Fumbling in her pocket, she withdrew a small piece of cane and bit down hard. The sugary substance dripped into her mouth and slid down her throat. She wanted to cry out, but she was too proud to lower herself to such shameful behavior. After all, she was samurai and she had been taught to bear labor pains in silence. The pain ebbed a little. Kazuko removed the cane from her mouth and slid it back into her pocket.
Sighing, she trudged through the cane again. The towering stalks entangled her in their embrace, keeping her in this cursed land. The cane was a constant reminder of all she had lost when she left Japan. It imprisoned her body and soul.
Japan. The mere sound of it caused explosions in her heart and she cursed the ground she walked on. This land was a deceptively beautiful maiden with a provocative voice and wretched heart. It called, “Come to me, and I will make love to you and return you to the womb from which you came, enriched through my sweet embrace.” Hawaii’s promises were irresistible to the thousands of poor farmers from the far-flung Southern prefectures of the islands of Japan. Driven by dreams of wealth, they came from Kumamoto, Hiroshima, and Yamaguchi. They swallowed their fears and left behind a rigid social structure governed by birth and place, to plunge into the unknown. Enduring difficult sea voyages to follow the white man’s lies, the immigrants promised their families they would return to Japan wealthy men. What did it matter? In Japan, class was far more important than wealth.
Another spasm hit and she tore at the green stalks as she shoved the cane between her teeth. The sun was directly over her, rivers of sweat poured down her neck, her back, and between her swollen breasts. The cheap, blue cloth of her dress clung to her huge stomach.
She felt the baby move, impatient to leave her womb. She bit down on the cane harder. Seeing the end of the field, she stumbled across the clearing to the whitewashed old house standing on crossed boards a foot above the ground.
“O-Shizue!” Kazuko screamed as she collapsed on the ground. Sharp pains ripped through her. The syrup running down her throat made her choke. She squeezed her eyes shut, ashamed she had demonstrated such weakness. She felt herself being half carried, half dragged, across the red dirt. It had to be Shizue. Little clouds of dust drifted up her nose. Kazuko sneezed, bringing on another spasm. She reached out and grabbed Shizue’s arm.
“O-Kazuko!” Shizue’s distant voice exclaimed. “Let go!” But Kazuko held on until the pain passed. Then her body went limp as she felt herself being pulled up the stairs, onto the porch, and into the house. She felt the soft futons and zabutons supporting her body.
Another pain tore through her and she willed herself not to cry out and add to her shame. She was not an animal. Her father told her more times than she cared to remember, “To dishonor your family is to be less than a dog.”
Kazuko was vaguely aware of Shizue gently lifting her legs and propping her up with clean rags in preparation for birth. She grimaced. Shizue wiped her perspiring brow and carefully pried open her mouth to remove the cane.
Before Shizue could replace the cane with a smooth, hard bamboo stick, Kazuko prayed, "Amida Buddha, let it be a son who will do the family honor and not suffer the indignities of being a woman." Then she clamped down on the stick.
Pain ripped through her body. Kazuko arched her body like a bow. The pain, the wetness, and the need to push engulfed her. She forced herself to think of something other than the pain. Memories of how easy and beautiful life had been in her father’s house flooded her brain.
Kazuko grunted. She clenched the fabric of the futon so hard her fingernails ripped through the fabric. Shizue directed her to push harder. Biting her lower lip, she pushed as hard as she could.
“I can see the head,” Shizue cried out.
Kazuko grunted as she felt her
Sighing, she trudged through the cane again. The towering stalks entangled her in their embrace, keeping her in this cursed land. The cane was a constant reminder of all she had lost when she left Japan. It imprisoned her body and soul.
Japan. The mere sound of it caused explosions in her heart and she cursed the ground she walked on. This land was a deceptively beautiful maiden with a provocative voice and wretched heart. It called, “Come to me, and I will make love to you and return you to the womb from which you came, enriched through my sweet embrace.” Hawaii’s promises were irresistible to the thousands of poor farmers from the far-flung Southern prefectures of the islands of Japan. Driven by dreams of wealth, they came from Kumamoto, Hiroshima, and Yamaguchi. They swallowed their fears and left behind a rigid social structure governed by birth and place, to plunge into the unknown. Enduring difficult sea voyages to follow the white man’s lies, the immigrants promised their families they would return to Japan wealthy men. What did it matter? In Japan, class was far more important than wealth.
Another spasm hit and she tore at the green stalks as she shoved the cane between her teeth. The sun was directly over her, rivers of sweat poured down her neck, her back, and between her swollen breasts. The cheap, blue cloth of her dress clung to her huge stomach.
She felt the baby move, impatient to leave her womb. She bit down on the cane harder. Seeing the end of the field, she stumbled across the clearing to the whitewashed old house standing on crossed boards a foot above the ground.
“O-Shizue!” Kazuko screamed as she collapsed on the ground. Sharp pains ripped through her. The syrup running down her throat made her choke. She squeezed her eyes shut, ashamed she had demonstrated such weakness. She felt herself being half carried, half dragged, across the red dirt. It had to be Shizue. Little clouds of dust drifted up her nose. Kazuko sneezed, bringing on another spasm. She reached out and grabbed Shizue’s arm.
“O-Kazuko!” Shizue’s distant voice exclaimed. “Let go!” But Kazuko held on until the pain passed. Then her body went limp as she felt herself being pulled up the stairs, onto the porch, and into the house. She felt the soft futons and zabutons supporting her body.
Another pain tore through her and she willed herself not to cry out and add to her shame. She was not an animal. Her father told her more times than she cared to remember, “To dishonor your family is to be less than a dog.”
Kazuko was vaguely aware of Shizue gently lifting her legs and propping her up with clean rags in preparation for birth. She grimaced. Shizue wiped her perspiring brow and carefully pried open her mouth to remove the cane.
Before Shizue could replace the cane with a smooth, hard bamboo stick, Kazuko prayed, "Amida Buddha, let it be a son who will do the family honor and not suffer the indignities of being a woman." Then she clamped down on the stick.
Pain ripped through her body. Kazuko arched her body like a bow. The pain, the wetness, and the need to push engulfed her. She forced herself to think of something other than the pain. Memories of how easy and beautiful life had been in her father’s house flooded her brain.
Kazuko grunted. She clenched the fabric of the futon so hard her fingernails ripped through the fabric. Shizue directed her to push harder. Biting her lower lip, she pushed as hard as she could.
“I can see the head,” Shizue cried out.
Kazuko grunted as she felt her
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