Then I correct myself:
Half Japanese.…
And then some words
I never thought
I’d say:
I lost my mother, too.
STILL WANT TO BELIEVE
I’ll see her once more,
eat her crunchy kaki furai,
watch stupid game shows on TV,
laugh together again.
O-BON*3 WILL BE HERE SOON—
the summer festival
when the spirits come back
to visit Earth.
The shrine is cleaned,
the paths are cleared,
the lanterns hung.
On that day, I force myself
to join the festival.
With so many spirits
traveling so far
to come home,
how could
I not take
a few small steps
to go out
and greet them?
FIREFLIES LIGHT UP THE SKY,
villagers gather around
the red torii*4
wearing bright kimonos
donated by strangers.
Grandmothers in yukata.*5
Young mothers
with newborn babies
on their backs—
three generations
dancing,
feet tapping
the same land
our families
have stood on
for generations.
I WATCH THE WOMEN SWAY TO
“Tohoku Ondo”*6—
the dance Mom always loved,
arms swinging gracefully
as she drew
Mount Fuji in the air.
Clap clap clap
You and I love Tohoku
as we were born
and raised here.…
Arms up to the right,
arms up to the left,
palms together,
step back,
spin.
Dancing to this ballad
is the very
breath of life,
carrying
the spirit of
our mother
back to us.
Feeling the
unbreakable spirit
of Tohoku.
Feeling Mom,
Ojiichan, and
Obaachan
with me
now.
*1 soba—buckwheat noodles
*2 kanpai—cheers; a toast
*3 O-Bon is the festival of the dead, when the spirits come back to the earth to visit with the living. It is celebrated in the seventh month of the year in the solar calendar (July) in some areas, and in August (to coincide with the old lunar calendar) in others.
*4 torii—the gateway to a Shinto shrine, marking the entrance to a sacred space, made of two red or orange vertical columns and two crosspieces
*5 yukata—bright cotton summer kimonos
*6 Tohoku—region located in northeastern Honshu, the largest island of Japan. Ondo—a type of Japanese folk music.
WISH MOM WERE HERE
the day Kenji comes to get me,
wish she were here
to see me off
to New York.
Wish she were standing
next to Keiko,
who is standing beside
Shin’s family,
Old Man Sato,
Aki-sensei,
Principal Kunihara,
Guts and the soccer kids—
all gathered to
wish me well.
Even Taro Nishi
gives me a Samurai Blue T-shirt,
says Forget it,
when I say—
for the first time ever—
Thank you.
DRIVING WITH THE TOP DOWN,
breeze in our hair
passing town
after town
along the
coast.
Kesennuma—
with its giant
red ship stranded
on concrete.
Minamisanriku—
where a thousand origami cranes
hang in memory
of those no longer here.
Ishinomaki—
where the shell
of a building remains,
a monument to the girl
who stayed
on the rooftop
warning everyone
by megaphone:
Take cover!
Tsunami’s on the way!
In the distance, Matsushima,
its pine forests
still standing, as
nearby islands
had blocked the tsunami’s path.
Makes me remember
our pines are almost all down—
hope we plant some soon.
TWO OTHER COASTAL KIDS
meet us at Sendai airport—
another guy my age, Masa,
and Tomo, a girl two years younger.
We drink tea, munch senbei,
talk about what to buy
our New York hosts—
furoshiki wrapping cloths
or tenugui hand towels?
So nice to think about
what to give
instead of
what’s been
taken away.
ON THE PLANE,
the cabin lights go out
but I can’t sleep.
In science we learned
that nothing is solid,
that everything is energy,
that atoms are made of
quarks and photons,
and that humans
are made of atoms.
If what we are—
me and Shin and Keiko—
is energy,
what about
my mom
and grandparents?
What are they
made of
now that
they’re not here?
MAYBE THEY CAN HEAR
these thoughts
in my head.
Maybe they can feel
what I’m feeling.
I want to believe
that up here
in the sky
I’m closer to them
somehow.
DON’T EVEN NOTICE
I’ve closed my eyes
until we’re about to touch ground
in America.
America!
On the street
the taxi hurtles
into Manhattan,
while Tomo, Masa, and I
slide on the backseat,
bumping into each other.
We apologize,
say sumimasen.
Kenji laughs.
You’re in America! he says.
You don’t have to
keep saying
I’m sorry.
STRANGE MUSIC
streams from our
careening taxi
and from the city streets.
Honking horns,
people shouting,
laughing, talking in
many languages—
welcome to New York.
We sleep for hours
at the hotel, wake up
just before we meet
our hosts.
TOM’S A BIG, TALL MAN
with a barrel chest,
like a wrestler.
Fia is short, fit, and sparkly,
her eyes emerald green.
They bring
brown paper bags
filled with warm bagels
smeared with cream cheese
for breakfast.
We sit in a circle
on the floor,
eating and telling
our stories.
Tom’s mom and dad
were in the Twin Towers
when the plane hit.
He was fourteen then,
angry for
a long time after.
He dropped out of school
and started working
at a youth center—
now he’s the manager.
Fia’s dad was a firefighter,
a first responder
on the scene—
their parents
were never found.
Fia was seventeen,
the same age
I am now,
and had lost her mother
just a year before.
She wondered how
she’d go on.
But here I am, she says.
Now she’s a social worker.
IT TOOK A LONG TIME
to recover, says Tom,
then adds,
I’m still recovering.
Fia says it’s not
always easy,
but every day
before she goes to bed,
she thinks about
all the good things in her life—
her husband, her aunt and uncle,
her teachers, and her cat,
whose name is Sushi.
Really!
WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THE QUAKE STRUCK?
they want to know.
For Masa, Tomo, and me,
it’s the first time
we’ve talked about
3/11 with anyone.
But the words
pour out.
It’s easier to talk
here on foreign soil,
and English
gives me freedom.
Even if I make mistakes,
it doesn’t seem
to matter.
I TELL THEM THINGS
I’ve never even
told Shin.
I show them the
sea-warped picture
of Mom and Dad,
tell them
how Dad left us,
could never seem
to find his place.
Even when my
words don’t fit together perfectly,
I think they understand.
MASA TELLS THEM
how when the earthquake struck,
he was coming home from school
and tried to get his brother
from kindergarten.
He never made it.
All the roads were blocked
with moms in cars
trying to get their kids.
They all
got swept away
in the waves.
Kenji translates,
a lump in his throat.
I TALK ABOUT KEIKO,
how she froze under the desk,
how I couldn’t help her.
I tell them
she doesn’t remember
anything after that.
I tell them about
climbing the tree,
getting thrown
out of the water,
and how the principal
took me to the junior high,
which became our shelter.
I tell them that Taro
pulled me from the ocean
and that
I wanted to die.…
I was scared, I say.
It’s okay to be scared,
Tom replies.
If you weren’t scared,
you wouldn’t be human,
you wouldn’t be brave.
What do you mean? I ask.
If you were fearless,
you wouldn’t
need to overcome it.
Bravery means being scared
and going forward
anyway, Fia says.
That’s courage.
I start to cry,
and that’s when
Tom wraps his arms
around me for a hug.
When I tense up,
he reassures me.
You’re in New York,
he says.
Hugs are what
we do.
SHO GA NAI—IT CAN’T BE HELPED.
I hate those words,
Tomo says
when it’s her turn
to share.
Fia asks her why.
That’s what everyone says.
They say quakes and tsunamis
are a natural cycle of the Earth,
just a fact of life.
But we’re part of the Earth, too.
Right?
I nod, remembering
Mrs. Tanaka’s science lectures
on overfishing, factory farming,
greenhouse gas emissions,
the ones I used to tune out,
whispering to Ryu, Blah blah blah.…
Now I wonder if humans really are
causing rains and floods,
quakes, tornadoes, and hurricanes,
making birds fall from the sky, whales beach.
I wonder about the reactors leaking
radioactive particles into the air and sea.
And I wonder what will happen
when the particles drift far away.
TOMO WAS AT HER FAMILY’S STORE,
unpacking cabbage.
Her mom and dad
ran home to get
her grandparents
and were never
seen again.
We all remember
exactly where we were
and what we were doing
when our lives
changed forever.
9/11 and 3/11 are so different,
two separate disasters—
but maybe they’re also
the same, Tomo says.
How so? Kenji asks.
Each one changed
our country forever.
We all nod,
understanding.
Losing your parents
is the same
everywhere.
MAYBE THAT’S THE SILVER LINING,
if there can be such a thing, Kenji says—
to see the connections,
to get perspective.
When we help
each other,
we become bigger
than ourselves.
Mom said the same thing,
she always
told me
not to play small.
I even had the words
of Endo Mamoru*
hanging over my desk:
Dekinai to omottara, dekinai.
Dekiru to omoeba, nandemo dekiru.
If you think something’s impossible,
you can’t do it.
But if you think something’s possible,
you can do anything.
I used to look at it every day
before going out to play.
When did I forget?
I KEEP THE WORDS IN MIND
when we go to
Ground Zero.
I don’t know if I’m ready,
I say to Kenji
as we ride the subway
downtown.
He nods, then replies,
I don’t know if I’ll ever
be ready.
But we’ll do it
together.
THE GRANITE HOLES
where the towers once were
are reflecting pools.
We stand in silence
with our new friends.
People crouch low
to kiss the names of loved ones
etched into bronze,
touch the edges
remembering
fathers, mothers,
sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles,
children.…
They leave tokens
next to the names,
drape blue entrance ribbons
over the bronze panels,
place flowers and flags nearby.
Not so different
from the way
I offered Obaacha
n
pumpkin and mochi
across an ocean,
sending her spirit
to Nirvana.
Tom sweeps his fingers
over the monument,
touching his parents’ names.
A NINE-YEAR-OLD
speaks from the podium,
talks to her father,
who she never met,
because she was still
in her mom’s belly
when he died.
Though she never knew him,
she says she loves him,
loves her father
for loving
the idea of having her.
Did my dad
love the idea
of having me,
too?
I TAKE THE BUSTED CELL PHONE
from my pocket,
place it
on the wall.
At first I think
I’ll just
set it there,
but then
after a while
I decide
to leave it
alongside
the precious things
my friends
have left behind.
Mom’s last words
aren’t inside it
anymore,
I know.
They’re inside me.
I love you, Kai.
LEAVING THE MONUMENT
we pass the pear tree
pulled
from the rubble,
nurtured back to health.
A lone survivor,
just like the black pine
in my town.
IN THE MIDDLE OF BROADWAY
I know
I have to do
what I couldn’t do
before.
I know
I don’t want
to be small
anymore.
Think I’m ready
to
find
my dad.
WHEN I TELL TOM, HE DOESN’T ASK
why I waited,
just says:
Let’s get a move on!
The address
on the package Dad sent
so many years ago
is still
seared into my brain—
How could I forget 28 King Street?
I even remembered the apartment number.
No time to lose!
WE SPLIT OFF FROM THE GROUP,
walk uptown,
pass a fire station
with photos along the wall,
flowers on the floor
for all those lost.