Waka T. Brown - While I Was Away

O ne wintry January afternoon, my mom said to me:

Waka, chotto sentaku tatande yo.

She was on the floor, legs tucked under her, and surrounded by a huge pile of laundry when she spoke in that parent-telling-you-to-do-something-you-dont-want-to-do tone of voice.

She was asking me to help fold the laundry, but there was a lot going on in the house. I got distracted, so I didnt answer her back right away. Dad was doing his calisthenics in front of the TV while he watched the news. Theyre rajio taisou, he said, or the radio exercises he grew up with in Japan. I called them Dad-isthenics. Shuffle to the right, deep side lunge. Shuffle to the left, deep side lunge. Lunge-walk forward to adjust the antenna on the TV, and backstroke back into position. Add some arm circles and, oh wow, even high kicks, can-can style.

If the exercises alone werent enough of a distraction, my dads goofy outfit made it worse. He was wearing gray-and-black checkered polyester pants, a blue-and-white striped polo shirt, and a long washcloth tied around his head to control his floppy black hair. We were almost halfway through the 80s, but it was pretty clear that style-wise my dad was stuck in the 1970s.

Again my mom said, Waka, chotto sentaku tatande, but again I did not answer her. I was too busy keeping an eye on my siblings to be bothered with her request. My five-year-old brother Taiga had been quiet too long, and I never trusted when he was quiet. He did things like get into my nail polish and use it to spike his hair into a mohawk, so every now and then I had been peeking in on him in our room. I had my eye on my older brother Hajime too. He was working on his homework at the dining room table, but I knew once Dad finished watching the news, thered be a dash to the dial. I wanted to get there before Hajime did so I could change the channel to what I wanted to watch.

My moms request rang out a third time. Waka, sentaku tatande. Her requests to fold the laundry were getting shorter and more direct. I should have noticed. I should have folded the laundry when I heard the edge in my moms voice. But my older sister was sitting right there! Why couldnt she help? But instead of folding the laundry, I looked toward Aya, hoping to draw my moms attention to her.

If I didnt respond to my moms plea for help with the laundry, it definitely wasnt because I didnt understand what she said. But fast-forward a week later when I realized she had an entirely different take on the situation.

My mom was making dinner when she said, Waka, natsu yasumi ni mata Nihon ni ikanakucha.

Whoa, whoa, whoa... if I heard correctly, my mom had just ruined my summer vacation as she calmly stir-fried the chicken with the zucchini. I closed my eyes and tossed Moms words around, letting them cook, hoping I had misunderstood her. I hadnt.

What? I asked. You want me to go to Japan this summer? Again? Why?

Every time I ask you to do something in Japanese, you look at Aya to translate. Mom splashed some rice wine into the wok. Like last week when I asked you to help with the laundry.

Not true! My mom was speaking to me in Japanese right now, and I understood exactly what she said. The food sizzled and hissed like a snake. I wanted to hiss right back.

But I just went! I responded in English. Sometimes I did that when I got stressed and had to get the words out quickly. It was exactly the wrong thing to do in that moment.

A couple years ago. Clearly, that wasnt enough time for your Japanese to stick.

The aroma of my moms cooking made my stomach growl with hunger. But it was also growling at my mom. I mean, my Japanese was decent enough! I could hold my own in a conversation for about five minutes before anyone suspected I wasnt Japanese. After which they might cock their head to the side and wonder what part of Japan I was from because there was something about the way I said things that might be a little different from how they would say it. In another couple minutes, before they assumed I was slow or something, my mother would jump in and explain that I was actually born here, in the US. This information usually resulted in an amazed Ohhhh that I knew as much Japanese as I did. Pretty darn good for an American like myself.

I groaned. But Ive been going to Japan since I was five.

When you were five, corrected my mother. And that was only for three weeks. Do you even remember anything from then?

I did remember! Unfortunately, the first memory that popped into my mind was that of a squat toilet. That trip was the first time I had ever seen one. Its like a urinal, but one thats lying on the floor instead of upright. To use it, you squat down over it... and go! All the while making sure not to pee on your underpants in the process. But... that was probably not the best example to bring up.

I remember going to the beach. I substituted a better memory to share with my mother.

How about language? What Japanese do you remember?

That first trip was when I learned the word gehin, which I guess means vulgar, but at the time I thought it meant dirty like poo. I called my older brother gehin as much as possible. I couldnt let my mom know, though, that potty words were the only language I came back with from my first trip to Japan.

I frowned. So the international school again?

My mom laughed as she moved the chicken around the wok with her long, cooking-style chopsticks. That school was too expensive, and you know you just spoke English there with all your friends.

I was nine the second time we went to Japan. During that summer, my mom sent Aya, Hajime, and me to an international school that was about thirty minutes by train away from my grandmothers house. Boy, was I upset about having to go to school then! The international school was full of other not-quite-Japanese kids upset at losing their summer too. A lot of them had lived in the US like ustheir language skills not good enough to attend a regular school either.

One afternoon during that trip, my mom asked, What did you learn in school today?

Sumo wrestling! I responded with glee. Even though I didnt like the international school, the sumo wrestling during PE class was definitely a highlight for that particular day.

My moms brow furrowed. The girls too?

Yep! Im pretty good at it too.

Girls dont sumo wrestle. My mom wasnt pleased. How about Japanese? What Japanese did you learn?

I shrugged and tried to sumo my brother in the living room.

This was probably when my mom decided to send us a third time.

Thinking back to that third trip, a chill ran through me. If Im not going to the international school, then...

Youll go to the local school. My mom confirmed my worst fears.

The summer after my fourth grade when I was ten, my parents made my brother and me go to the local schoolthe one we would have attended if we were just normal Japanese kids. It was for two months (Only two months! my mom exclaimed when I complained then as well), but it was two long months. No one spoke English at the local school.

I barely understood anything there, but its not like I was really expected to. Teachers and students treated me like a visitor, and I was more than happy to act like one. Not like a serious student. If only I had put in some effort, then maybe my mom wouldnt be thinking about sending me again. While my time at the local school wasnt