Respect, Rice, and Roots

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. 

New York City, March 7th, 2007. Roughly four pounds each, there are three babies; two girls and one boy. The names - Maria, Reina, and Noah. The family name on the birth certificates don’t match these names at all. Kato. 

* * * 

Nagasaki, August 9th, 1945. It’s a busy morning; children head to school, workers shuffle towards their factories, and women weave through the marketplaces, baskets in hand. Suddenly, the air sirens blare, and preparations for the evacuation of the children are made. A quiet, looming sense of dread fills the air. 

Then, the all-clear signal. A sigh of relief. The streets come to life again as people go about their day; the B-29 bomber is a just tiny speck in the sky, miles away, cloaked by the thick white clouds looming over the region. 

Nagasaki, 11:02 AM, August 9th, 1945. A blinding flash. A powerful blast. The “Fat Man” unleashes its unimaginable force upon the city below. Buildings are vaporized and people are reduced to shadows. Those are the lucky ones. As flames spread across the city, the landscape turns hellish. Survivors trudge around aimlessly, their scorched skin hanging off of their limbs, their bright red bodies a collage of glass shards, wood splinters, and flesh. 

As the city picks up its pieces, more smoke fills the air - this time, from the funeral pyres. Among them, a young girl rests on an unlit pyre, dressed up in a kimono. It’s a strangely beautiful sight; one might even think she’s sleeping. The family prepares to bid their farewells, and the pyre is lit. The air is filled with the climbing smoke and cries of anguish as the smoke carries loved ones away. 

News of the young girl’s death reaches a family in Tokyo. They had recently taken the long journey from Nagasaki to Tokyo, leaving behind the birthplace of their two-year-old daughter, Sachiko, for work. The news hits hard; the young girl had always adored Sachiko, treating her like a little sister. As Sachiko grows up in post-war Japan, she builds a resentment towards America and her heart aches every time the bells ring on August 9th, yearning for this girl who had showered her with so much love. 

* * * 

Tokyo, summertime, 2015. My siblings and I were well into our annual summer visit to my grandma’s house. Though we lived in New York, breaks and vacations were always reserved for Japan and the precious time with our grandma, Sachiko - our babachan. During the day, we were off to Japanese public school. There, we realized just how American we were. 

I began to notice how much I stood out. I observed my classmates, trying to copy their mannerisms. During reading, I desperately hoped that I wouldn't get called upon. As my classmates read out the passages, my eyes frantically darted from one part of the page to another, trying to find something familiar, but their pace kept me struggling to keep up. I’d wait for my classmates to turn the page so that I could try to follow again, but the Japanese on the textbook page was incomprehensible, and I'd start searching the page again for a familiar word. 

During breaks, my Japanese classmates bombarded me with questions. 

"How do you say _____ in English?" 

"Do you have _____ in America?" 

“Why do you speak English?" 

I'd often struggle to answer these answers, overwhelmed by the constant stream of questions. I looked at my sisters, but they just returned the same puzzled expression. 

After the other children got bored of our silence, they went off to enjoy their break time, and it felt like I was back in language class. Conversations would swirl around me, but I'd only catch bits - a word here and there. I smiled and nodded, hoping that my confusion wasn't obvious to the smiling faces around me. 

Back at my grandma's house, with just my sisters, I was a bit more comfortable with my Americanness. I’d speak in English with my sisters and we'd listen to American music together in the living room. But I remember the one time Maria and I pulled out our computers in front of her. 

* * * 

Sachiko’s grandchildren have stayed with her quite a while now. It’s the annual summertime visit. But she can’t help but think “why couldn’t they have been raised here?” 

It’s time for the kids to get some work done and Noah pulls out his computer from his bag. The computer case - stars and stripes. Maria follows suit pulling out her computer from her bag. The same case. The same flag. Sachiko clenches her jaw. Her eyes narrow. The whole morning, the constant rambling in English was like daggers to her ears. The loud, obnoxious American music filling the air taunted her. She feels the room closing around her, and her eyes flick back and forth between the computer cases. The bright flag stares back, almost taunting her. She feels heat rising to her head. 

She explodes. "You guys really love America, don’t you?" she sneers. "You know you guys aren't Americans," she starts blurting out. "Your mom is Japanese. Your dad is Japanese. How could you be American then?” She stands up, towering over the three children. “You are Japanese by blood. No matter what your mom tells you, you're Japanese." 

She gestures to the computer cases. "Take it off ." The kids hurriedly try to take the computer case off. She watches as Maria's clumsy fingers tug and tug at the case latched onto her computer. It stubbornly clings to the laptop. Maria’s face flushes red, desperation mounting as she puts all of her strength into it. 

Snap! 

The star-spangled banner splits into pieces. The kids quietly gasp, eyes wide open and staring at the fragments of the flag now littering the carpet. This reminds them. They’re not American. 

* * * 

We’re not American. I’m reminded of a birthday party, sometime in 2014. 

We all stood around the table, buzzing as the candles on the birthday cake were lit, their warm glow illuminating the faces standing around the table. The room started to fill with excited giggles and chatter. As the first notes of “The Birthday Song” started to ring out, I eagerly joined in, our voices echoing loudly as the birthday boy sheepishly waited for us to finish. 

But something’s not right. After the first verse, someone yelled “Chinese Chicken!”. Giggles followed, and after each verse, more and more voices joined the chorus, the chant growing louder and louder. 

“Happy Birthday to you,--” “Chinese Chicken!” 

“Happy Birthday to you,--” “Chinese Chicken!” 

“Happy Birthday to dear Elijah,--” “Chinese Chicken!” 

“Happy Birthday to you,--” “Chinese Chicken!” 

The last chant is the loudest, their voices ringing. I look at the birthday boy - Elijah. Elijah Lin. He looks a bit confused, though his smile is still somewhat hanging there. Though I didn’t feel it until later, a frustration grew in me. Even at school, this happened. 

A boy would pull his eyelids back, singing “Ching Chingaling Ling Ling”, dancing crudely around the room. Another group of children paraded around the classroom, dancing and chanting “Big Fat Buddha! Big Fat Buddha!” The teachers never really said anything. 

But the other Asian kids and I would just make eye contact - a quiet acknowledgment of this shared frustration. 

Sometimes, faculty staff would even join in. A lunch lady took a Yankees hat off of my friend, Charles, and placed it on my head, squeezing it down. 

"Japanese Yankee!" “Japanese Yankee!" she pointed and laughed. 

She'd also make jokes to our faces, pulling her eyelids out in different directions, joking about how her parents were Japanese or Korean. 

When we’d sit down at our lunch tables, things weren’t much different. Kids would stare at our lunches, sometimes covering their noses or even exclaiming “Ew!” 

One time, a kid asked me to share some of my lunch with him. He took a piece from my lunchbox and put it in his mouth. Almost immediately, his face contorted into a grimace and he sprinted to the nearest trash can to spit it out. As he walked back from the trash can, his nose crinkled in disgust, his tongue sticking out. 

Another kid pointed at my lunchbox. 

I had furikake, a Japanese condiment sprinkled on to add flavor to my white Japanese rice. “Why are you eating fish food?” he asked, staring at the rice. 

The question hung in the air as I struggled to come up with a response. 

My face flushed, and I hastily shoved the rest of my rice into my mouth, trying to make it disappear as quickly as possible. When I got home, I asked my mom to put the furikake packet separately in the lunchbox so that I could sprinkle it myself. 

On most occasions, I left the furikake packet untouched in the lunchbox and stuck with just plain white rice. Sometimes, I would even leave my whole lunch untouched, not wanting to invite any glances, questions, or snickers. When I got home, I stuttered my way through excuses and watched as she quietly lifted my lunch out of my bag. The time and care she put into preparing it showed with the neatly arranged components: the colorful assortment of vegetables, the meat, and the rice. With a gentle sigh, she emptied the contents into the trash can. I winced at the sound of the food hitting the trash bag. I couldn't look at my mother. I was speechless but I wanted to tell her so bad that I really did love Japanese food. 

* * * 

In Japan, they treat food with respect. They are taught to eat every last grain of rice. To leave food; to waste it, is to be disrespectful. 

As Sachiko sits around the dinner table with her family, she wants to keep these Japanese values present. From a young age, manners are incorporated into every aspect of the process of eating: 

- You start with “Itadakimasu” before you eat: I will humbly receive this (meal). - Good posture: Sit straight. 

- Hand placement and movement are scrutinized: don't put your elbows on the table. Bring the food to your mouth, not vice versa. 

- Don't eat food directly from the platter. Put it down on your own plate first. 

- Don't stab your food with your chopsticks. 

Sachiko carefully watches her grandchildren as they begin to eat the delicious Japanese dishes prepared by their mother. 

"Elbows of the table," she chides. "Don't bring your face that close to the plate." An eye roll. A sigh. They reluctantly comply. 

All Sachiko wants to do is to properly teach them these values. She's not just passing down manners - she’s passing down her family's culture, their history. Why can’t they see that? 

Her frustration grows through the dinner as she watches her own Japanese grandchildren struggle to piece sentences together to converse with her. 

Always some English word slips into a sentence. Always looking to their mother for help. Her heart sinks with every additional English word breaking the beautiful flow of a Japanese sentence. Now, it’s her turn to sigh. The tangled mess of English and Japanese flew past her ears. 

“I didn’t understand anything,” she says. 

* * * 

I’ve been trying all evening to speak in Japanese to my grandmother, but as my sisters and I talk about our AP classes or our college applications, the difficult vocabulary isn’t easily translated. 

Having no choice, I sprinkle a few English words in my sentences, hoping that the rest of my efforts in Japanese will make up for my limited vocabulary. 

The English is met with sighs. She remains stubborn, asking me to repeat myself in full Japanese. I feel deflated. Why can’t she see that I’m trying? 

My sister, Reina, has been getting increasingly agitated as well. Her manners were picked on practically the whole night, and her explanations were met with blank stares and sighs. 

Mid-sentence, she was interrupted by my grandmother. “I didn’t understand anything,” my grandmother remarks. 

Reina’s smile fades. “Whatever. It’s fine,” she mutters, turning her eyes to her food and completely abandoning her attempts to converse. 

The lively dining table turns quiet, and the awkward silence is only broken by a small conversation between my siblings and I. 

A few English words here and there turns into whole sentences. In a couple minutes, we’re having a full conversation in English among ourselves. 

My grandmother takes a final sigh and stands up. She walks towards the living room door and walks out. The dining table goes quiet. I hear her footsteps echo down the stairs before the front door opens, then closes. 

A heavy silence falls over the table. We failed her. As I shovel the rest of my dinner down, I think back to all the times my grandmother had tried to share her “Japaneseness” with us. 

One of our first Augusts with her, she pulled out an illustrated book about the Atomic bombs, explaining it to us with tears in her eyes. We embraced her as she shared stories and photographs of loved ones she’d lost in the war - her friend, her uncle. 

During Obon, she made us all Yukata (casual kimonos) by hand, carefully cutting and sewing the beautiful fabric and took us to the summer festivals. 

As I realize how hard she tried, I want to mirror her effort. It won’t be easy, but I want to do better. I won’t let her down anymore. Tomorrow, I’ll start again. Tomorrow, I’ll keep speaking Japanese. I’ll practice my manners. I’ll ask her for her stories. 

Critical Reflection 

As a Reader 

Of the multiple essays we read in this unit, the ones that were the most influential to me were Fourth State of Matter and Three Spheres. 

Fourth State of Matter was pretty influential because of its braided essay format - the first time I really encountered this sort of format - and because of the way it revealed the main story of the shooting. It was really interesting to me because at first, it was very confusing and seemed all over the place. Also, the subjects she was talking about were pretty tame: the collie, the squirrels, and ordinary everyday events. But then the author switches the narrative almost out of nowhere to follow the shooter, and that was pretty shocking. 

The interesting format and the shocking twist in the plot has made this piece stick in my mind through this unit. This essay inspired me in multiple ways: I wanted to explore the braided essay format for my own personal essay, and I also wanted to use the perspective shift she used to suddenly shift the perspective from her own, first person, to a third-person point of view of a completely different person. 

Although its impact isn’t as evident in my essay, Three Spheres was another essay that stuck with me. First off, the subject matter and the events depicted were really intense and memorable. The way she revealed to us her own experiences with mental illness helped to create a connection to both the reader and the patient - We realize that the author knows what she’s talking about since she experienced everything firsthand. And because of this experience, she is able to be more connected and empathetic towards her patient. Also, I really liked how she jumped through different time periods through the story, and that was something I incorporated into my essay as well. 

As a Writer 

In this unit, I struggled with choosing a topic and how to approach it. I was torn between writing about my struggles with my Japanese-American identity and about being a triplet. Because of this, I started writing for both topics, but I ended up being able to write a lot more about my Japanese-American identity. I intended to write about feeling out of place in both Japan and America, and I wanted to express my frustration and confusion. 

Throughout the writing process, I have ran into some roadblocks. I often felt stuck, not knowing how to move forward, especially with my braided format. There isn’t any chronological order, so I would struggle choosing a scene to write about next. There were so many different moments I wanted to write about. And especially towards the end, I never really had a “resolution” to my 

conflicts with my grandmother. So I really struggled with how to end my essay without leaving a bad taste in my readers’ mouths. Also, reading my essay, it felt that the switching between scenes felt abrupt and difficult to follow. 

What I’m most proud of is how I explored a new format and new techniques with my personal essay. I felt that I was (for the most part) successful in expressing the conflict between my American and Japanese sides, and showing the conflict between me and my grandmother.