by Yuko Koyano
My husband, who had studied at an American graduate school, strictly guided our older son. Even after he had worked long hours at his office in Manhattan, he never missed tutoring our son. Sometimes he sounded stern, but his strong guidance helped his son feel positive about his life in Fort Lee. The older son, fourteen years old then, gradually became more confident in his studies. Though he couldn't speak English yet, he could participate in his class by doing homework and taking tests. When he received the highest score in his class on the science test for the first time, the science teacher, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, praised him generously, and that encouraged him more. He knew he had grasped the American way of learning when he passed the bilingual class and the E.S.L. class.
For me, to help with our younger son's homework certainly was a joy because I liked English. But it kept me busy as well. From the kitchen, frying fish and mincing onions, I loudly answered his questions while he was doing his homework in the dining room next to the kitchen. After dinner, I sat beside him and helped him with his homework. I had majored in English but certainly had never mastered it. Most of the vocabulary in the textbooks was so new to me even though it was for elementary school children. I was a tutor who spent a lot of time consulting the dictionary and couldn't help crying out each time I found an expression I understood in his textbooks. I had never seen everyday words like "scrub" in the old English poems I had learned in my college days. I often wished I could go to school with our younger son and learn English from the very beginning level. A year later, the hours for doing homework became shorter. When one and a half years had passed, he got so that he could notice some mistakes his mother made. One day, about two years after our younger son had transferred to the American public school, he said, "I will do it by myself, Mother." The two years working with him had stimulated my desire to learn English for myself, and I started to write essays in the summer of 1987.
WHEN MY friend Kiyoko, the wife of my husband's colleague, found a traffic ticket under the windshield wiper of her car, she turned pale. One afternoon in September 1985, the first year of American life for both of us, she got a ticket at the public parking lot in Fort Lee because her time on the parking meter had expired. That day we had gone to a beauty salon near there while our children went to school. Since I hadn't gotten a drivers license yet, she picked me up and took me to the salon. I, too, was responsible for the ticket. The violation slip said that if she didn't pay by the due date she would have to appear in court as well. "Fine" and "court," which we had had nothing to do with until then, suddenly touched our lives. The scene of poor Kiyoko standing in a court of the United States even flashed into my mind. Later when we looked back on that day, we couldn't help laughing. However, we took it seriously at the time.
Both Kiyoko's and my family had moved from Japan about a half-year earlier. Kiyoko and I were not used to the area yet and were not very fluent in English. Our children also struggled with English in their new schools. Our husbands, who were our last resort, were working hard at the New York branch of a Japanese bank. We all were very busy adapting to basic American life. Besides, knotty problems with my house came up frequently: The basement resident of the duplex let his dog walk in the front yard and never cleaned up after it. Water overflowed from one of our toilets sometimes. Squirrels went in and out of the ceiling through a broken place in the eaves. Moreover, I heard from my mother-in-law that my father-in-law had been injured in a traffic accident in Japan. Kiyoko, too, worried about her daughter's health after she had a high fever. There was a mass of things to make us anxious. Kiyoko's getting the parking ticket was one more mess we had gotten into and which we wanted to solve as soon as possible. With our hair freshly done, Kiyoko and I were at a loss beside her big Buick in the large public parking lot.
I thought that we had better ask someone what we should do. In Japan, police officers generally were people to be trusted. American police officers, however, seemed stern, tough, and willing to fire their guns, like the police in old American TV dramas like "The Untouchables."
They also didn't seem the type to be patient about listening to our poor English. So we waited with resignation for the police car to appear in the public parking lot while trying to think of several English words that might be required. When we saw that the police car was coming, Kiyoko nudged me since I was older than her, and asked me to talk to the police officer.
As I expected, the policeman, who appeared to be in his early fifties, and I, a Japanese woman, couldn't understand each other very easily. It was not because he wasn't patient but because I couldn't speak English well. The honest-looking man strained his ears to catch my words when I explained the situation to him. Then he tilted his head and blinked his eyes. Kiyoko and I held our breath as we waited for his words. Then we alternated between relief and disappointment as he responded. We at least understood that we could pay the fine at the Borough Hall, but we didn't know where it was. We shot imploring glances at the gentleman. "Well..." The next moment he started making elaborate gestures as he explained the location. However, the more gestures he made, the farther the Borough Hall seemed to be. An embarrassed atmosphere prevailed among the three of us. At last he seemed to give up as he looked at our frustrated expressions. He promptly got out of the car and opened the door for us. He was so kind that he would take us to the distant destination, I thought. When I made an apology, he said, "It's a piece of cake, ma'am." It was three months later that Kiyoko and I learned the meaning of the idiom "a piece of cake" at the English conversation class in Fort Lee's adult school.
For the first time, we rode in a police car. There was a metal grille on the back of the front seat, probably for protecting police officers from criminals. I could smell something. I regretted my actions a bit because I felt I might have acted hastily at that moment. We two Japanese wives, thirty-two and thirty-nine, sat down on the hard seat meant for criminals, looking at each other awkwardly. He started the car. Kiyoko apologized for troubling him. "No problem, ma'am," he answered through the grille. Kiyoko asked me, "Do you think we will be back in time to pick up the children?" Because I didn't want to ask the police officer such a bothersome question, I answered, "I think so." As we prepared ourselves for the long drive ahead, the car stopped suddenly. "Here we are, ma'am." When the police officer pointed in the direction we had to go, I realized that we had arrived at the Borough Hall. When I heard him say "Take care, and have a nice day, ma'am," I noticed the three of us had only crossed Center Avenue from the public parking lot. It was a ten-second drive. Kiyoko and I entered the building with a blank look on our faces.
"Three dollars!" a clerk at a window of the Parking Authority said bluntly. All the confusion Kiyoko and I had had was just about to go away with three one-dollar bills. We paid half and half, suppressing our laughter in the presence of the clerk, who gave us a suspicious look. When my friend and I left the building, I remembered that the police officer had never fired his gun. Walking to the parking lot, I came to feel as if I would be able to flourish in this host country.
IN OCTOBER 1985, our family was spending our first autumn in Fort Lee, New Jersey. There were a great many big trees in the town. A lot of leaves fell that season. In the beginning, I raked them as I used to do, remembering our home in Japan.
In 1979 our family owned a house in Japan. It was not a big house with a large garden like those in the United States, however. We planted about twenty trees in our small garden. They were small trees, as tall as a person, but most of them were deciduous. We could make plenty of compost and also enjoy seeing the beautiful fall colors. Yet the houses in Japan, especially in residential areas near Tokyo, stand very close together. What made it worse was that we had high winds in the autumn. The winds blew the leaves everywhere. I had to clean up the garden and street every morning and felt bad when I would see our leaves scattering onto my neighbors' yards. The next-door lady and I used to call out to each other across the fence, "Good morning. Sorry about the leaves." "No, I'm the one who h
as to apologize. Some of my leaves have blown into your yard."
In Fort Lee, our family lived in a simple duplex that had only one small deciduous tree in the front yard. Almost all of the leaves from our neighbor's yard collected at the front of our garage. Even though I cleaned them up as soon as possible, more leaves came and nobody came to apologize as they would have in Japan. One morning, I was raking leaves as usual and saw a man who lived across the street blowing "his" leaves toward "my" side of the street with his blower. I started to form a sentence in English in my head to stop his bad behavior. When I put the English together, however, a red truck came and sucked up the blown leaves along with my English thoughts. The man across the street closed the door after making sure that there were no leaves around his house. I saw that the mountain of leaves I had raked were left before me. Then, the leaves blew away again. I thought to myself, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do," and at that time quit one of the daily routines I had always done in Japan.
This was the United States, where abundant nature grew on the huge land. Trees grew until they were mature, they spread their arms and legs just like a man stretching himself very comfortably on the spacious land. This was a poetic view of nature and showed a happiness with the earth. Why, I thought, did I have to complain about the fallen leaves? I would rather take delight in trees. I would talk to them in my mind.
Trees,
shake your branches,
throw your leaves off as much as you wish.
I will see your high-spirited shape
in the winter's high sky.
I will hear your tender rustling
in the spring breeze.
I will rest in your shade
under the burning summer sun.
Trees,
shake your branches,
throw your leaves off as much as you wish.
I will love you as you are.
Was I too generous? Many more leaves have gathered again.
AFTER HE had been promoted to the third grade of School #3 in September of 1985, my younger son took a reading class from his former homeroom teacher Mrs. Benedict because he couldn't follow the new reading class. Though he still couldn't speak English, he was always encouraged in her class. He came to like the teacher much more because sometimes she gave him candy. One day, I heard that she kissed her pupils who gave her presents on the last day of the school year. For a nine-year-old Japanese boy who, ever since he had started to be aware of things around him, hadn't been used to being kissed, this was a serious matter. The rumor was apparently true.
One bright day in May 1986, in the dentist's reception room in Fort Lee, my son and I were waiting our turn. I was reading a book. "That's it!" my son suddenly exclaimed and asked me if I had a piece of paper and a pen. "What happened?" I asked. "Nothing in particular. Hurry, please." He seemed hesitant to explain what he was about to do. I gave him a piece of paper and a pen and he started copying a sign on the wall. The sign said, "Thank you for not smoking." He wrote down "Thank you for not kissing" and looked relieved. "I'll show this to Mrs. Benedict when she starts to kiss me." He put the note into his pants pocket. He must have been worrying about how to refuse a kiss in English. I think he kept it for a while, but I didn't know whether the words worked, as he said no more.
It was seven years later when I found out the truth. August 15, 1993, three years after our family had returned to Japan, we welcomed a close family friend, Elizabeth from Fort Lee, as a guest in our home. Elizabeth, who taught with Mrs. Benedict in School #3, told us about the last day of school that year, and I had an urge to find out about the last day of school in 1986. My son, who was sixteen years old then, confessed at last.
That day in June of 1986, in Mrs. Benedict's classroom, pupils were giving their last-day presents to their teacher. She responded by hugging and kissing them, but one Japanese boy hid his face in his hands when she was going to kiss him, and another boy ran around trying to escape. My son was calm, however, because he was sure that the memo in his pocket would work just as the "Thank you for not smoking" sign did. He presented his gift and with it gave the teacher the piece of paper folded twice. At first she seemed surprised at it, but then read it, beaming at the shy boy. Seeing the teacher's beautiful smile, he felt enormously relieved that she would let him go without a kiss. The teacher was even more pleased by the "Thank you for not kissing" note. She burst into laughter in front of my confused son, then swiftly hugged and kissed him. During the seven years since then, however, the crisis seemed to have changed into a happy memory as well as a reminder of Mrs. Benedict's kindness.
HANNAH PAIGE, my aged neighbor, suddenly went away on a beautiful summer morning in 1988. From my kitchen, twice I heard her shrill voice, "No, I wont go!" Tom, her dog, barked loudly. Then from the window I saw some strange cars—even a police car—and people around her house. In a minute all of them had gone. What had happened? What was the matter with her? Did she do anything wrong? Was it because her husband, William, who had been hospitalized since last fall, hadn't come back home yet or would not come back any longer? I should have asked someone, but I couldn't because I was afraid to find out the truth. Since the last Christmas, I hadn't had a chance to talk to her. We only exchanged greetings. When I rolled up the window shade that morning I saw her taking a walk with Tom as usual. She waved to me as she recognized me from the street. Who would have imagined that she would be taken away suddenly in such a way at that time? Isn't this unusual in the United States? I stood by the window vacantly staring outside. The sky was so clear and seemed to be gazing down into my confusion. A gust of wind shook the trees and it was if the fresh green leaves laughed at me, all at once reflecting the sunshine.
Our family started American life next door to the Paiges in the spring of 1985. Because the Paiges' mail used to be delivered to us by mistake, I would take it over to them. William and Hannah looked like they were in their late eighties. William was friendly from the beginning, but his wife wasn't as open to her new Japanese neighbors. They seemed to have no children and loved Tom as if he were their real child instead. When William was feeling good, he used to work around their house. Wearing overalls, he did things like mow the lawn, make a trellis for cucumbers, and paint the balcony rail, always with Hannah and Tom. They had a small garden in front of the garage. They seeded it in the spring, took care of the growing vegetables in the summer, and harvested them in the fall. They didn't forget to collect the fallen leaves and to make mulch for new soil. They seemed never to dream of entertaining in those days. Hannah never dressed up and always wore inexpensive clothes. She had her own style, however. She sometimes put flowers on her hat and made Tom wear the same color as her dress when they took a walk together. They might have been poor, but they seemed independent. They looked even stately, like soldiers with severe looks rather than the typical sweet elderly people who were generally seen in Japan. They might have been living a life that, for them, was most splendid. I liked seeing them because I could learn many things about life from their routine. Since they had grown old, they spoke loudly. I could hear the sound of their voices every day. It was noisy, but I liked it because I took it as a sign of their being healthy.
For a long time after Hannah had been taken away, the dilapidated blue car, which William used to drive to a nearby supermarket with his wife and Tom, was left parked on the street. Not knowing that the pitiful car had spent good times with its family, the summer sun beamed down on it mercilessly. The grass kept growing. A half-opened window on the second floor rattled sometimes. When I walked by the house, I could imagine hearing Tom's barking and their familiar, loud voices which sounded happy at first and then turned to anguish. I soon realized, however, that I was hearing the August wind rising. Not long after that, some men came and took out the furniture and loaded it onto a truck. They also came to survey the property. I thought the house would be torn down and a new rental house would be built there. Then one morning in the fall, I saw a big dump truck, power shovel, t
ractor shovel, and a few other vehicles gathered around William and Hannah's house. To me it looked like a party for dinosaurs. They fixed their weird eyes upon the house. "This is the very last chance I have to do anything for Hannah!" I thought as I rushed out of my house with a camera and asked a man who looked like he was in charge if I could take a picture before he started his job. "Sure!" He was generous in giving me space to take pictures. The house stood like a haggard orphan boy whose eyes didn't sparkle even though he saw his favorite dump truck. I said good-bye to the house as I pressed the camera shutter. There was nothing I could do for the Paiges, but I would remember their home for a long time.
In the holiday season of 1985, as a gift to them, I had taken the Paiges a small calendar that had been sent from Japan. William seemed glad to have it, but his wife looked dubious. I realized they might not be Christian; they had no decorations up for Christmas. In 1986, they waited for me. We exchanged greetings and small gifts with each other at the Paiges' front door. That night, I saw a silhouette of a Christmas tree in their window. For me, it looked warmer than other houses and their elaborate illumination. The next morning, I found out that it was just a bare fir branch that William had carelessly cut off a tree in the corner of their front yard. On the morning of December 23, 1987, I found a vinyl bag outside our door when I opened it to see my son off to school. It was a Christmas gift from Hannah: a small jar of homemade pickled cucumbers and a long letter. I knew that William had been hospitalized since the previous fall. A little later, I saw her outside and ran down the steps to thank her. She grasped my hands with her big hands— she was wearing her old gloves that had holes in them—and shot questions at me. "Did you read the letter? Did you taste the pickles? How did you like them?" Her breath scattered in the chill air. When I told her that I liked her pickles very much, she hugged me for the first time, mumbling to herself the way my grandmother had used to do. Then with a pleasant smile she confidently told me that her husband would be back home soon.