How to Fold a Paper Crane

Students at the American School in Japan share personal essays exploring the theme of identity as part of their creative nonfiction class. Each essay is followed by a critical reflection by the student on the project, process, and their writing experience. These essays are presented unedited by TIE to preserve the authenticity and originality of the student voice. 

“Do you know how to fold a paper crane?” 

“Of course I do, I’m Japanese,” I joked. We exchanged laughs. 

It turns out I didn’t. I had been folding birds instead of the authentic Japanese cranes. I had only missed a singular step, and yet the product was quite different. Although I thought mine was cooler because it could flap its wings when you pulled its tail, the cranes appeared much more intricate and beautiful. Ironically, a girl only half the amount of Japanese I was, taught me how to fold one. The bird I had been taught to fold had been something I learned in the U.S. years ago. I had been lied to! Or had I simply not cared enough to learn to fold a real crane when I noticed my cranes didn’t look quite like the authentic ones my mother had once folded for me? I had shut away the differences in our products and lived on knowing my cranes weren’t real. Reality had caught up with me, though, and the shame dawned on me in the cranes’ country of origin. However, I also felt some pride in knowing my bird could be brought to life with its flapping wings outstretched rather than standing rigid, too strictly perfect. 

You start with origami paper with any design or color of your choice, perfectly cut into a square with sharp edges. Four ninety-degree angles and sides all the same length.

My paper is lined with red around the edges and blue in the middle. On the back side, it is colored completely in a rich purple. It’s perfect if you don’t mind the harsh contrast of the coloring. 

Fold triangles and rectangles to form lines pressed from corner to corner, and across the middle of each side. 

In my class of twenty young girls, there was a single other Asian girl. Our parents became friends, finding comfort in finding another like them in a place full of those who were alike: White. Yet as children, we saw through this. We never realized the difference and we were all friendly. We all wore the same navy checkered dress uniform in the summer, and the same navy dress with a red turtleneck under, in the winter. I learned my first everything in London, where I spoke with a heavy British accent and talked about the weather to strangers. I spent half of my time in English, at school, and in my ballet classes. I spent the other half in Japanese, at an after-school care, and at home. I wore frilly skirts and blouses from a Japanese children’s clothing brand I claimed my favorite when I wasn’t in my uniform. How strange it must have been to see such a six-year-old girl in California.

The change was drastic. I suddenly found myself in a large, navy Toyota, driving down excessively wide roads that stretched forever. Tall, skinny trees with giant leaves split into thousands of hair-like strands at the top of their long trunks lined everywhere, from one corner to the other. It was strangely hot unlike in London, but without the humidity like that of Japan. 

We started living in a small apartment facing an open grassy area. Kids would come by and play and I approached them with confidence. 

“What lovely weather today!” I smiled. 

“You talk kinda funny,” they say. 

They looked at me curiously, but I did not understand. We still played tag.

I started attending a school where they recited strange words towards an unfamiliar flag that stuck out of the wall in our classroom every morning. They also sang songs about America, smiling while doing their memorized hand motions and letting those words leave their mouths with an odd flow but with pride. After a week of struggling to remember the routine of these American mornings, I cried out of frustration. 

I was attending a school that took a couple of months to adjust to. I learned their American morning routine quickly after. In class, we learned things I had done long ago at my old school, so I sat at my desk with confidence in my intelligence. I wore my frilly skirts and blouses with a pink backpack to school, all of them now covered in black smudges and dirt. My mother started making me wear leggings and a T-shirt instead. I lost my accent. 

Using those linings, fold a square a fourth of the original size, with two opposing corners touching each other and its sides folded in, making two triangles underneath the square flaps on either side. 

In California, I went to a Japanese school every Saturday. The homework was hard and I spent a lot of time on it inside, while the American kids outside my house played all day. I began to dislike Japanese. 

I started to spend more time with English rather than Japanese. Three-fourths in English: school, ballet, rhythmic gymnastics, playing with the American kids, and speaking to my sister at home. One-fourth in Japanese: Saturday school and speaking to my parents. I read many English books compared to the limited assigned Japanese reading I did. I struggled with every Japanese sentence I spoke or wrote. My parents constantly reminded my sister and I to speak in Japanese at home, frustrated with our clear preference. We responded back in strict English.

Language served as an issue within our yearly trips to Japan to see my grandparents. Disappointment was evident, yet it was well hidden by their fascination with the English language and our unique experiences from theirs. 

My sister and I did not know how to pray every morning to the butsudan and kamidana placed in their homes. Neither did we know how to pray at the shrine, peaking my eyes open to see when to bow or put my palms together. I felt an uneasiness in the room with the large butsudan that my grandma set our shikifuton in, knowing I would struggle with the prayer yet again, the next morning. 

Though I did not find myself in touch with many traditions, we still celebrated Japanese holidays despite the American that seemed to slowly seep into our walls. New Year’s was Oshogatsu and lasted three days with bento boxes, osechi. We ate soba on New Year's Eve, toshikoshisoba, while watching the Times Square Ball Drop in New York and then switching to the Japanese Kohaku Uta Gassen. We celebrated Children’s Day by making koinobori with colorful papers of bright reds and blues, and Halloween with Japanese movie characters. We celebrated Christmas with a Christmas tree covered in a collection of ornaments from around the world, English Christmas songs playing softly, and a cake that read Merry Christmas in Japanese. 

Then fold four triangles (two on each side) with the longer base neatly aligned with the remnants of the folds running down the diagonal of the square. One of the corners of these triangles should be the open side of the flaps. 

At my high school we had the option to leave campus, entrusted with such freedom under the assumption we would make good choices. My friends and I would leave every lunch period to get food from the countless options we were provided. While there were fights and stupid things that occurred like stealing a golf cart from school, every day held excitement with our freedom. 

I was able to express anything I wished, wearing whatever I wanted and saying whatever. Spending time with people I loved and doing what I loved. It truly fit the ideal of the “land of the free.” I developed confidence and walked with my head up, undoubtedly knowing my self-worth even if it overshot the truth. 

Unfold those triangles and then open the flaps of the square to form an elongated rhombus with edges that fold along those linings just made.

In December of 2022, I received news that we would be moving to Japan the following summer. I found out in a booth at Cheesecake Factory in my favorite mall. I left bawling, hiccups staggering my breath unable to walk straight without the guidance of my mother comforting me. My parents had told me there, afraid I would act out irrationally and try to leave in response. 

I did not tell anybody about the news for three months. My friends and I still made plans for the summer, excited about getting out of school and the freedom we would have, while at home I sat back in defeat. When I broke the news we cried together. I was leaving them. 

July 16th, 2023: we left for the family’s home country. I could not call this place home. We moved into a significantly smaller house with a red postbox at the front. My new room shrank to half my old room. There were no palm trees swaying freely at every block, the roads only fit barely two cars and stopped with constant crosswalks, the beaches were gray and the sun would not set into the ocean, and it was constantly raining and too hot and sticky. Despite the weather, I couldn’t wear my shorts and tank tops as they showed too much skin. I dressed too lazily and revealing for the culture here. To the Japanese, I did not care enough to fit in this set society and was too proud and confident in myself in the wrong ways. Above all, my friends and people I grew up with were across the vast ocean, continuing on a life I was supposed to be a part of. 

“If only my father had taken on another job.” “If only I could have just stayed in California, my home.” “If only.” 

At least my grandparents were excited about our move. 

“We’re so much closer! I can see you more often now!” they would say. 

“I know you struggle in Japanese and its culture but you will learn,” they would also say. They were excited for the distance that America had created, to dissolve, but was it too late? I felt it was. 

I dreamed of waking up in my old bedroom and seeing the bright cloudless sky with its sunlight shining into my spacious room. Driving around with my friends to the beach and walking along the shore with endless palm trees in the background, cold blue waves crashing onto our feet. I mentioned the place with every chance I got. 

“Where do you want to go for Winter Break?” my mother asked. 

“California,” I stated. 

“I knew you would say that.”

“I want to go home. I need to see everyone.” 

“...” 

“I feel like I’m missing out on the life I was supposed to have. I want to be at all those football games, have my friends drive me around during lunch, and go to those beaches with smoky firepits and white sand. Not gray." 

“Yeah, but appreciate Tokyo. It’s nice here.” 

“I hate it here.” 

“You’re Japanese, this is your home. You aren’t missing out, you’ve returned to where you’re supposed to be.” 

“I’m American. I know my blood says otherwise, but how can you call me Japanese when I can barely speak the language or understand the culture? I’ve grown American.”

“I’m sick of you unappreciating Japan. Think about your grandparents you see once a year who live in this same country. You even dare make fun of it when you belong here.”

She gets up. I stare down, with my eyes a little watery, at my phone and pretend to be occupied. My phone reads “Notification Center,” unlike my mother's, which I know reads “tsuuchisenta.” 

I started attending a school where I did not fit in. I did not agree with the people I met and could only wish for something different. I could only think of how my life would have been if not for the tragedy. I called my friends from home often and saw them change just as I did in my new environment. I found I could not call California my home anymore. Too many things were changing and it was not the place I once knew, but neither was Tokyo my home. I was home-less. 

You now have two choices. Fold a bird or a crane. 

At the age of eighteen, I will have to choose between the two passports that have traveled with me through all of the countries I’ve been in and left. Either the one painted in the color of my blood, tracing my family heritage all throughout. The one my parents and grandparents pray I choose, continuing the trend of golden flowers that bloom bonds on the covers of each. To continue the bond I do not quite understand the extent of the consequences if I had broken it. Or the one with a fierce eagle, talons full but inviting me nonetheless, outstretching them and its broad wings against a deep blue background. The one that spoke to me for much of my life, reassuring me I wouldn’t be alone if I picked it.

The blood-red string that follows my family loosens on my wrists, with age. Though it thins, it tugs every so often, reminding me of its presence every time I get too caught up in a purple dream.

Critical Reflection 

Mixed Blood Stew and How to Skin a Bird were both very inspiring to me for this piece, as I knew I wanted to try a braided essay. Although my braided section regarding the actual steps on how to fold a paper crane is significantly shorter than my story, which differs from the sample essays, I still feel I was able to take the concept and apply it well in my essay. I really enjoyed how braided essays leave it up to the reader to determine the connection between the multiple stories, and felt I was able to effectively implement this. Additionally, I found “Shunned” to be extremely emotionally intriguing and tried to take aspects of how such strong feelings were expressed, into my story. In the piece I felt you could physically feel the vulnerability that was risked, all while avoiding explicit statements on these emotions and thoughts. I tried to avoid flat statements regarding my emotions, which I believe I used to do often. I have tried to express as much as I could through word choice and imagery instead, similar to that of Shunned.

In this piece, I am most proud of my use of dialogue as I tend to hide away from using it. I tried to apply some of the suggestions Neal Shusterman had given us around dialogue, specifically the tip on letting characters speak as themselves and have their words express emotions rather than explicitly stating them. I chose the specific conversation I had with my mother as I felt anyone reading it could tell the strong feelings behind the words without explanation, and feel as though this addition was extremely impactful and turned out very well. 

Throughout my writing process, I felt I struggled most in keeping consistent and meaningful themes in my essay from start to end. I felt I often got caught up in my writing that I deviated from my main themes and had to bring myself back and remind myself of what it was I wanted to tell. I also saw this in my use of metaphors and symbols, where I tried to create many along the way, whereas I believe only a few are really necessary and had to go back to revise. Additionally, although I already had a “main” symbol I wanted to stick to throughout my piece, I found it hard at times to incorporate that into my actual story. My focus on the colors red and blue representing my two different cultural identities was hard to use in the second portion of my essay, and I would have liked to take more time to find ways to add some more details using this. 

Within my essay, I attempted to portray multiple layers, which included my split cultural identities and how they began to conflict with external forces such as my parents and grandparents, as well as the physical location I was living in at the time. I also tried to highlight underlying ideas of how age can play a large role in the perception of the value of exposure to various experiences and the power imbalance in freedom and choice you have as an adult or as a child.