by Yuko Koyano
Since our sons had become familiar with English, they began to relax. In their schools they sometimes helped newcomers from Japan as they had been helped in the beginning. They also invited American friends to our home. They enjoyed summer camps and acquired the habit of listening to American music. Our older son started to watch MTV before supper and bought records by Bon Jovi and Don Johnson. Our younger son enjoyed attending his classmates many birthday parties which were held at their homes, a roller-skating rink, or movie theaters. He also had great fun having water-fights with his classmates. Both sons once attended the opening ceremony for Fort Lee's Constitution Park wearing the same "Just Say NO" T-shirt as all the other schoolchildren.
Around the time when our family had spent four years in the United States, I noticed that our sons came to insist on their own opinions. To express themselves, they used gestures that American boys used, as well. In 1989, the fifth summer of our sojourn in Fort Lee, our younger son, who was enjoying summer camp, said, "Mother, if our family stays in the United States forever, it will be all right with me." They seemed to have forgotten that they had struggled with English in the beginning.
In 1990, when we returned home to Japan, I saw the Stars and Stripes on the wall over the desk of our older son who had gotten back home a year earlier. I was keenly aware that our sons had been a part of American society and learned more than the English language in the United States.
Our family resumed our lives in Japan after five years and four months of American life. I think of the phrase from the Bible, "In the beginning was the Word" again. Our younger son now is faced with a new problem: the Japanese language.
Footnotes
* From a table of "Japanese/Korean Enrollment, Five-Year Comparison." Fort Lee School District, Fort Lee, New Jersey, 1990.
* John 1:1.
"CAN I work at the doll-making class? That's out of the question. I have neither a license nor teaching experience. I haven't driven my car along Route 4 yet. I'm not good at speaking and understanding English, as you well know." That was my immediate response when my friend Kimiko asked me if I would like to teach the doll-making class organized by the Senior Services Center at the Town House near Route 4 in Teaneck, New Jersey. Every Wednesday morning, from 10:15 to 12:00, a doll-making class for senior citizens was held there, and a few Japanese women volunteered to teach the class. Kimiko was a volunteer instructor and needed help because one instructor had quit. My head filled with negative ideas. However, Kimiko's smile and encouragement brought me there on Wednesday, October 7,1987, to observe the class. It was just eight minutes from my house. The Town House was a brick building located on the corner of Forest Avenue and Tea-neck Road, next to a school.
Certainly, I wanted to become familiar with as many Americans as possible while I lived in the United States. However, I had never imagined that I would spend time with old ladies, of all people. Old women in general looked rather gloomy and were full of complaints about their surroundings. When I entered the classroom, however, I realized I had been wrong. It was still ten minutes before 10 o'clock, but six ladies were already working on their dolls and chatting happily. Though you couldn't say they were young, they looked much more pleasant, charming, and relaxed than I had expected. They seemed to be sociable and independent. I sensed affection in their expressions when they welcomed me. Another instructor, Eriko, was already at work. Since Kimiko and Eriko were taking college courses on Wednesday afternoon, they had to leave the class a little early. I watched how Eriko and Kimiko were instructing the ladies and wondered whether I could do it or not. I helped the instructors with small jobs. I heard from Kimiko that Eriko had been volunteering at the doll-making class for over two years, and Kimiko had joined her last spring. The class seemed to depend on Eri-ko and love Kimiko. Referring to their dolls, they asked, "Eriko, could you put hair on my daughter's head?" or "Kimiko, would you cut the fabric for a new doll body?" The instructors also explained how to stitch the pieces of the fabric together. They looked busy. As I was admiring the skill of the two instructors, Eriko approached me holding a piece of bias tape, a tiny collar, and a bodice of the small dress for some lady's doll, and whispered, but in Japanese so as not to be heard by the class, "Mrs. Koyano, I am confused about how I should put this collar on this dress." This unexpected request for help pleased me. I showed her how to put the collar and the bias tape on the bodice. Eriko whispered, "Thank you. Although I'm sometimes unsure of myself, I love this class. I'm happy I have the time to volunteer." Later, I wondered if Eriko had been discreetly trying to help me relax, because up to that time she was doing everything very well. Then Eriko left to go to her college classes. About thirty minutes later, around 11:00, Kimiko also had classes to attend, so I left with her. Even though I wasn't responsible for them yet, I felt a little sorry for the ladies because they had to continue for one more hour without an instructor.
I spent the rest of the day thinking about the class. The atmosphere of the class was comfortable, and both Eriko and Kimiko were kind. I liked sewing. In my childhood, I remembered, I used to make many dresses for my dolls while sitting next to my mother, who had been very good at sewing. Two and a half years had already passed since our family moved to the United States. I had been busy helping our sons adjust to school life and they had come to understand much more English than I had. My husband seemed to be confident about his assignment in New York, as well. I should try something new, I thought. Now might be the time for me to start enjoying my American life. I may not be an instructor like Kimiko and Eriko, but at least I'll be able to be a good helper. Even though I cant speak English well, I'll be able to make myself understood to the ladies using gestures. Since I've been driving for two years, I'll be able to drive along Route 4, too. I'll call Kimiko tomorrow morning. I had made up my mind.
SOON AFTER I started volunteering at the senior citizens' center in October 1987, a feeble-looking old woman, who seemed to be in her early nineties, was brought to the class by Camille, the director of the center. The woman, whose name was Mrs. Duncan, wouldn't speak to anyone in the class and didn't seem to be interested in making dolls. Camille must have been at a loss about what to do with her.
On the first day, she just sat in class and remained withdrawn. During her second class, a woman named Florence invited her to sit next to her and asked me to cut a doll pattern for the silent member. When I cut the fabric for her, she took it but didn't say anything. Florence looked at me as if to apologize for her. Mrs. Duncan looked a bit fragile, and I was afraid she couldn't hold a needle with her thin fingers. But she started stitching as if the needle awakened her. Her hands trembled and her arms moved slowly like a machine that needed oiling, but she gave me the impression that she had sewn many dresses in the prime of her life. I felt sorry to have chosen such a simple pattern for that lady. I sat beside her and sometimes talked to her about the stitching. She didn't respond at all. Eriko and Kimiko were busy helping other ladies. Florence sometimes talked to her in a warm, friendly way, but I was not yet used to communicating with withdrawn, elderly ladies like her.
I pinned; she stitched. We kept silent in the room that was filled with cheerful conversations. Mrs. Duncan concentrated on sewing as if she were eagerly talking to the red-colored clothes about her long life. The needle might have been her only friend who could convey her thoughts faithfully. It wasn't just her; the rest of the class was also quiet while they stitched. I remembered my family in Japan: my grandmother, who had died long ago, my mother, and my mother-in-law all used to sew silently, thinking about something. The long, thin piece of polished steel, in a sense, absorbed their thoughts through their finger-tips. Gradually, however, I thought that I would try to reach out to Mrs. Duncan even if she wouldn't react to me.
I put the pins closer together, giving her fewer stitches to finish with her slow hands. She looked a bit dubious at first but finished stitching earlier than before and waited for me to come back from helping the other women. She also began to l
ook at me frequently though she didn't smile back. I enjoyed imagining what she was thinking of me. Although there wasn't any conversation between us for a few weeks, we looked at each other, touched fingers, and seemed to trust each other. Sometime before Thanksgiv-ing Day, the stitching was almost finished. When I said to her, "We can do the stuffing next week, can't we?" unexpectedly she relaxed the expression on her face at last and said, "Thank you." It was weak but was the very voice I had been waiting for. Moreover, she smiled stiffly. She may have put forth her greatest effort in doing so. Her real voice and the sweet expression on her face were more than I deserved. I was at a loss for a reply and only held her cold hands in mine. For the first time she left the materials for the stuffed doll in my charge. This modest reciprocal flow of feeling between us helped me settle down to my volunteer job as a doll-making teacher.
Mrs. Duncan never came back. In the summer of 1990, when I quit the class to leave the United States, I saw that the needle with red-colored thread which she had stuck in the fabric about three years before was still shining, not rusted. It reminded me of the spark she had shown when she sewed beside me.
TWO YEARS had passed since I had taken over the volunteer job from the former instructors, Eriko, who had moved to Detroit, and Kimiko, who had left for Japan. As Kimiko had recommended that I do this volunteer work earlier, I invited Takako, my neighbor, to the class. Eriko left the job in the care of her friend Yoshimi. When Yoshimi quit, her young friend Yoko replaced her. So I had been working with Takako and Yoko for the past two years. We were the wives of men who worked for Japanese companies in the New York metropolitan area. Consequently, we had to say good-bye to the class when our husbands' assignments in New York were over. I heard that a Japanese wife who loved dolls had started the class long ago, maybe fifteen years earlier. Japanese wives generally didn't have a work visa in the United States, and the sphere of our action was limited. The class was one of the few places where we could take part in American society.
Our job was to teach and help ladies make dolls. There weren't any sewing machines in the room; we made it a rule to sew by hand. All the members of the class decided which doll they wanted to make from pictures in textbooks. They were Americans, people of individuality; they would never all make the same doll together. I loved such an independent way of choosing. At the same time, however, it required the three of us to do many things. For each doll, we chose the material from our stock in the storage closet when the student didn't have any. We also made patterns, cut fabrics, pinned them together, and explained briefly how to stitch them. When they had finished the parts of the body, we gave them stuffing and explained how to put the parts together. We cut yarn for the hair and put it on the dolls head. Then we cut fabrics for the underwear, dress, apron, and shoes. We explained how to sew them, and sometimes drew on the faces. On average, there were ten students in attendance. We were busy but we managed to enjoy coffee and brief conversations with the students each week. We had birthday parties for everyone, too.
In the class we made many kinds of dolls: a baby, a grandma, a boy, a girl, a pussycat, a puppy, a teddy bear, a clown, Adam and Eve, a Japanese doll, and so on. The baby doll, girl doll (large or small), puppy doll, and the Japanese girl doll were always popular among the ladies. Everyone in the class loved their dolls like their own babies. They hoped their dolls would be well made, and the room filled with shouts of joy and envy each time someone completed one. However, the members' own ideas about the dolls sometimes didn't work: The width of someone's teddy bear doubled when she finished stuffing it, because her favorite fabric stretched. A puppy doll couldn't stand up since its stomach had been packed too full as the student had lost herself in talk; it needed an operation. A girl doll that had been expected to be innocent-looking turned out sexy because of the bright-colored dress.
The class not only had dolls but also some regular visitors. Because there was a big scale near the door inside the room, gentlemen who attended a wood-carving class in the senior citizens center would often loom into the class to check their weight and were usually teased by somebody about joining the doll-making class. A quiet lady, Betty, who was from Germany, would come into the classroom to water a potted plant. An instructor of a craft class, Louise, would come in to take some materials for her class from the storage closet and enjoyed talking with us for a while. A long-time member of the class, Alice, always came to kiss everybody. Mary, who was very beautiful, used to come to show herself off in her color-coordinated outfits. A lady who had been to Japan came to talk about it with us. "The subway trains in Tokyo were so clean!" she said with surprise. The class had a very comfortable atmosphere. Neither the silent dolls nor the pleasant people ever gave me a dull moment.
My colleagues, Takako, five years younger than I, and Yoko, a half-generation younger than I, were bright women. Takako always made a point of smoothing the wrinkled fabric with an iron before cutting it, so that it would be pretty. She had a good sense for matching colors and helped the ladies when they were confused, because the choice of the color of the cloth influenced the results. She also helped a student get a girl doll ready in time for her granddaughter's birthday; Takako took the doll home and finished it. Later, the lady eagerly told us how crazy her granddaughter was about the birthday gift. The youngest instructor, Yoko, was calm and earnest. She sometimes even practiced making dolls at home. When we made the Japanese doll, Yoko tried and succeeded in making the complicated head of the doll. This was a big improvement for us all. Everybody asked her to make the doll heads from then on. The three of us were rather quiet instructors. In my case, it was because I couldn't speak English fluently. But this was the country in which the right to speak freely was guaranteed; the ladies in the class never kept it to themselves when they thought something was strange. They got angry with us if they thought that they were treated unfairly or if they had to wait a long time for their turn. Gradually, these strong American ladies made us speak up more. The more explanation they received, the more deeply they came to trust us. In the fall of 1988 and 1989, Takako, Yoko, and I were honored before all the members of the center. We were very glad to be appreciated by them.
In class, I really was called one of the "instructors" because I could read the printed instructions more quickly, use scissors and needles more easily, and move to find materials in the storage closet more swiftly than the students could. This was just because I was younger than they were. When I was small, I used to play with dolls. I was the youngest in the family. I commanded and loved my dolls as my family had taken care of me. I had enjoyed designing all the dresses for my dolls, too. So this was a natural as well as an enjoyable job for me to be doing. My involvement with many American ladies who loved dolls enriched my life. They taught me that we had many things to share with each other, even though we came from different cultures. They taught me that we can enjoy ourselves even when we get old. They were my instructors in life.
IN A SENSE, the doll-making class was a place where two cultures clashed. Especially when we expressed our feelings, the differences between Americans and Japanese were visible. American ladies in the class used to hug and kiss occasionally, but we Japanese instructors didn't express our feelings in such demonstrative, physical ways.
One of the members of the class, Alice, who was in her late eighties then, didn't make dolls any longer but came to the class only to kiss everybody and say, "God bless you!" When I had first come to the class, I remembered, I was surprised and confused to see that she was coming to hug me with open arms. I unintentionally stepped backward and then kept standing against the sink in the corner of the room just rolling my eyes up and down as she kissed me. The class noticed it. Such reactions, however, were repeated more or less every time a new Japanese volunteer took part in the class. Bowing one's head to another woman when first meeting, as Japanese would naturally do, didn't seem to serve any purpose as a form of greeting in the class.
There were other ladies in the class who liked to
hug and kiss. Once I was almost smothered by Marthas breasts because she hugged me tightly, holding her completed doll in her hand. A vivacious lady, Hazel, embarrassed me: with an exaggerated swinging of her hips she used to approach me as she pursed her lips. A kind lady, Rose, made a point of hugging me in a motherly way when she wanted to show her feelings. All the ladies kissed me on both cheeks on my birthday. Their way of showing affection was different from mine, but I liked it. At the same time, however, the more demonstrative the American ladies were, the lonelier they seemed to be somehow. I could give them neither a hug nor a kiss, myself, because I hadn't become familiar with behaving in such an American way. But in addition to talking to them, I remembered the ladies' first names, smiled at them, and gave their dolls loving hugs. These actions might have been too simple but were natural for me as a way to show my friendliness toward the members of the class.
In three years I got so that I was able to respond in class. When the women hugged me, I tried to put my arms around them but usually couldn't because they were too big. When I explained to some lady how to stitch, I would put my hand on her back or shoulder. It was helpful for me to convey my feelings to the ladies that way because I couldn't express them well enough in English. When I was busy cutting cloth for a doll's dress, I boldly put out my cheek to make Alice's kissing easier and I enjoyed her reaction: "Oh, you're ready!" In my childhood, I remembered, my parents used to hug me. I too kissed my sons on the forehead as I said good night to them when they were small. Even though it was not common to hug and kiss in Japan as a form of greeting in public, it didn't seem in the least to affect the way I behaved in the class. I came to think I would be able to hug someone whenever she needed it.