Gaijin

  “I don’t hate you,” I said, and hugged him. “You’re the reason I’m in Japan at all, and I’m thankful for that.”

  “You came here because of me?”

  “Yes. Sort of. You ignited my interest in your country and culture.” This was a partial truth, of course; I’d never admit to him the childish obsession I’d had for him. “So, thank you for setting me on a course to Japan.”

  And in that moment, I was thankful, for my brief but impactful time with Owen, and for his influence on my life. Both Hisashi and Owen had the lovely ability to make me feel comfortable and safe, no matter what else happened in the world.

  “Oh! Hisashi showed me your haiku.”

  He looked a little sheepish and said, “Did you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Lucy, you always treated me with respect and love. I’m not only sorry for how I treated you, I’m thankful for how you treated me.”

  We hugged again then I realized my heart was fully intact, no longer broken or bruised. Just as I’d gotten through the death of my father, I’d come full circle with Owen. I’d reconciled my memories of him with the reality of who he really was. It was as happy as I’d been in years and I was grateful to Owen and to the universe. As I slept that night, a new sense of peace and purpose seeped into my heart.

  * * *

  Hisashi and I didn’t dwell on Owen after that trip, except for an occasional toast of thanks that he’d been the catalyst that brought us together. Owen was off in Tokyo, living in freedom and finding his way, and we focused on our work on Okinawa. The whole time we worked together at Okinawa Week, Hisashi fussed and worried about my American bluntness. Likewise, I considered him a prissy fussbudget in a big man costume, always worried what others thought. Of course, that’s a cultural difference, American versus Japanese. But they are surface differences, not at our cores, just skin level. Our cores are made up of the same emotional goo. We love our families and try to be true to ourselves. We strive to do well in the world, and despair when others hurt.

  I never told anyone at Okinawa Week that I’d applied for reporting jobs in Tokyo and Osaka too and had prayed I’d get one of them, had hoped to live in one of the big cities, with their bullet trains, dance-party bars, Harajuku scenes and cherry blossom parks. After that first trip to Tokyo with Hisashi, I knew I’d do it all over time, and would have the chance to reconcile my fantasy Japan with the real one.

  My young love for Owen set the course for the rest of my life. He opened my eyes to a distant and beautiful culture. I liked to think he strung a black silk ribbon through the trees and that he used it to come back out of the forest. That he aborted his own suicide attempt, versus failed at it. I never pressed Hisashi for those grim details. It seemed best to let it go.

  Even from a distant vantage point, I still can’t define precisely why Owen affected me so much. It may have been the confluence of losses, losing my father and Owen in such a short time. But also, the mix of new beginnings at Northwestern, the allure of an exotic lover, the inspiration of writing and poetry we shared, the hormones of my age, and then the mystery of Owen’s disappearance from my life. All of these things cemented my short time with Owen into an arrow in my heart and propelled me to Japan. And in the end, I realized that when we were in Illinois, I understood as little about the composition of Owen’s heart as I knew about Japan when I first arrived.

  * * *

  Poor Midori Ishikori. Poor Reginald Stone. I think of them sometimes when I walk the Sunabe Seawall or swim at Manza Beach. Their fates were intertwined, and their futures altered, in the same way the fate of the island is intertwined with that of its American occupiers. Stone was acquitted for lack of evidence, Midori retreated into her gated enclave in Tokyo. I believe the verdict was unjust. I believe Midori. History tells me Stone is probably guilty.

  I spoke to Nathan only once after our encounter at Okuma, but I’ve always been grateful for the germs of knowledge he’d shared with me, an interlude that deepened my perspective. For me, a relationship with a military man was too odd, the military, with its airplane-wearing wives, too uncomfortable.

  A few months after my first trip to Tokyo, I left Okinawa Week¸ not content with reporting the actions of others. After a lifetime of watching without risking anything, I wanted to be an actor in my own life. Ashimine-san took the news hard but so graciously. “Thank you for your work, Miss Tosch. You are welcome here any time,” he said, and bowed.

  I took a job with Akari Takazato. I’m a victim too, after all, though I still hate to see myself that way. Akari and I battle to get the bases removed from Okinawa, without success so far. From time to time, I still write and publish journalism, and I’m still close with Amista, my first friend in Japan, and Hisashi, my best friend in Japan. Rose and Mom visit me sometimes, and I’m proud to show them around, to give them a glimpse of the island and the culture. After their first trip to Okinawa, my mom told me she was proud of me. “And your father would be too,” she said, hugging me goodbye. She seemed to have recovered from my father’s death, finally, and I saw soft contentment behind her eyes.

  * * *

  These days, I spend my days fighting for what’s right and my nights communing with my island home. Okinawa, for all the pain and stress it rained down on me, was the place I grew up, the place where I learned that feelings can be fleeting or fixed, fluctuating with the wind or stuck inside our stomachs like cement. I learned to apply logic to my emotional reactions, to temper my feelings with thought, to be an adult.

  Sometimes on a moonlit night when the East China Sea is sparkling black glass out my window, I whisper thanks to Owen Ota for shaping my life, being my original sensei. I followed him all the way to Japan and am so glad I did. At times, I still hear my father encouraging me in the ocean breeze. “Good for you, Lu,” he always says, and I know he’s right. Japan is good for me and I will be good to it.

  Notes

  First-hand reporting inspired descriptions of Okinawa protests, as well as a variety of sources, including: Jon Mitchell, “Okinawa: pocket of resistance,” The Japan Times, July 9, 2014; “Two NASJRB Sailors Arrested in Japan on Suspicion of Sexual Assault,” NBC DFW, October 17, 2012; Vicky Tuke, “Understanding the complexity of Okinawa,” East Asia Forum, November 2, 2012; “Outnumbered and aging Okinawa protesters oppose U.S. base,” Reuters/The Asahi Shimbun, April 3, 2019.

  The history of haiku was synopsized from a variety of sources, including: The Poetry Foundation; “Haiku,” Wikipedia; Esther Spurrill Jones, “How to Write Haiku,” The Writing Cooperative, September 28, 2018.

  References to accidents involving Osprey aircraft came from various sources, including: Yuri Kageyama, “Crime, Osprey add to Okinawan anger over US bases,” Associated Press, December 13, 2012; Mari Yamaguchi, “US military Osprey crash-lands off Okinawa, no fatalities, Associated Press, December 13, 2016.

  Data cited about American crimes against Okinawans and assaults within the U.S. military came from: Takazato Suzuyo, “Okinawan Women Demand U.S. Forces Out After Another Rape and Murder: Suspect an ex-Marine and U.S. Military Employee,” The Asia Pacific Journal, June 1, 2016.

  Descriptions of suicide forest were inspired by: Kristy Puchko, “15 Eerie Things About Japan’s Suicide Forest,” Mental Floss, January 8, 2016: Yamanashi Tourism Organization, “The nature found in the Aokigahara ‘sea of trees’”; Shane Berry, “Sea of Blue Foliage: A Night in the Suicide Forest – Part 4;" “Aokigahara,” Wikipedia.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thoughtful people helped me at different stages as I wrote this book, too many to name individually. Both writer and reader friends provided me with invaluable input that shaped the final form of the novel. I am deeply grateful to all of those who shared their time, talents and creativity.

  * * *

  To all my peers and professors in the Fairfield University MFA program, you gave me the confidence to follow my creative dreams. You made it possible for me to switch from jou
rnalism and business writing to fiction and poetry. It was my dream come true. You showed me it was never too late to reinvent myself into the writer I always wanted to be. You know who you are. Thank you and I love you.

  * * *

  To my writers groups online, in California, Vermont, Illinois, Ireland and Connecticut, who read story after story and version after version for the past decade, thank you so very much. As I struggled to morph into a creative writer, you bolstered my spirit and improved my work. Without you, I might have given up. You know who you are. Thank you and I love you.

  * * *

  Places are key characters in my life and in my writing. I gathered inspiration at Ender’s Island in Mystic, Connecticut, Walloon Lake, Michigan, The Ragdale Foundation in Lake Forest, Illinois, Rancho Santa Fe, California, and Okinawa, Japan.

  * * *

  Finally, to my editors and publisher, thank you for believing in me and my work.

  Bio

  Sarah Z. Sleeper is an ex-journalist with an MFA in creative writing. This is her first novel. Her short story, “A Few Innocuous Lines,” won an award from Writer’s Digest. Her non-fiction essay, “On Getting Vivian,” was published in The Shanghai Literary Review. Her poetry was published in A Year in Ink, San Diego Poetry Annual and Painters & Poets, and exhibited at the Bellarmine Museum. In the recent past she was an editor at New Rivers Press, and editor-in-chief of the literary journal Mason’s Road. She completed her MFA at Fairfield University in 2012. Prior to that she had a twenty-five-year career as a business writer and technology reporter and won three journalism awards and a fellowship at the National Press Foundation.

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