Read Online The Toyotomi Blades by Dale Furutani - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dale Furutani
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taught in school just didn’t chronicle the bad things the Japanese did.”
“When I grew up, they didn’t teach about the U.S. camps for Japanese-Americans during World War II, either,” I said. “Now the U.S. government has made some effort to compensate the camp inmates. But Junko, if things are so difficult for you in Japan, why do you stay?”
“Because culturally I’m Japanese. Although I was born a Korean, my native language, schooling, and much of my outlook is Japanese. It’s confusing because I also want to remain Korean. I just feel like I’m not accepted for what I am.”
“I sometimes have the same feelings back in the States.”
8
J unko asked me to return the next afternoon to help her. Before I left, Sugimoto stopped by and asked me if I’d like to have dinner the next day. I told him I would, but that I wanted to go to a typical family restaurant, not one of the fancy tourist traps. He looked a little disappointed, and it occurred to me that maybe he liked the tourist traps because he could eat at the neighborhood joints anytime. Still, on my own I wasn’t likely to find a good neighborhood restaurant, and I suppressed my urge to change my restaurant request.
I left the studio around six and decided to walk back to the hotel. I wanted to absorb more of the atmosphere of the city. I strolled out of the studio and started walking. People were getting out of work and rushing about. I enjoyed the pulse and energy around me.
I had walked about two blocks when an elderly woman came rushing up to me. She was dressed in kimono, and I realized she was the first person I had seen in traditional Japanese dress. Her kimono was brown with a dark brown obi, or sash. She was carrying a bundle in a purple furoshiki. She was chubby, with red cheeks and glossy black hair fixed in a bun. She looked as if she’d normally be quite jolly, but now she looked frazzled and a little lost.
She said something to me in rapid-fire Japanese, bobbing up and down as she apologized for something. I realized the apology was probably for bothering me, but I had no idea what she wanted.
I said, “Watashi wa Nihongo ga wakarimasen.” That’s a stock phrase I memorized from a guidebook, and it means I don’t speak Japanese. For some reason, my words didn’t register with her. She just heard me speaking Japanese and starting talking even more rapidly.
I put my hands up and said, “Do you speak English?”
The woman looked surprised and said something else to me in Japanese.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you. Watashi wa Nihongo ga wakarimasen. I’m an American.”
“American!” the woman exclaimed. Then she started laughing.
The woman thought for a minute, then she made a choo-choo pantomime with her arms, puffing like a little steam engine. I realized she wanted to find the nearest train station and I smiled. I pulled out my tourist map of Tokyo and opened it up. It took a few seconds to orient myself and find the exact street corner we were standing on. I found the nearest train station and asked, “Yurakucho?” Yurakucho was the name of the train that stopped at the nearest station.
“Yurakucho!” she repeated, all excited. I had hit paydirt.
I rapidly turned around to point out the direction she should go to reach the station. As I turned, I noticed two men standing by a shop window watching me. One was short and stocky with muscular shoulders bunched up under a cheap tan suit. His hair was closely cropped. The other man was tall and gaunt, wearing a rumpled gray suit and a knit shirt that seemed yellow with age. What caught my eye was that as soon as I turned, they both started looking into the shop window intently. It was a woman’s dress shop and their show of interest seemed both incongruous and false. I figured they were watching the little show the woman and I were putting on and were embarrassed at being caught. The old woman’s imitation of a train was pretty amusing and
“When I grew up, they didn’t teach about the U.S. camps for Japanese-Americans during World War II, either,” I said. “Now the U.S. government has made some effort to compensate the camp inmates. But Junko, if things are so difficult for you in Japan, why do you stay?”
“Because culturally I’m Japanese. Although I was born a Korean, my native language, schooling, and much of my outlook is Japanese. It’s confusing because I also want to remain Korean. I just feel like I’m not accepted for what I am.”
“I sometimes have the same feelings back in the States.”
8
J unko asked me to return the next afternoon to help her. Before I left, Sugimoto stopped by and asked me if I’d like to have dinner the next day. I told him I would, but that I wanted to go to a typical family restaurant, not one of the fancy tourist traps. He looked a little disappointed, and it occurred to me that maybe he liked the tourist traps because he could eat at the neighborhood joints anytime. Still, on my own I wasn’t likely to find a good neighborhood restaurant, and I suppressed my urge to change my restaurant request.
I left the studio around six and decided to walk back to the hotel. I wanted to absorb more of the atmosphere of the city. I strolled out of the studio and started walking. People were getting out of work and rushing about. I enjoyed the pulse and energy around me.
I had walked about two blocks when an elderly woman came rushing up to me. She was dressed in kimono, and I realized she was the first person I had seen in traditional Japanese dress. Her kimono was brown with a dark brown obi, or sash. She was carrying a bundle in a purple furoshiki. She was chubby, with red cheeks and glossy black hair fixed in a bun. She looked as if she’d normally be quite jolly, but now she looked frazzled and a little lost.
She said something to me in rapid-fire Japanese, bobbing up and down as she apologized for something. I realized the apology was probably for bothering me, but I had no idea what she wanted.
I said, “Watashi wa Nihongo ga wakarimasen.” That’s a stock phrase I memorized from a guidebook, and it means I don’t speak Japanese. For some reason, my words didn’t register with her. She just heard me speaking Japanese and starting talking even more rapidly.
I put my hands up and said, “Do you speak English?”
The woman looked surprised and said something else to me in Japanese.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you. Watashi wa Nihongo ga wakarimasen. I’m an American.”
“American!” the woman exclaimed. Then she started laughing.
The woman thought for a minute, then she made a choo-choo pantomime with her arms, puffing like a little steam engine. I realized she wanted to find the nearest train station and I smiled. I pulled out my tourist map of Tokyo and opened it up. It took a few seconds to orient myself and find the exact street corner we were standing on. I found the nearest train station and asked, “Yurakucho?” Yurakucho was the name of the train that stopped at the nearest station.
“Yurakucho!” she repeated, all excited. I had hit paydirt.
I rapidly turned around to point out the direction she should go to reach the station. As I turned, I noticed two men standing by a shop window watching me. One was short and stocky with muscular shoulders bunched up under a cheap tan suit. His hair was closely cropped. The other man was tall and gaunt, wearing a rumpled gray suit and a knit shirt that seemed yellow with age. What caught my eye was that as soon as I turned, they both started looking into the shop window intently. It was a woman’s dress shop and their show of interest seemed both incongruous and false. I figured they were watching the little show the woman and I were putting on and were embarrassed at being caught. The old woman’s imitation of a train was pretty amusing and
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