Covid when they should have been out socializing and having fun. Now they are trying to hang onto their jobs while I go out to No Kings protests. I hear little about their father, a long retired business executive who always voted Republican. My kids probably barely remember the Before Time when we were civil to each other.

I know our communities, our society, and our country will not survive if we continue to allow volatile emotions to divide and isolate us. I miss the rush and excitement of new romance, but I don’t miss the painful withdrawal symptoms. Stable relationships of all kinds - between friends, neighbors, acquaintances, lovers, strangers and even enemies - need to be patiently nurtured to reconnect us. Like the many humble stitches in a great swath of fabric. A few stitches are glimmering, vivid shades of silk but most are plain, humble threads of sturdy cotton. Connections which fall into the category of unselfish, generous, and kind Friendship.

I was shocked when Kari, my vibrant 69-year-old Hilo dance instructor, passed away a few weeks ago. She was only a year older than me and in great shape. I joined her exercise class in 2018, shortly after I moved to Seattle from Boulder. Kari’s class energized me while I adjusted to my new single life in the city after living in the suburbs for eighteen years as a married mom of three kids. When COVID hit, her online classes became vital. When we began meeting in-person again, her class balanced out my solitary life as a writer.

When I learned of Kari’s passing, I had just finished reading the non-fiction book - 4,000 Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. Burkeman notes:

“the average human lifespan is absurdly, terrifyingly, insultingly short... Assuming you live to be eighty, you’ll have had about four thousand weeks.”

Using Burkeman’s estimate of fifty weeks per year, Kari had lived 3,450 weeks. Only 550 weeks shy of an 80-year life. 550 weeks. That’s what I have left, assuming I live the average American lifespan. A week flashes by in the blink of an eye. The next 550 weeks are going to fly by. So it won’t be long before I join you, Kari.

Burkeman’s advice to be aware of our limited time on this planet was especially poignant during these last few weeks. Although 4,000 Weeks was an easy read (I enjoyed Burkeman narrating his own audiobook), he reminded me that our ancestors were practicing these “time management techniques” long before machines, the internet and AI engulfed us.

When I was a university student spending my junior year in Japan, I took tea ceremony lessons with my Japanese host family. Week after week, I went through the prescribed motions of the tea ceremony. Every footstep, every hand motion, every turn of the tea whisk had to be performed a certain way. No one told me why I had to follow each movement exactly. I didn’t understand the purpose of this thousand-year-old art until years later. The tea ceremony is performed the same way each time, and the only change are the participants. Humans who are as transient as cherry blossoms.

Anne Lamott made the mistake of attributing this entire paragraph to the youngest Nobel Prize winner, Albert Camus, but I actually like this unknown writer’s words better than Camus’ short quote: “in the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”

For me, this misquote encapsulates a good way to approach not only the scary political situation of our country but also life in general. But is this paragraph an overly optimistic interpretation of Camus’ beliefs? No, these ideas are based on Camus’ actual hard life.

From Wikipedia:

Albert Camus was born on 7 November 1913 in a working-class neighbourhood in Mondovi (present-day Dréan), in French Algeria. His mother, Catherine Hélène Camus (née Sintès), was French with Balearic Spanish ancestry. She was deaf and illiterate. He never knew his father, Lucien Camus, a poor French agricultural worker killed in action while serving with a Zouave regiment in October 1914, during World War I.

In 1930, at the age of 17, Camus was diagnosed with tuberculosis and moved out of his home to live with his uncle, a butcher. During that time, he began studying part-time. To earn money, he took odd jobs, including as a private tutor, car parts clerk, and assistant at the Meteorological Institute. Then, despite the terrible years of the Depression and WWII, Camus became a French philosopher, novelist, author, dramatist, journalist, and political activist.

When the 44 year old writer received the Nobel Prize, he said this:

But when I heard the news, my first thought, after my mother, was of you. Without you, without the affectionate hand you extended to the small poor child that I was, without your teaching and example, none of all this would have happened.

Camus, his mother, and other relatives lived hard lives in Algiers. Camus was a second-generation French inhabitant of Algeria, which was a French territory from 1830 until 1962. His paternal grandfather, along with many others of his generation, had moved to Algeria for a better life. He and his family were immigrants, as are all of us.

This Nobel Prize winner was recognized for his refusal to be defeated by negative forces. All of us have this capacity. We need to draw on simple lessons we learned as children. We know what is right and what is wrong. We know that even though it may feel like freezing winter all around us, summer exists within us.

In the 1580’s, a couple living on Henley Street,

Stratford, had three children: Susanna,

then Hamnet and Judith, who were twins.

The boy, Hamnet, died in 1596, aged eleven.

Four years or so later, the father wrote a play called Hamlet.

And so begins O’Farrell’s wonderful novel allowing me to go inside the heads and hearts of England’s most well-known playwright and his wife. Using the little information we have about William Shakespeare, O’Farrell did a spectacular job bringing to life a parent’s worst nightmare—the sudden death of their child.

When I was a teenager, my five-year-old Japanese cousin suddenly died of a brain aneurysm after taking a bath with his father, normally the best time of the day for Japanese families. Imagine laughing and playing in the bath with your child one minute, then watching him die that same night. The shock and the grief must have been unbearable for my uncle and aunt, and terrifying for my cousins, who were only a few years older than their little brother. There had been no sign of any ill health until the moment my cousin died. O’Farrell takes this grief and imagines how such a child’s sudden death would affect the father, a particularly sensitive young glove-maker’s son, his older wife, Agnes and the boy’s older sister, Susanna and, his twin Judith.

Not only does O’Farrell go deep into the overwhelming grief, but she allows me to see the love, hate, and misunderstandings that grow between the father and mother. A child’s death can easily destroy a marriage, scar the siblings and leave a wake of destruction. But how did this child’s death result in one of the world’s greatest plays? That’s the question O’Farrell answers with a well-crafted but surprising sequence of events.

I consider Hamnet to be the perfect historical fiction novel. The story takes place in a unique time and place—Sixteenth-century England. A time of the Plague, religious conflict, persecution, and societal change. For the first time, I can visualize Shakespeare and his wife, Agnes as real people, not just faint shadows behind the great plays. Agnes and her husband are definitely of their time, but also with unique personalities, which I wouldn’t be surprised to run into here in Seattle. O’Farrell’s skill in creating a brilliant, yet flawed husband and wife makes the story moving, timeless, and universal.

Richard Russo, the author of Nobody’s Fool, a best-selling novel later made into a film starring Paul Newman, made his name writing about losers stuck in a small, lower-middle-class mill town. Russo’s most famous character, “Sully”, is based on his father, a compulsive gambler, a failed husband and father, and yet a likable man. Ron Charles of The Washington Post wrote, "Russo has become our national priest of masculine despair and redemption."

Life and Art published in 2025, is Russo’s collection of essays dealing with how life influences his writing and vice versa. This is not a “how-to” book. Rather, his essays tackle the much more difficult question of why he writes.

Initially, I thought I had nothing in common with Russo other than the interest in writing. I am the daughter of Japanese immigrants. My dad was a physics professor, and I was raised in a bucolic university town - Boulder, CO. But after reading Life and Art a couple of times, I can see how any writer will benefit from reading this book.

Richard Russo is the epitome of the American success story. Raised himself by the bootstraps to become a tenured professor, win the Pulitzer Prize, and earn more recognition than he ever dreamed of as a child. His stories are full of sympathy and humor for people like his father and hometown residents.

But like many of us, Russo no longer feels sympathy for these people. Through his essay Stiff Neck, he wonders if he is still a good writer.

The events of the last two years --- political, cultural, epidemiological --- have seriously eroded my ability to sympathize with people who should damn well know better.

These poor, uneducated, forgotten Americans - they are the ones who voted for a politician who promised to Make America Great Again.

But Russo realizes this “stupidity” was also part of his beloved father’s character, and not that far from his own tendencies. This isn’t the first time, and will not be the last time people make decisions that lead to disaster.

Russo’s essay reminded me of my relatives. My Japanese parents and American-born relatives remained silent rather than admit weakness or shame. They followed orders that were wrong. But isn’t that what makes for good stories? We want to know how people get themselves into and out of terrible predicaments.

We recognize ourselves in their folly.

But Russo wonders why we can no longer laugh together even if we don’t agree on politics. It’s difficult to write stories with empathy when it feels like the whole country is burning. He surmises that we find it easy to judge “tribes” rather than individuals, like a father or sister or neighbor.

Russo tackling our political reality permits me to feel discouraged about writing. That I am distracted and upset by friends and family who voted differently than I did. But his essays also tell me how important writing is. Unlike the short Facebook and Instagram posts, writing requires careful thought and contemplation. Russo’s memories of his father reminded me of some of my physicist father’s contradictions. My father was a highly intelligent man and yet, he made some really stupid mistakes.

Fools. Maybe in the end, that’s the only tribe we belong to.

Like Russo, I started writing because I wanted answers. Russo wondered about his family who were so unlike those of his fellow graduate students. His discovery of mental illness in the family led to uncomfortable truths. My immigrant parents were also completely unlike those of my friends in Boulder. They kept secrets which I only uncovered many years after I left Boulder. But Russo realized that finding answers was just the tip of the iceberg. Diving under the icy surface of his family just led to more questions and ambiguities about life. The result of all this diving was to bring up a ton of flotsam. Broken pieces that didn’t make sense until the writer examined them many years later through stories.

Enlightenment came in dribs and drabs.

Writing was one way to put all the pieces of wreckage back together to create one’s family stories. Russo notes that he didn’t figure out the debilitating anxiety disorder that plagued his mother and grandmother until many years after he had left home. But then this new realization, the new picture of his family, caused Russo to question the motives of his beloved grandfather. Maybe Grandfather didn’t go fight in the war for patriotic reasons, but to escape the responsibilities of caring for his mentally ill wife and two daughters who were just surviving in the dying town.

In the same way, several times my universe was shattered by revelations about my family. I found out my Dad left Japan for America, maybe not to make his contribution to world science, but to run away from his critical mother and soft-hearted father. Learning the truth muddies the water, but perhaps that allows stories to germinate.

Triage is a wonderful essay exploring the writer’s tendency to use anything and anybody in his/her own life to create stories. Russo is chagrined to admit that even when facing the possible death of his grandchild in the emergency room, his writer self was taking notes to use in a future story. I also have the habit of keeping notes of every disaster I encounter. Even if I’m overwhelmed with sorrow, anger or shock - my writer self carefully tucks away whatever material I find to use for a story someday. Does that make us writers cold-blooded users of the people around us?

The essay, Ghosts, deals with Russo’s parents and how they influenced him. His mother desperately wanted him to escape their scruffy hometown, become educated, and live the American Dream. On the other hand, Russo’s father was a hard-core blue-collar man who never left home. While Russo eventually fulfilled his mother’s dream, he also realized that his breakout novel, Nobody’s Fool, was based on his father and the narrow world his mother hated. Russo notes:

Which of my parents was right about post-war America? Well, that’s the question I’ve been asking over the course of ten novels, two collections of short stories, two books of essays.

In the same way, the ghosts of my parents and relatives haunt me. WWII profoundly impacted Russo’s parents in different ways. Russo’s father probably suffered from PTSD after experiencing the Normandy invasion. Like Sully in Nobody’s Fool, Russo’s father only believed in the present. In contrast, his anxious mother was infected with postwar optimism and hope.

In my case, Dad was the optimistic believer in the American Dream while Mom tried to hide her PTSD while trying to play the role of American homemaker. She was only twelve years old when WWII finally ended, her family home burnt to the ground by the Americans. As a child, I noticed the cracks in their facades but didn’t know how fragile their lives really were until many years later.

While many writers focus on a genre - romance, science fiction, or fantasy - Russo found that his niche was in writing about a specific location - the small mill town he grew up in.

For three decades, my fiction has centered on place and class. People who have a hard time, making it here.

But Russo was only able to write after he left that town and his parents had passed away. I wonder whether distance - both in terms of physical and mental distance - is a requirement for writing about place. Russo’s words remind me how self-awareness is a vital part of being a writer.

Other essays with titles like: Meaning, Beans, and Coming Clean also contain delicious brain candy for writers to chew on and enjoy. In his essay Future, Russo does a brilliant magic trick connecting the dots from his writing to the current political mess in our country. From everyone’s favorite movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, to everyone’s biggest fear - Poverty. From likable robbers like those Newman and Redford portrayed in Butch Cassidy, to the hated Robber Barons of our day (i.e. Musk and Bezos).

So although Russo’s niche is in writing about place and class, his essays are full of insights useful for writers of any genre. Born in 1949, Russo is at the peak of his wisdom now, and it behooves every writer to step back from doomscrolling, read Russo’s book (I highly recommend listening to Russo narrate the audiobook), and be inspired to think about WHY he/she/they should read and write.

After reading Nobody’s Fool and watching the movie with Paul Newman, I was reminded of how essential good books and films are, especially during these difficult times. To survive, we’ve got to feed our souls, just as we feed our bodies.

13-minute narrated version:

1936 Seattle

“Girlfriend, don’t be such a patsy. It’s obvious Max likes you!” Vera’s gutsy Hakujin friend always knew how to make Vera feel better.

While many Japanese classmates would have cautioned Vera, Stick to your own kind, Helen made her feel as good as any of the girls at Broadway High. Ever since Vera first met the blond-haired girl so long ago in pre-school, she relied on Helen to boost her confidence.

It was thrilling to know that such a cool, good-looking boy like Max liked her, a nerdy Honor Roll senior. A whirlwind of thoughts raced through Vera’s mind. Wouldn’t it be grand to have a real boyfriend before I graduate Broadway? But he’s Hakujin. He’s a junior. And I’m Japanese. What’re people going to say?

But Max wasn’t the kind of boy who seemed to care what anyone thought. At Movie Club he raised a few eyebrows when he said, “It’s not right Americans point fingers at the Japanese in China. Americans are hypocrites! The politicians crow all about human rights in China while negroes right here in this country are treated like garbage.”

Mr. Smith tugged his tie nervously and interrupted Max with a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Last time I checked this is Movie Club, Max, not Politics Club.”

“But in a democracy, aren’t we supposed to speak up?” said Max, his blue eyes blazing with fury.

Mr. Smith smiled. “You’re right, Max. But choose your battles. Outside of high school, people might not be as open-minded.”

Vera laughed along with everyone else but felt flattered Max was willing to stick his neck out for Japan. A country she left when she was only one. She smiled her appreciation to Max.

After Movie Club finished, Max lingered to help Vera clean up. As the two of them wiped down the chalkboard, he suddenly leaned down and said, “Let’s meet at Pike Market this weekend. I wanna show you something,”

Vera was thrilled, but then she whispered, “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

She wasn’t sure what made her say that. Was it the fact that she was a little scared of Max? Or was it what Papa and Mama might say? They never said anything about boyfriends, but she couldn’t imagine Papa welcoming any boy, Japanese or Hakujin, who was interested in her.

After Helen encouraged her, Vera thought, I’ll tell George. Her best Japanese friend at Broadway. From the first time she met George in B.F. Day School, she admired him like the big brother she never had. Unlike at Broadway, they were the only non-white kids at B.F. Day and many people thought they were related even though they looked nothing alike. Mama and Papa didn’t know George’s parents but Vera admired George.

He had the confidence she wished she had. In fact, for a short while in junior high, she had a secret crush on George. He had shot up in height and was well-liked by the white kids and the teachers. At Broadway High, she watched George become a popular basketball player with a knack for public speaking and performance. And now, George was dating a cute Italian brunette, Connie.

All the kids knew about the couple but didn’t talk about it since some parents didn’t approve of mixed dating. A particularly vocal group of parents even convinced the administrators to only allow white kids to attend the Senior Ball, even though the principal pointed out the fact that the Valedictorian this year was Japanese. But George would understand. He’d know what to tell me.

The next day Vera found George waiting for Connie in the senior parking lot, and decided to tell him about Max. George said, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to go out with Max.”

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Vera said, hurt. “You’re going out with Connie.”

“I love Connie. And you don’t know about what her family went through to get here,” said George.

“What are you talking about?”

“Vera, there’s awful stuff going on in Europe. Connie’s family had to leave their hometown because of the Fascists.”

“So are you saying Max hasn’t suffered enough?” said Vera. “Because he’s Hakujin?”

George looked pained. “Max has a different kind of suffering. He’s got white man’s guilt.”

What the heck is White Man’s Guilt? “He hasn’t done anything wrong,” hissed Vera. “In fact, he’s always sticking his neck out for other people.”

“I’m not saying he’s a bad guy, Vera. He’s just confused.”

“Well, I thought you of all people would back me up,” said Vera.

The old friends glared at each other. George broke the uncomfortable silence. “Your eyes have to be wide open when you date Hakujin. I know a lot of folks aren’t happy with me with Connie. But we really like each other. We really understand each other. I think Max wants you for the wrong reason.”

“I suppose you know everything, Sensei. So what’s wrong with Max?” snapped Vera.

“I don’t want to get into it here…,” George looked to see if anyone would overhear. “I heard Max transferred to Broadway after he got kicked out of prep school out East.”

Tears stung Vera’s eyes. “No. That’s not true.”

George’s eyes warned Vera to end the conversation.

Connie approached and said in her musical Italian accented voice, “Hey, Vera. Good to see you.” Vera felt jealousy burn her cheeks when they kissed each other.

But Vera escaped before Connie could ask what was wrong. As she rushed away, Vera wiped the tears from her face.

Well, George can’t stop me. Anyway, we’ll all graduate and scatter soon. Maybe Max would just be a high school thing.

The days until the weekend seemed to crawl by. At Movie Club, Vera avoided looking at Max and sat by Helen and Susie. When the club members discussed films with German directors and actors, Max suddenly said, “I saw Shanghai Express. Marlene Dietrich was all right but Anna May Wong was super.”

Grace blushed furiously at the mention of that Asian actress. Did Max think she was like Anna May Wong? Sexy. Chic, Helen nudged her and winked. Then Susie said, “What’s so great about Anna May Wong?”

Helen shoved Susie and glared at her. Susie gave Helen a “what did I do wrong?” look.

* * *

That Sunday afternoon, the clouds hung low but thankfully the rain had let up. Vera met Max in front of the Virginia Inn restaurant on the corner of Virginia and 1st.

“Can I hold your hand?” he said.

“No,” she said and she wrapped her arms tightly around her pocketbook.

Max laughed. She softened and said, “Look, I’m sorry, Max. I’m new at this.”

“That’s okay. You’re smarter than me, but maybe not about everything,” he smiled.

They started walking over to the market, Vera stiff with nervousness while Max put his hands in his pockets and slowed his gait to keep pace with Grace.

Suddenly she noticed how many Japanese farmers were in their stalls at the market. Do any of them recognize me? Maybe one of them remembers me and Papa from our trips to the Furuya House on Bainbridge Island. Oh, God. What if someone says something to someone who knows Papa? “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” said Vera as she stopped and turned back.

“What? Why’re you so worried?” said Max. “No one cares.”

Vera glared up at Max. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me.”

“No, I don’t. But that’s why I like you,” he said. “You’re not like the other girls.”

Vera thought, why am I so afraid of Max? He’s just a boy.

Max suddenly grabbed her hand and pulled, “Come on. I want to show you something really neat.”

Vera laughed. His legs were so much longer than hers, she had to run to keep up. He led the way down a wet narrow cobbled street into a penny arcade. The shop was crowded with kids, all too busy playing with the coin-operated machines to notice a Japanese girl like her. She had never been here. Smells of tobacco, sweat and gum. Noisy bells and laughter filled her senses as Max led her deeper into the den.

One boy with slicked back hair whistled at her. “Mighty fine looker,” he said and grinned with a missing tooth. She noticed a few Asian faces in the arcade. Filipinos? Chinese? No one from Broadway High, I hope.

Vera flushed with excitement. No boy had ever looked at her with lust, much less whistled at her.

Max stopped. “Here. This is my favorite - Princess Doraldina,”

Vera found herself in front of a large wooden fortune-telling machine with glass windows. Seated behind the glass was the life-sized wooden bust of a gypsy - beautiful dark hair wrapped in a purple head scarf and large hoop earrings glittering from her ears. One carved hand was on a crystal ball while the other was raised above a set of tarot cards spread out on the table before her.

Max put a nickel in the copper slot, and suddenly the gypsy came to life. The machine whirred, the crystal ball lit up, and the gypsy’s head moved. Vera gasped, “Oh my God, she looks alive!”

The gypsy waved her hand over the cards and even her jeweled chest moved with every breath as if she were listening to the spirits. She stopped at one card. Then a pink card appeared in the slot below. Max said, “Let’s see what she says about me this time.” He picked up the card and read, “You are a hummingbird destined to enjoy the nectar of many blossoms.”

Max turned to Vera and smiled, “Are you a blossom?”

Vera felt her cheeks redden. Then Max gave Vera a nickel and said, “Here. Let’s see what Doraldina predicts for you.”

Vera put the nickel in and watched the Princess come to life again. Then in the slot below, her pink card appeared. Her hand shook as she read, “When the desert moon is full, love will appear.”

Max laughed, “Well, there’s no desert moon around here, so you’re out of luck.” Vera slipped the card into her pocketbook. I’m going to remember this forever.

“Max Thomas, all this time, I didn’t realize what a smooth talker you are,” said Vera. It was true. There was a lot more to this boy than she suspected.

Originally published in Wising Up Press anthology, Flip Sides

Be Worthy of Your Heritage

1987 Ghana

If ye love wealth greater than liberty, the tranquility of servitude greater than the animating contest for freedom, go home from us in peace. We seek not your counsel, nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you; May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen.

Samuel Adams, founder of Lane’s prep school

As the flight approached the stopover in Lagos, Nao overheard her neighbor, the missionary, ask the flight attendant, “Excuse me, Miss. Have they got the situation in Lagos under control?” The woman nodded yes and continued down the aisle.

Nao tapped the missionary’s shoulder, “What situation?”

The missionary (she learned his profession shortly after takeoff from the stopover in Schiphol) said, “Oh, for a while there, every time we touched down in Lagos, men leapt out of the bush brandishing machetes and threatening to slash the tires until we handed over our money. That’s all.”

Nao leaned back into her seat and sighed. There’s nothing like unequal wealth to bring out the violence. She remembered the rich Nigerians she met back in Boulder, at CU. Oil money made those guys millions. Although this was her first trip to Africa, she knew more than she realized.

Her final destination was Accra, Ghana where her husband, Lane would meet her. In fact, Nao and Lane were quite cosmopolitan by any standard. They met eight years earlier in the School of International Affairs at Columbia University and the two of them were now living in two different countries. Two different worlds. She worked in Tokyo, Japan, and he was doing dissertation research in a village somewhere outside Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso.

Nao scanned her flight magazine to cram on Ghana. Flight Lieutenant Jerry Rawlings, a half-Scottish man of the people, was the leader. He seemed vaguely American in his handsomeness and lack of pretension. Nao also read about Liberia, a former American colony to the west. Why have I never heard of this country? She read, "Liberia began as an American settlement before the American Civil War, as a place for free slaves to live and prosper. Almost twenty thousand freed slaves, free-born blacks and Afro-Caribbean relocated to Liberia." What does relocated mean? I’ll bet Liberia was the brainchild of an abolitionist.

Years earlier, at Columbia Nao heard stories about Africa. Lane’s fellow Africanists were seasoned Peace Corps-types, who wanted to get their Master’s degree to work for the UN or some other development agency. The Africanists loved to tell tales of violence, disease and sex. Shock the folks back home in Michigan. On the other hand, Nao’s fellow Japanologists were trying to answer Americans’ questions about Japan Inc. How do the Japanese do it? They’re not like us, but they’ve succeeded.

Nao was surprised when Lane said, “It’s a good thing we’re in different fields.” As if they were competing in two different Olympic events.

At Stanford, Lane did coursework for three years in African History while Nao worked in the International Center, advising foreign students. When Lane submitted his dissertation proposal, he was disappointed when the Foreign Language and Area Studies people offered him no fellowship. Nao secretly hoped Lane would then shift towards a more practical goal instead of history. But Lane’s father, Doctor Hart immediately offered to foot the bill for Lane to go to Ghana. She shouldn't have been surprised. Dr. Hart already paid for Lane's Stanford tuition, married student housing and even a small car. Nao's father-in-law’s generosity was beginning to grate on her nerves. But Nao’s anxiety was put to rest when the Japan Fulbright Commission offered her a plum job in Tokyo. That must be a special sign, she thought.

When the flight finally arrived in Accra, the missionary said, “Well, my dear. I’ll keep you and your husband in my prayers.”

Nao walked out into the sultry, thick evening air. The lack of night lighting was a shock. But she immediately spotted Lane who almost glowed white against the crowd of dark Africans. Thinner than ever, Lane looked like a dehydrated bamboo stalk in the midst of a lush forest. His blond hair was greasy, sweat stains appeared in the armpits of his dirty T-shirt, and his khaki pants sagged under his cinched leather belt. The darkness, heat and dust excited Nao. Only twenty-four hours earlier she had been walking through the gleaming corridors of Narita Airport.

She was happy to see her husband. The next two weeks would be completely out of her hands. I’ll let whatever happens, happen. Lane had rented one room of a modest un-air conditioned family house, from a local Ghanaian family. He introduced her to their host, a stocky woman, her head wrapped in a colorful kente cloth, and three children who sat wide-eyed, silently regarding this strange Asian woman in their home. There was not going to be much privacy with only a thin door between them and us. No chance for Lane and I to really thrash it out.

The Ghanaian woman spoke little English and Lane spoke haltingly in Akan, one of the eighty languages Nao learned was used in Ghana. The woman silently took Nao’s dirty clothes away to wash. With the heat and dust, Nao would have to have her clothes washed every day.

It had been many months since Nao last saw Lane. He departed East from Stanford, and she went West. Lane's weekly aerograms to Tokyo were filled with “I miss you. I love you” and details about his primitive living conditions. But he offered little insight into his dissertation work. Meanwhile in her letters to Lane, Nao described her busy life in Tokyo. Japanese students pouring into her office, eager for cultural and educational experiences in America. Nao felt her empathy for Lane drying up like an earthworm in the Colorado sun. She worried, What was Lane doing? What was their future together?

Lane laid out the huge paper map on the double bed and outlined his plan for the next two weeks. He said, “We’ll explore Accra, via public transport, of course. Nao, you’re going to see the real Africa, not the sanitized version. Then we’ll go out to the Cape Coast where the slave forts are.”

Nao’s hopes rose, like a faint wisp of smoke from a barely burning hearth. Is Lane going to come through, she thought. Even if he failed to notice his wife’s discomfort, and failed to talk about their future together, Nao was willing to hang onto this marriage if she could get another sign. Something to tell her to believe in her husband.

Lane took her on a city bus, a dilapidated vehicle so well used, there were holes worn through the floorboard. As the line of people got on, the seated men and women promptly took the children of the newcomers and placed them on their laps. Everyone made the best of the situation and took no notice of the white man and the Asian woman. As the bus weaved to and fro to avoid potholes, Nao noticed some women dressed in beautiful cotton kente fabric wrapped around their bodies but others wore blouses, dark skirts, but of course, no nylons in this weather.

Lane scoffed, “It’s a shame these women wear Western clothing.”

Nao was shocked but said nothing. Who was he to say what African women should wear? It was only a generation ago that Japanese women started wearing Western clothing.

As they walked around the campus of University of Accra, a tall young man waved at them. He was standing by one of the white colonial style buildings which dotted the campus along with man palm trees. Lane waved back and the young man approached, smiling. Seeing the joy on Lane’s face, Nao first thought, Does Lane know this man? The young man was dressed in worn but clean clothes.

The tall young man said in good English, “Hello, my friend. Are you enjoying the day?”

Lane said, “ Yes, thank you. My wife is visiting and I’m showing her the sights.” Nao noticed her husband beam with pride. See? I have friends here.

The young man laughed showing his beautiful white teeth as he shook Lane’s hand. “Very good. Very good. I am so happy you like our country.” He nodded to Nao who smiled back.

He said, “Please tell me, sir, from where do you come?”

Lane said, “I’m from California.”

The young man clapped his hands and said, “Oh! California! Hollywood! Rambo! I love Rambo.”

Nao wondered if Lane knew who Rambo was. They never watched action films.

Lane said, “I was just showing my wife, your wonderful campus.”

Was this man someone Lane knew? Maybe he could tell Nao something about this place. She had just noticed a curious stone monument carved in Japanese. A monument with the name Noguchi and the year 1928. Who was this Japanese man, and what was he doing in Ghana in 1928? It would be many years before Nao understood the significance of this Noguchi. Eisei Noguchi was a bacteriologist who inspired other Japanese, including her father, to immigrate to America.

Puzzlement flashed across the young man’s face at Lane’s words. But his white teeth flashed back on. “Please tell me, sir, do you do development work?”

Lane smiled. “Why yes—in a manner of speaking.”

The young man grew serious. “Please tell me, sir. Will you help me?”

Nao saw Lane tense. The young man said, “Please, sir. I need you to sponsor me so I can go to America.”

Nao saw right away—disappointment wash across Lane’s face. Lane wanted something this African wouldn’t or couldn’t give him. Friendship? Forgiveness?

When the young African saw Lane’s closed face, he turned away and didn't seem to even notice Nao. The young man must have thought she wasn’t American. He turned away and walked back to the building where he picked up a broom and began sweeping the sidewalk.

After getting off of the bus to the Cape Coast, Lane took Nao through a dusty road lined with shacks. The landscape was unfamiliar but Nao was surprised to see wide baskets full of dried fish. They preserved fish in the same way the Japanese did. Hoshizakana. And the Fufu looked so similar and was prepared just like one of Nao’s favorite foods—omochi.

It began raining and they stopped under the eaves of one shack to wait for the storm to pass. A thin man bent with age (or hard work?) approached Nao and Lane and motioned for them to come inside. He spoke little English but it was clear he wanted to get them out of the rain. Inside the dirt-floored single room, Nao and Lane were instructed to sit on the only chairs, while he and his family sat on the floor. The man was a gracious host, entertaining Nao in his broken English until the rain let up.

Listening to her Ghanaian host, Nao was reminded of George Meegan, an Englishman she met on her last Outreach Program outside Tokyo. When Meegan realized Nao was American, he eagerly told her about his Guinness World Record adventure. He had spent seven years walking along the back roads from the southern tip of South America, all the way through North America to the northernmost part of Alaska. Almost twenty thousand miles on foot. The Englishman relied on the hospitality of poor people like this man all along the way.

Meegan said, “The only time I felt I was in danger was when I walked through the American South.”

Nao felt ashamed. She could imagine the cold hospitality that greeted this foreigner on foot.

The highlight of Nao’s trip to Ghana was the three-hundred-year old slave forts. There were few visitors. Huge white washed stone buildings were built close enough to the ocean so the human cargo could be easily loaded onto wooden ships bound for America. Nao walked through a passageway where countless men, women, and children must have walked. The stone passageway grew more and more narrow. Until only one person at a time could have passed through the opening onto the slave ship. There was no turning back. Did these people wonder where they would be taken? If they would ever see their homeland again?

Walking through the five-hundred year old slave fort, Nao remembered something Lane told her when they first met in grad school, but its significance failed to register in the excitement of her move from Colorado to NYC. Lane was not her first white boyfriend but he was the first East Coast native. Nao grew up as the eldest daughter of Japanese immigrants in Colorado while Lane was the only son of a New England Brahmin. Lane's father was a prominent thoracic surgeon. Lane, his father, uncle and grandfather had all attended the same prep school - Deerfield. Lane was as exotic to Nao as she was to him. She noticed how often Lane mentioned the Deerfield school motto - Be Worthy of Your Heritage.

Lane told her this happened when he was back home from Deerfield for the holidays. He was looking through his parents’ attic and was delighted to find an old ship captain’s log. Then young Lane’s heart sank when he realized how his worthy ancestor made the family fortune—transporting slaves.

Nao remembered vague references to Lane's nervous breakdown. At a local restaurant near Lane's home, Dr. Hart pointed out to her, a substantial man seated across the room, “Oh, there’s Dr. Brown. Lane’s psychiatrist.”

At the slave fort, an epiphany crept into Nao’s brain. She had previously thought Dr. Lane and his wife were just exuberant. So different from her own parents, but in a good way. Mom and Dad never praised Nao or offered encouragement. At least directly. When Nao asked her mother why they were so different from her friends’ parents, Mom said, “Demo sonna koto shinai. But we (Japanese) don’t do that sort of thing.” At the beginning, Nao was charmed by Dr. Hart’s excitement over anything Lane showed interest in. Reggae music. African studies. African art. But the charm began to wear away over the next seven years. Dr. Hart’s avid interest in his son. All in the effort to prevent another nervous breakdown? She began to see her parents-in-law’s warmth as a sort of desperation.

She remembered the night Lane proposed. Only five months after she and Lane met, Dr. and Mrs. Hart invited them to a concert at Carnegie Hall and then a sumptuous dinner at the Russian Tea Room. At the end of the decadent dessert, Lane suddenly got down on one knee, produced a Tiffany box, and everyone stopped talking. A tear glimmered in the corner of Dr. Hart’s eye as he held his wife’s hand. Nao could only hear her Japanese parents saying, Never. Never make a scene. She mumbled, “Yes” but she wanted to say, “No. No, I’m not ready.”

The blazing African sun was relentless. After they walked through the slave fort and all of its exhibits, Lane took Nao to a shabby outdoor beach side bar where a lone elderly waiter silently greeted them. They ordered the only thing on the menu - Guinness beers. Served room temperature. The Atlantic ocean glinting with the late afternoon sun was so bright, Nao had to shade her eyes. In the distance she saw the bare chested fishermen standing in their simple boat, throwing nets into the azure sea. Powerful arms and bodies. Wet, black skin glistened as the muscles rippled beneath the skin. She had never seen such vigorous, dynamic physiques.

It was easy to imagine these fishermen three hundred years ago. Back then, in the New World, the colonials dreamed of getting rich off of the virgin land. When indentured laborers started dying in the fields, they tried using Native Americans. But Native Americans succumbed to the diseases from the Old World and did no better. That must have been when these traders noticed Africans. These black people withstood the heat, malaria, yellow fever, as well as survive the brutal voyage across the Atlantic. The white traders were clever, figuring out how to harness and make money off of these sturdy Africans. But they must have been terrified, too. Lying awake nights.

After Lane and Nao sat on the terrace for some time, sipping their bottles of warm Guinness, trying to catch a cooling sea breeze, the old waiter came back and pointed to the fishermen. He said, Best you leave before the fishermen come back. Nao saw Lane tense. He was afraid.

Before leaving Ghana, Nao noticed her supply of underwear had dwindled. The lady of the house must have taken them when she did the laundry. Nao smiled, imagining a thriving black market in sensible underwear somewhere in Accra. No problem, when the plane stopped over in Schiphol, she could pick up what she needed in the airport. But despite a good hour, looking through all the airport shops, Nao could only find what she imagined businessmen picked up for their mistresses back home. A set of expensive lacy panties and a bra, in scarlet red.

1989 Tokyo

Lane agreed to handle all the paperwork for the divorce once he got back to the States. Nao didn’t want anything. She didn’t want to hire a lawyer. But knowing Lane, she guessed that he would probably get his father to do the dirty work. She imagined Dr Hart picking up the phone. Maybe he called an old prep school classmate, one who would be discrete and not ask too many questions.

“Hey, Bud. I need a favor.”

“My son needs to get out of a marriage that didn’t work out.”

“Yes, that Japanese girl he met at Columbia.”

“No. No. She’s the one who wants the divorce. But Lane’s agreed to it and asked me to help.”

“Let’s see. They married in ’81. So that’s seven years.”

“No, there’s no children.”

“No, I don’t understand it but his wife doesn’t want anything. Nothing.”

1990 Tokyo

When Lane called Nao with the news that Dr. Hart was dead, she immediately thought, Oh my God, I’ve killed him. As if I stabbed him with one of his own scalpels.

Lane told her his father was found in his car outside New Jersey Memorial where he had just finished his shift as head thoracic surgeon. He had had a heart attack. Across the Atlantic, across the African continent, across India and China, Nao imagined the doctor’s heart breaking when his only son told him, “Sorry Dad, you can’t fix this.”

In retrospect, Nao wondered if maybe Lane had been right all along. History was what needed to be studied. But not history based on facts and figures. Or artifacts and fossils. No, this had to be a history of spirit, emotion and thought. Where would one find this history? In brain cells and nerve endings? Or would there be faint imprints left in the earth, like invisible footprints? No, this history lay in the collective soul of mankind. An inaccessible memory locked in the genetic code of the very first man and his awareness of a human credo.

Listen to my narration of this essay:

Komorebi (木漏れ日) means "sunlight filtering through the trees." In Wim Wenders’ film Perfect Days, the main character, an older single man named Hirayama, leads a simple life as a worker for Tokyo Toilet. Throughout each day, he notices the komorebi from his window, at the toilets he cleans, and in the park where he eats his convenience store sandwich. This quiet but recurring detail is a clue to what gives him his ikigai (生きがい)—his reason for being.

I love the film because Hirayama’s quiet, intentional lifestyle mirrors aspects of my own experiences in Japan—both past and recent. I’ve lived in Tokyo several times. Watching it brought back memories of tradition, change, solitude, and deep emotional connection. I’d like to share a few reflections from my own life that Perfect Days sparked.

Reconnecting with Tokyo, Then and Now

While the world was still emerging from the isolation of Covid, my son Joe invited me to visit Tokyo, where he was studying as a graduate student. For this visit, I decided to rent a small, traditional house in Asakusa, an old neighborhood known for its temples, narrow alleyways, and the Sumida River—so often seen in woodblock prints. From my balcony, I could see the glowing Skytree tower. I stayed in that little house for a whole month so I could get to know the neighborhood. When I saw Perfect Days, I was delighted to see that familiar glowing tower in so many scenes.

Living in Asakusa in my sixties was a very different experience from earlier visits to Tokyo. Decades ago, I lived near Shibuya, the trendy, newer part of Tokyo where the unique Tokyo Toilet buildings exist. I was still married, with Joe just a toddler. I can relate to the harried young mother Hirayama encounters when he finds a crying child. Back then, Asakusa was a place I only went to buy traditional arts and crafts, not a place I called home. I was too busy then to notice the Komorebi. Watching Hirayama go about his life in these different Tokyo neighborhoods made me reflect on how different I was when I lived in those places.

A Familiar Home, A Changed Self

Hirayama’s modest home immediately reminded me of the house I rented in Asakusa a few years ago. It was a typical older Japanese house—tatami mat room upstairs accessed by a steep staircase, with a small kitchen, bath, and living area below. That layout echoed the homes I knew well: my grandparents’ house in Gokokuji and my host family’s house from my Study Abroad year. The grassy scent of tatami, the light fixtures, and the tight, compartmentalized rooms awakened old memories. I remembered how, in the ’70s and ’80s, my Japanese friends used to joke that their homes were “rabbit hutches”—so different from sprawling American homes with four or five bedrooms and huge kitchens.

But modesty in housing has deep cultural roots. Historically, even upper-class samurai were expected to live simply. In a land of earthquakes, typhoons, and tsunamis, homes were not built to impress since they were likely to be destroyed. Wooden structures could be easily rebuilt. Even tea houses were designed with low entrances to ensure everyone—regardless of rank—had to bow to enter. A home in Japan is a quiet but temporary retreat from the world. Newer structures, like the Tokyo Toilets, are more sturdy but they still reflect simplicity and practicality.

Ritual and Reverence in the Everyday

In fact, the film presents Hirayama’s daily routine almost like a tea ceremony: methodical, deliberate, and full of awareness. His morning ritual—trimming his mustache, buying a canned coffee, playing a cassette tape—is as choreographed as the tea lessons I once took as a student. Cleaning toilets is his job, but he does it with care and quiet reverence. These public toilets, part of the Tokyo Toilet Project, are beautiful works of design—just as every scene of the film that Wenders made. Hirayama doesn’t speak much, but his actions show love and pride in each task. But as visitors to Japan know, even ordinary modern toilets are marvelous machines to be appreciated and enjoyed.

This deep respect for cleanliness and order runs through Japanese culture. I remember how, even in middle school (chuugakkō), we cleaned our own classrooms and bathrooms. Later, as an English teacher at a Japanese engineering firm, I was also expected to help with chores like cleaning and snow shoveling. I was so impressed by the garbage trucks. They were spotless, the workers’ uniforms crisp. To care for a space is not a lowly task—it is an honorable one.

Connection Through Solitude

Though Hirayama lives alone, he is not isolated. He interacts warmly with a cast of imperfect people—his carefree co-worker, a troubled niece, the bartender he quietly falls for, and a homeless man whom he treats with dignity. His relationships are quiet but deeply felt. Like the film Groundhog Day, Perfect Days uses repetition to reveal a person’s character through his small daily acts.

Hirayama channels his enthusiasm for life through his photographs of komorebi, his collection of 70’s and 80’s music cassette tapes, and reading every night—everything from Aya Koda’s Tree to Faulkner and Highsmith. Even his dreams, shaped by these stories, ripple with energy and hidden emotion. His simple life is not empty—it’s emotionally rich, full of quiet joys, humor and deep sorrow.

Food, Baths, and the Kindness of Strangers

One of my own greatest joys of living in Tokyo was eating out. Like Hirayama, I’d find comfort in regular stall food, a tiny neighborhood eatery or a delicious treat from the convenience store. The same underground passage he walks in Asakusa is one I used to pass through daily. There, customers are welcomed like family, given an ice cold lemon shochu and warm words: “Otsukaresama!”—well done for another hard day of work.

At day’s end, Hirayama visits the sentō, the public bath. I also shared this ritual, soaking in hot water with neighbors—many elderly, all stripped of pretense. Whenever I got together with Joe, going to the sentō was part of our day. I could hear the men on the other side of the dividing wall also enjoying their bath. It was a daily cleansing not just of body but of spirit. No matter what was going on in the world, I felt better after a long hot soak at the public bath.

Conclusion: Meaning in the Moment

Perfect Days is a quiet masterpiece, a meditation on purpose and awareness. Through Hirayama, we’re reminded that a meaningful life need not be grand or loud. It can be lived in routines, in silence, in cleaning a toilet, sharing a bath, or having a drink with strangers. The Japanese response to Covid—unified, kind, respectful—reflects this same ethic of collective care.

I miss that about Tokyo, especially during these troubled times. Why do I feel so anxious in this country, while I felt so safe in Tokyo?

Like komorebi, Hirayama’s daily experiences are fleeting and beautiful. In watching Perfect Days, I saw myself—not just who I was when I lived in Tokyo, but who I’ve become. I remind myself to pay attention every day. The light that filters through the trees isn’t dramatic, but it leaves a lasting impression.

My 5-minute narration:

My Hilo dance teacher wasn’t standing at the front of the class as she usually did every Monday. I asked my classmate what was going on and learned something that knocked the wind out of me: my teacher has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Since moving into my condo in Lower Queen Anne in 2018, my Hilo dance teacher has been more than just an instructor—she’s been my lifeline. We’re the same age (60+), and her twice-weekly, high-energy classes have helped me survive some of life’s roughest moments. She’s kept me physically strong and emotionally grounded through the lonely process of starting over after divorce, through the isolation of the pandemic (thanks to her video classes), and now through what feels like the end of democracy in this country. Her class has taken the place of my church, my therapist, and even my family.

The news stunned me. I felt heavy, helpless, and sad. Needing something to lift my mood—or at least help me escape it—I turned to Netflix.

I chose The Four Seasons, a comedy mini-series starring Tina Fey, Steve Carell, and Will Forte. A remake of an old Alan Alda movie, I think. I hoped it might make me laugh. Instead, it made me feel—deeply.

Tina Fey plays a character who reminded me a bit too much of myself: witty, brave, and sharp. So sharp, in fact, that she cuts the people she loves with the very insights she prides herself on. Steve Carell plays a man who seems to have it all—success, charm, stability. He and his wife take regular vacations with two other couples, including Tina Fey’s character and her sweet husband, played by Will Forte.

Each of the eight episodes is themed around a season—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter—accompanied by Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” which brought back a lot of nostalgic feelings. (I used to play cello in my high school orchestra.) The familiar classical music threaded through the stories like happy memories do through my life.

The story begins with a disruption: Carell’s character announces he’s leaving his wife after 25 years. His reasons echoed almost word for word something a friend I met through Stitch (a social group for 50+ people) told me: “My wife has stopped growing. My daughter’s grown up enough that I can leave without damaging her. I just want to be happy for the rest of my life.”

And with that, the ripple effects begin.

The series doesn’t paint heroes or villains. Every character is layered and flawed, dispicable and lovable. Tragic and funny. Yes, the wife and daughter are devastated, and the friends are angry, but Carell’s pain is palpable too. You feel for everyone. By the end, nothing is neatly resolved. There’s no tidy “happily ever after”—just something honest and karmically unresolved, like life itself.

The show didn’t erase my sadness about my dance teacher. It didn’t offer comfort in the traditional sense. But it did what good art is supposed to do. The stories reminded me of an essential truth: life is painful, funny, and precious—because of each other.

My Hilo teacher has shaped my life in ways she probably doesn’t know. I can’t take away her illness. I can’t ease her suffering. Despite vigorous exercise and careful habits, we all grow older, slower, and more fragile. Each of us walks a solitary path through birth, aging, and death.

But we are never really alone.

Meaning is what we give to each other—through inspiration, kindness, and presence. And if I could say one thing to her, it would be this: Because of you, my life has meant more. And that matters.

Click on this link if you want to hear me narrate my essay:

I first picked up The Winds of War, Herman Wouk’s 900-page, 1971 best-seller, for selfish reasons. I’m writing a historical fiction piece which includes the same era—the years leading up to the bombing of Pearl Harbor—and thought it might help with research. But as I listened to the audiobook, I found myself thinking less about my project and more about the world around me. Wouk’s portrayal of the rise of fascism in Europe struck an eerie chord with what I see happening in the United States today. The way he tells world history through the story of one American family, the Henrys, reminded me how our personal lives often mirror national struggles—and vice versa. My own 18-year marriage unraveled during the 2007 housing crash. Coincidence? Maybe. But reading Wouk made me wonder just how interconnected we really are with the broader sweep of history.

The Winds of War audiobook—narrated masterfully by Kevin Pariseau—transforms what many would call tedious History (with a capital H) into something immediate and human. Wouk follows Naval Officer Victor "Pug" Henry, his wife Rhoda, and his three grown children as they become unwitting witnesses to the unfolding catastrophe in places like Germany, the US, the Soviet Union, and Pearl Harbor. Through Pug’s diplomatic and military assignments, we meet Roosevelt, Hitler, Churchill, Mussolini, and Stalin—not as abstract icons, but as men whose decisions reshape the world.

What struck me most is how Wouk blends the personal and political. Pug navigates the rise of fascism while also managing a crumbling marriage, a talented but undisciplined son, a headstrong daughter, and the allure of a young journalist named Pamela. These human dramas play out against the backdrop of global collapse, and the effect is sobering: history doesn’t pause for personal crises; it tears right through them.

One of the most compelling arcs belongs to Natalie, a young Jewish American researcher working with her uncle in Italy. Both she and her uncle initially underestimate Hitler. But a chilling scene at a Nazi-controlled border crossing shatters that illusion. German officers politely ask the diplomats to identify group members with Jewish heritage. The Jews are calmly separated from their fellow countrymen, even those with passports. The scene feels uncomfortably familiar in today’s world, where people with student visas and green cards are kidnapped, and constitutional protections often seem negotiable.

Later, when Natalie’ uncle is tasked with delivering photographic evidence of Nazi atrocities, the images are dismissed by the U.S. State Department officials as likely fakes. Some claim the photos are Jewish propaganda, designed to drag peace-loving Americans into a foreign war. The echoes are unmistakable. Today, we see images of injustice or protest and immediately hear cries of “fake news.” Wouk’s novel reminds us that denial has always been a form of defense - for individuals and for nations.

Wouk’s depiction of Hitler’s rise is disturbing not just because it happened, but because it feels possible again. The Germany he portrays is desperate for a leader—someone bold enough to reject the humiliation of the Versailles Treaty, confident enough to speak dangerous truths out loud. A former Nazi general in the novel describes how Hitler voiced the antisemitism others only whispered, weaponizing hate to energize the public. Germany, exhausted and disillusioned after World War I, chose belief over reason. Sound familiar?

In one scene, a friendly Nazi official encourages Pug to speak to President Roosevelt on Germany’s behalf, offering a generous financial reward and reminding him of Germany’s rich culture, its technological genius, and its potential to replace the waning British Empire. When Pug questions Germany’s attack on the Soviet Union instead of Britain, a chilling explanation emerges: Hitler was after uranium. A new kind of weapon was being developed.

It’s not hard to draw lines to our present. Today, we’re still fighting over resources, still watching truth bend under the weight of propaganda, and still hearing arguments that dissent must be suppressed for the sake of unity or federal funding. The tools of authoritarianism have become more advanced, but the blueprint is the same: fear, distraction, and control of the narrative.

Wouk never simplifies these dynamics. He shows us how seductive power can be on a personal level too. Rhoda Henry, Pug’s wife, is drawn to Germany—not just the language and culture, but the confidence of its officials. She charms the Germans, flirts easily with powerful men, including Pug’s wealthy friend Kirby, whose company stands to gain from government defense contracts. Meanwhile, Pug—steadfast, but emotionally distant—is tempted by Pamela after a brush with death in Moscow. War, loneliness, and uncertainty open cracks in even the strongest relationships.

Maybe democracy is like a long marriage: comforting, but easy to take for granted. Rhoda isn’t just bored—she’s restless, disillusioned, ready for something that feels alive. So were many Germans in the 1930s. So, perhaps, are many Americans now.

The bombing of Pearl Harbor changed everything. Suddenly, isolationism became impossible. Pug’s eldest son’s plane is shot down in the Pearl Harbor attack but he survives—and instead of retreating, he immediately volunteers to fly again. Inspired by his son’s courage, Pug joins the fight, commanding a destroyer. Wouk even entertains the notion that Roosevelt may have known the attack was coming but used it to galvanize a divided nation. While he ultimately dismisses that theory, Wouk makes one thing clear: America needed a wake-up call. And Pearl Harbor delivered it.

I can’t help but wonder—what will it take for us to wake up now?

Are we waiting for our own version of Pearl Harbor—a catastrophe so undeniable, so immediate, that we’re forced to confront the authoritarian creep in our own institutions? Or are we too fragmented, too distracted, too demoralized to respond?

Wouk’s brilliance lies in reminding us that history is never “over.” It lives in us—our choices, our apathy, our beliefs. The Henrys are fictional, but their dilemmas are painfully real. Just like them, we struggle with doubt, loyalty, ambition, and fear. And just like in the 1930s, it’s tempting to assume “that could never happen here.”

But it did. And it could again.

After finishing The Winds of War, I keep asking myself: Will it take a modern-day version of Pearl Harbor to unite us? Are we willing to wake up before it’s too late? Wouk shows us that history isn’t some distant, dusty subject—it’s lived, felt, and shaped by real people. Today, it happens in bedrooms, on battlefields, in private heartbreaks, and on social media. The choices we make in our personal lives—what we pay attention to, what we run away from, what we stand up for—are deeply connected to the health of our democracy. If you don’t have time for a 900-page novel, try the 1983 television miniseries. But if you do have the time, read the book. It might just change the way you see both history and yourself.

The Mighty Red is a big, juicy story about people and places I’ve loved. No, I’ve never lived in North Dakota but good fiction immediately reveals my own life. Erdrich, a member of a Chippewa tribe, wrote this wonderful story based on her life growing up in sugar beet country. The beauty and tragedies of North Dakota are similar to those of Colorado where I grew up. I remember the Big Sky, the snow and the scary rivers she mentions. Her story reminds me of my Fairview High classmates, the congregation of the church we attended, and the bookstores on Pearl St Mall. Scratch beneath the surface of bucolic Boulder and like in Erdrich’s story, terrible things appear.

Erdrich says she wrote The Mighty Red as a Love story, perhaps of the North Dakota community she knew. But I would call this an intimate sweeping saga that jumps into interesting topics like bank robberies, ghosts, sugar beet farming and Deep Time. The heart of this story are the characters who live in this community. The relationships between mothers and their children are especially vivid. I empathized with Crystal who struggles with her relationships with her charming, yet unreliable husband Martin, and their smart, yet gullible daughter Kismet. But I also liked the “bad guys.” Crystal’s husband Martin and Kismet’s new husband Gary. Both appear to be ideal American men at first glance, but both have terrible flaws that almost destroy their lives.

Erdrich mixes in just enough magic, horror and humor so that the story (which takes place during the 2008 economic meltdown) doesn’t descend into a depressing reflection of our own current situation. At the same time, this story is not a romance where couples end up happily ever after. Romantic Love is certainly one theme (Madame Bovary makes an appearance) but Crystal, Kismet and the many other fascinating characters realize that love for one another is much more vital, although they are complicated. Even Gary, the handsome, popular young buck I would love to hate, has a great epiphany finally that hints at the possibility of turning his life around.

This book was a great, fun immersive experience allowing me to reflect on my own life.

I first met Pablo five years ago when we both worked for a childcare center in Seattle. He’s the same age as my son Thomas. I was immediately attracted to his sunny personality and sense of humor. He loved taking care of the three-year-olds (who exhausted me) and was an enthusiastic co-worker. Although he was already fluent in English, he wanted to learn Japanese and Korean as well. When I told him I used to teach Japanese, he peppered me with questions. But between his smiles, once in a while, he would confide in me his troubles.

When Pablo was growing up in Venezuela, his mother knew their lives were in danger. Her status as a doctor would not protect her son. His awareness that he was attracted to the same gender made him the target of hatred from the authorities who were already persecuting anyone who defied them. According to Wikipedia:

The 2013 Venezuelan presidential election was widely disputed leading to widespread protest, which triggered another nationwide crisis that continues to this day.^[29]

Venezuela has experienced democratic backsliding, shifting into an authoritarian state.^[3] It ranks low in international measurements of freedom of the press and civil liberties and has high levels of perceived corruption.^[30]

In 2014, Venezuela entered a recession,^[119] and in 2015, had the world's highest inflation, surpassing 100%.^[120] In 2017, Donald Trump's administration imposed more economic sanctions against PDVSA and Venezuelan officials.^{[121][122][123]} Economic problems, as well as crime, were the causes of the 2014–present Venezuelan protests.^[124][125] Since 2014, roughly 5.6 million people have fled Venezuela.^[12

Pablo and his mother fled to Seattle and applied for asylum. While working full-time to support his mother, Pablo earned a Masters degree on-line and found another good job allowing him and his mother to move to a larger apartment in West Seattle. Later Pablo’s sister and brother-in-law joined them with their toddler daughter Alma and nine-year-old Luciano. They were also granted asylum. Pablo was finally reunited with his sister after years of uncertainty. Pablo’s sister and brother-in-law also found full-time jobs while his mother cooked for everyone and took charge of the children.

I spent Christmas Eve with Pablo and his family. They welcomed me, the only American, with delicious homemade delicacies. They had invited other relatives who had fled to California for the holidays, and so we were all crammed into the three- bedroom apartment. But no one minded. Everyone was so happy to see each other after such hardship. Pablo proudly showed me his immaculate apartment where somehow all these people slept. Luciano who was like any boy with his video games, was fascinated with my Christmas present - a simple kaleidoscope. He had never seen it before. Meanwhile, little Alma fell in love with the stuffed animal toy I gave her. I knew how quickly these children would learn English and become American.

But now my worst fears were coming true. There was now a real possibility little Alma and her family would be incarcerated and or deported. The new administration had already revoked Pablo’s sister’s asylum case. A lawyer filed a lawsuit and a judge is now reviewing their case. Pablo knew that any day he and his mother might also be torn from their home.

I urge you and everyone you know to sign this petition to stop this tragedy from happening - again. Eighty years ago, my relatives Henry and Grace Uyeda were forced out of their home in San Francisco and incarcerated in Manzanar, a barbed-wire prison. The government now is using the same flawed reasoning used to justify the removal of 120,000 Japanese American men, women and children, many of whom were US citizens.

Please add your name to my Petition to Halt the Destruction of Immigrant Families