A Thousand Stitches

by Constance O'Keefe

  Like all the nisei kids, I had to go to the Japanese school, Kimmon Gakuen, “Golden Gate Institute,” every day for two hours after we finished at Raymond Weill. Some of my classmates hated the extra school time, but I didn’t mind. Thanks to our parents, we all spoke Japanese, so learning to read and write wasn’t too difficult. The Kimmon Gakuen teachers were certified by Japan’s Ministry of Education and used the textbooks students in Japan were using. The ethics class at Kimmon Gakuen was a novelty. It featured stories about historical figures famous for hard work, thrift, bravery, or some other exemplary virtue. Most of the stories were easy to understand, and hearing about Japan this way made it easier for us to understand some of the things our parents said, especially when they were trying to discipline us. I first heard the story of Kinjiro my last year at Kimmon, never imagining that a statue of Kinjiro would be a constant in my life in just a few years.

  When our Kimmon classes finished, we still had time before we were expected home for dinner, and we had lots of energy to burn off after being cooped up all day. The Kimmon schoolyard was too small for ball games, so we played leap-frog, tag, and hide-and-seek. The winners of our schoolyard games always shouted Nippon katta. Nippon katta. Rosha maketa. Japan won! Japan won! Russia lost! I have no idea how we learned this phrase, which dated from the Russo-Japanese war of 1905. Perhaps our fathers had brought it to the States with them, and the schoolyard taunt of their generation became ours in the City by the Bay.

  From Osaka we took an overnight ferry to Matsuyama. At dawn, Mother got me up and took me out on deck. “This is the Seto Inland Sea,” she said. “Now I know we’ll soon be home.” At first all I registered was that the ferry was by far the largest vessel on the water. The few small fishing boats I could see were of unfamiliar design and shape. I thought they looked oriental.

  Mother took my hand, smiled, and turned her face to the cool breeze. As I stood there with her on the empty deck, I finally saw what was before me: it was breathtakingly beautiful—scattered deep green islands floating on a calm blue sea shimmering in the soft morning light. Right then and there, the Seto Inland Sea began taking possession of me.

  When we reached Takahama, the port area of Matsuyama, at sunset, we were met by the Nishiokas: Mother’s oldest sister, Yoshie, and her businessman husband. They took us by trolley—another new experience—to Matsuyama City Station, and from there we walked to their home. On the ferry, Mother had explained that the Imagawa family had a large estate in Ishii village outside the city as well as a house right in the middle of the city in a neighborhood called Yanai-machi. She and I were going to live in the city house, but first we would stay with the Nishiokas while our city house was repaired and renovated. By the time we got to the Nishioka house, it was dark. Aunt Yoshie gave her husband, Mother, and me a late night snack of ochazuke and explained that her daughters—my cousins—were already in bed.

  The next morning, Uncle left early for work and Aunt Yoshie and Mother introduced me to my cousins Yasuko, Yoshiko, Yumiko, and Yuriko. After breakfast Mother went to Bancho Elementary School to consult with the principal about my future. Aunt Yoshie went to the kitchen to wash the dishes and told her daughters to take care of me. We all sat in the family room looking at each other. I thought, well, it’s four girls, just like the Sakuyamas, so I know how to deal with this. I was still having trouble sorting out who was who, but Yasuko, the oldest, was closest to my age. Little Yuriko showed me her picture book, and we went through it picture by picture—duck, frog, cat, horse, monkey. Yuriko was inching closer, and I thought I had won them all over when Yasuko startled me by interrupting.

  “This is boring. We’ve all read Yuriko’s book a thousand times. Let’s do something else. What do you want to do, Cousin?” she said, turning to me. Her three sisters stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

  I stammered, “I really don’t know. What do you want to do? Can we go outside?”

  It was only when Yasuko’s face twisted and the three younger girls pulled away physically that I realized my words had come out in English.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, what do you all want to do?” I said, switching to Japanese, but it was too late.

  I was happy to see Mother when she returned. She had met with Principal Tomihisa and explained that I had finished fourth grade in the San Francisco schools. In fact, I was well into my fifth grade year when we picked up and left, and one of the reasons that my parents had decided that March was when Mother and I should return was that the Japanese school year started in April. At first the principal considered putting me in fifth grade even though I was the age of the average Japanese fourth grader, but he soon changed his mind when he learned that I had only finished the third grade materials at Kimmon Gakuen. “You’ll be a Bancho fourth grader,” Mother told me.

  I stuck close to Mother for the next two days, wondering what all this would mean for me. Then Monday morning, and the beginning of school, arrived. The first day, Mother explained, as she walked me to Bancho, would be ceremonial. At the front gate of the school, she delivered me to the custody of a pretty young lady. “Isamu, this is Miss Tatsukawa, your teacher,” she said.

  “Welcome to Matsuyama, to Bancho, and to my fourth grade class,” said Miss Tatsukawa. She was very kind and asked me a lot of questions about my life in San Francisco. In about five minutes a bell sounded, and Miss Tatsukawa walked me into the auditorium and showed me to my seat.

  As I sat down, I felt the eyes of all nine hundred of Bancho’s students on me. Everyone was looking. And at that moment, I realized how wrong, how out of place I was and understood why my cousins had treated me like a visitor from outer space. I was dressed the way an American boy would be on a formal occasion—in my nice new suit, with a necktie. My parents had bought the suit for the trip, and I had worn it when we three had our portrait taken just before Mother and I departed. That was the problem. The boys were all wearing uniforms—black, military style uniforms, with high stand-up collars and long rows of gold buttons. And my hair! It was combed neatly, but just the fact that my hair could be combed made me stand out. All the boys had their hair cropped very short—in fact, their heads were shaved. So there I was—a nattily attired, well-coifed little gentleman the likes of which had never been seen in Matsuyama. I did not fit in. I sat there with growing dread that I never would.

  I was relieved when the assembly began. The first item on the program was the singing of Kimigayo, the national anthem. I knew it from Kimmon Gakuen and was glad I could sing along. Next, the principal turned his back to the assembly and stepped up on a raised platform at the front of the auditorium. He made a deep bow. It was only then that I noticed that there was a little shrine on the wall. The principal slowly folded back its wooden doors, revealing portraits of the Emperor and Empress. The head teacher, who was serving as master of ceremonies, called out an order: “Saikeirei!” Deepest Bow! Everyone lowered their heads and kept them down until the head teacher ordered us to look up again.

  Principal Tomihisa turned back toward us, moved to the front of the platform, and placed the long oblong box he had removed from the shrine on a small table. He bowed low before the box, opened it carefully, and lifted out a folded piece of Japanese rice paper. As he unfolded it, I could see that it was very large. He held it with both hands, spread his arms wide, and began reading, slowly, deliberately, and with a highly exaggerated intonation pattern. I really couldn’t understand what he was saying but thought it sounded old-fashioned. The first graders at the back of the auditorium giggled, but I found it strange and mysterious. I was deeply impressed by Principal Tomihisa’s sincerity and the solemnity of this ritual. There must be a good reason for him to be reading this document so seriously and in such a formalized manner. The teachers were lined up on both sides of the auditorium. They too looked serious and bowed their heads as the principal read. It seemed to go on forever, but probably only took about five minutes. When he finished, the principal refolded the paper, put it back in the wood
en box, put the lid back on the box, took a step back, and made another deep bow. He then picked up the box, turned around, walked to the back wall, returned it to its repository, and closed the doors on the shrine. The entire room took yet another deep bow with him. This time we didn’t need the head teacher to tell us what to do.

  Returning to the front of the platform, Principal Tomihisa cleared his throat and began a talk in his own voice. This I could understand. It was what I had heard for years at Raymond Weill and at Kimmon: stay healthy, study hard, obey your teachers, and respect your fellow students. But I didn’t really pay much attention to this familiar advice because I was trying to figure out what I had just witnessed. What was that ceremony? Why all the formality? Why such seriousness? What could it all mean?

  I soon learned that what we had heard was the Imperial Rescript on Education. It dated from 1890 and was supposedly written and promulgated by Emperor Meiji for the benefit of his subjects. It followed by one year Japan’s first Constitution, also promulgated as a gift from the Emperor to his subjects.

  With the overthrow of the Tokugawa Shoguns and the restoration of the Emperor to power in 1868, Japan re-engaged with the rest of the world, from which it had kept itself isolated for almost three centuries. The Meiji Era was one of tremendous change in Japan, and compulsory education for all—through the sixth grade—was first introduced in 1872. The Imperial Rescript was the blueprint for Japan’s national public educational system. Its obscure language delivered a familiar message—obedience to parents, love of country, and harmony among siblings and classmates.

  It all sounds rather innocuous and charmingly archaic, but Professor Ienaga, who studied the war in great detail and delivered landmark lectures at Tokyo Educational University in the 1960s, described the Rescript as inspired by a blend of Confucianism, state-oriented authoritarian constitutionalism, and militaristic patriotism. He highlights the militaristic phrases of the Rescript, such as “Should an emergency arise, guard and maintain the prosperity of our Imperial Throne,” and notes that while the Rescript has references to the Constitution, the emphasis is on the obligation of the people to obey the law; there is no acknowledgement of the rights of the people or any mention of limits on the power of the State. According to Professor Ienaga, the Emperor-centered patriotic ceremonies on the opening day of school each year—the veneration of the royal portraits and the solemn reading of the Rescript—were designed to instill an awed obedience to the Emperor and the State. I was certainly awed. The rest came later.

  The next day classes began: reading, music, science, and arithmetic in the morning. Music was my favorite. Lunch was at the school, but unlike at Raymond Weill, there was no cafeteria—no spaghetti for me to pile on my plate. Mother had sent me off in the morning with a bento lunch box, and I ate with my classmates, all of us sitting at our desks. History was after lunch, and the last class of the day was ethics. At least I had heard of it at Kimmon, but the lessons at Bancho seemed much more serious; they had the same feel as the ceremony with the Imperial Rescript. When I reflect now, I realize how the syllabus shifted in my years at Bancho—along with the newspapers, magazines, and movies—growing more militaristic with each passing year.

  But our school day didn’t end with the last class. Our final task was cleaning the school. The work was allocated on a strict rotation basis—there were crews for cleaning the classrooms, the playground, and even the toilets.

  My lasting impression of my first week at Bancho was that I never wanted to experience anything like that again. On the first day of classes, Miss Tatsukawa kept me with her in the classroom at recess, making sure I was familiar with the Japanese textbooks and asking me questions, most of which I felt I wasn’t answering well, about my Raymond Weill texts, teachers, and classmates.

  The next day, Miss Tatsukawa walked with me to the playground at recess, telling me she was sure I was happy to be able to play. I stood just outside the doorway. The boys were playing ball on the far side of the open area, and a group of the girls were playing hopscotch. My cousin Yasuko was part of the group. She was standing in line, waiting her turn and cheering on the other competitors. I couldn’t catch her eye. Miss Tatsukawa, seeing my hesitation, stood with me, pointing out what was going on in the playground and chatting about Bancho’s history. After a few minutes, Principal Tomihisa appeared beside her in the doorway and said he needed to talk with her in his office.

  Trying not to feel abandoned, I turned my attention again to the hopscotch game and saw Yasuko hopping back toward the beginning of the grid. I caught her eye as she finished, and started to take a step forward. She whispered to one of the girls cheering her on, and without turning to look at me, ran off toward another group of girls, who were jumping rope.

  I stood in the same spot until the bell rang, thinking that there were two more days until the week would end.

  The last day of that first week, Mother was waiting for me in the doorway when I got back to the Nishiokas. “Give me your book bag,” she said. “Take this money and go to the barber shop. Tell him you want your hair cut like all the other schoolboys.”

  When I repeated Mother’s instructions, the barber said, “What a shame. Your long hair is quite nice. But your mother is right. It has to go now that you’re a Japanese student.” When he finished, my head was prickly.

  Mother was waiting for me again and laughed when she saw me scratching at my head. “Here,” she said, “try this on,” as she lifted a brand new Bancho uniform out of a box. It felt different from the loose weave of my San Francisco suit. It even smelled sharp and tight. I slipped my arms into the sleeves and shrugged it over my shoulders. The fit was perfect. Mother smiled as she knelt and helped me fasten the bright buttons, and then took my hand and walked me to the mirror in Aunt Yoshie’s room. She stood behind me, still smiling. “Now you’re just like any kid on the block,” she said. “Now you’re a real Matsuyama Bancho kid.”

  On Monday, no one seemed to notice at school; there were no comments in the classroom about my hair. At recess, however, I still had to force myself to walk toward the boys’ ball game. When I was halfway across the playground, Shin, who was the liveliest student in my class, fell into step beside me. “Did you really live in America?” he asked.

  As soon as I answered, he followed up with, “What was the name of the place where you lived?” Several more classmates joined us as we continued across the playground.

  By the time we reached the edge of the ball game, I was surrounded, and the group was peppering me with questions. They demanded that I say things for them in English and collapsed in laughter when I obliged them.

  After a few minutes of this, Shin said, “Let’s go. I want to play.” I was swept along into the game.

  From that day forward I no longer stood out. I really was just another Bancho kid. I was convinced I was really becoming Japanese.

  Fourth grade was the first year students studied Japanese history. My second week at Bancho I learned the story of Amaterasu. I believe that my class was the first for which the old origin myths were included in the syllabus and taught as historical fact. I had only heard passing references to Amaterasu in San Francisco and was impressed, albeit mystified, by the story.

  As I listened to Miss Tatsukawa, I tried to take in the story of the god and goddess, Izanagi and Izanami, high above the clouds dipping their spears into the sea, stirring the waters, and then lifting those spears and letting drops of water fall from them—drops of water that turned into the four main islands of Japan. After they created Hokkaido, Honshu, Kyushu, and Shikoku, the god and goddess became the parents of two children—Amaterasu Omikami, the Great Sun Goddess, and Prince Susano.

  There were a few stories about these gods, and I got somewhat confused by the details, but tried to retain as much of the stories as I could. Amaterasu’s grandson, Ninigi-no-Mikoto, descended to earth and became Japan’s first ruler. His grandmother gave him the three treasures of Japan’s ruling family: her mirror, her
jewels, and her brother Susano’s sword. Later, Amaterasu’s great-great-grandson, Jimmu Tenno, became Japan’s first Emperor. The Imperial Family, Ms. Tatsukawa told us with reverence, had ruled from that day until ours in an unbroken line, and still retained the three treasures.

  I realize now that in teaching these myths as history the government was attempting to indoctrinate the nation’s children and convince them, to the depth of their souls, that Japan was a divine nation of chosen people. For me it was so grand and so far beyond the myths we had heard at Raymond Weill—like the story of George Washington and the cherry tree—that I related all of it that I could remember to Mother as soon as I got home from school that afternoon. She laughed, correcting me and supplying details when I faltered, and promised that someday we would take a trip to Amanohashidate, the place on the Japan Sea coast where the god and goddess stood as they dipped their spears and created the Japanese islands.

  When Mother and I arrived in Japan, the Manchurian Incident, when the Japanese garrison in Manchuria took possession of the whole of Manchuria, was a year in the past, and huge numbers of Japanese troops were already in China. About a month after we arrived, Mother and all the Nishiokas and I went to watch a parade that marched a group of recruits to the station. I was happy to be in my school uniform, and admired the young men, who all looked brave and determined. And I loved how the instruments glinted in the sunshine and how the band music blared. The shining trumpets made a sound I found absolutely thrilling. The crowds waved flags and shouted, “Banzai! Banzai!” The shouts of the crowd and the music were so loud I couldn’t tell if the noise was inside me or outside me. Towards the end of the parade, the shouts of the crowd swelled to a crescendo of “Tenno Heika Banzai!” My youngest cousin, Yuriko, slipped her hand into mine and held on. Our hands together, we flowed into and with the noise and the crowd.