Short bio: I am a second generation mixedrace Nikkei who grew up in the
south part of greater Seattle. A middle school guidance counselor by day-
helping my boos through the processes- and an
activist/artist/writer/lover/poet/singer/all-around badass by night (imho).
Through my journey as a counselor in the past 6 years, I’ve discovered that I’m
not, in fact, a feelingless robot, and it has changed a lot of what I want to
say and how I say it. More importantly, it has indefinitely blurred the lines
between personal and political; whether in community or on the page, I hope you
hear my heart.
My Blog: this piece appeared on my personal blog in 2 pieces, “Obituaries
Unsaid” on Dec 1, 2012 http://thicknhip.blogspot.com/2012/12/obituaries-unsaid.html, and
“Sayonara,” on Nov. 6, 2012 http://thicknhip.blogspot.com/2012/11/sayonara.html . My blog
address is thicknhip.blogspot.com . I don’t have any blog subscribers or
anything so my estimated circulation is like, maybe 10 (being generous).
There is an important story that I
have to share. If I don’t say it now, there will be no one left to hear. Among
Nikkei (those of Japanese descent), we have intricate rules about shame and
what can be spoken. An intimate understanding that if it is never said, then it
never existed… but this is too important to be shamed into nothing. It is
someone’s life, and she was my precious mother.
It's
almost been a month since my step-mom passed away and I often cry still when I
really think of her, and our relationship. Even the word “relationship”
however, seems strange when I apply it to the hearts that spoke in quiet days
at home, in hospital rooms, and in care centers.
It's true that she never had to love me- never should have—I don't know as though, if I were her, I ever could—but she tolerated me. Through my childhood I remember sitting in her beautiful un-child-proofed apartment in West Seattle. It had beautiful views of the city skyline tucked between glass figurines and dolls that had never been played with. I remember thinking, “this is a lonely place…”
It's true that she never had to love me- never should have—I don't know as though, if I were her, I ever could—but she tolerated me. Through my childhood I remember sitting in her beautiful un-child-proofed apartment in West Seattle. It had beautiful views of the city skyline tucked between glass figurines and dolls that had never been played with. I remember thinking, “this is a lonely place…”
As
I grew into an adult, the uncomfortable formalities and sideways glances became
less so. When my dad and Kimiko remarried, something changed in her. She became
a little more comfortable with us. She began to smile and even laugh with my brothers.
Although
when I visited alone she still seemed reserved. Almost as if my presence were
difficult to bare. Being the daughter of my father’s mistress; now I can see
why. But at that time…
I
didn't understand the bond that held us until she became sick... until her formalities
became the only thing that told me she was alive.
And suddenly, we needed each other… We understood that all the things we had wanted to communicate were not important—that both, my mother and father, were separate from her and I. That her steady presence and unchanging nature had been the only consistent female presence in my life. We were both too angry at everyone’s betrayal to love each other before, but when she got sick and it all changed.
She laid so still and sad- with frail limbs swaddled in the smallest size hospital gowns. Even her own delicate and immaculately cared-for cloths had grown too big for her shrinking frame. And no matter how much she forgot where she was or forgot who came to visit- she never forgot me... not once... not at all...
One of the times she was hospitalized, and in her state of dementia, she was convinced that she was kidnapped the night before and taken to this strange place. She didn’t remember being with Dad and I in the ambulance the night before. She had no recollection of us tucking her in and promising to see her the next morning. She only knew we were there at that moment. Her face grew wet with tears of happiness and relief.
"Aishteru" she said looking at Dad and then me.... this was the first and only time she ever said she loved me.
We loved each other when we were ready.
And there is no one to tell.
At the memorial the boys asked if it would be weird if her family came to meet us. After all, we had spent our lives as children of a secret lover. Children that my father rarely told anyone about. When we showed up at events and concerts for Dad, it was always at a cost to Kimiko. Like us, she had to live with the embarrassment of explanation or silence…
And suddenly, we needed each other… We understood that all the things we had wanted to communicate were not important—that both, my mother and father, were separate from her and I. That her steady presence and unchanging nature had been the only consistent female presence in my life. We were both too angry at everyone’s betrayal to love each other before, but when she got sick and it all changed.
She laid so still and sad- with frail limbs swaddled in the smallest size hospital gowns. Even her own delicate and immaculately cared-for cloths had grown too big for her shrinking frame. And no matter how much she forgot where she was or forgot who came to visit- she never forgot me... not once... not at all...
One of the times she was hospitalized, and in her state of dementia, she was convinced that she was kidnapped the night before and taken to this strange place. She didn’t remember being with Dad and I in the ambulance the night before. She had no recollection of us tucking her in and promising to see her the next morning. She only knew we were there at that moment. Her face grew wet with tears of happiness and relief.
"Aishteru" she said looking at Dad and then me.... this was the first and only time she ever said she loved me.
We loved each other when we were ready.
And there is no one to tell.
At the memorial the boys asked if it would be weird if her family came to meet us. After all, we had spent our lives as children of a secret lover. Children that my father rarely told anyone about. When we showed up at events and concerts for Dad, it was always at a cost to Kimiko. Like us, she had to live with the embarrassment of explanation or silence…
"I
don't have to explain myself, because they sure as hell weren't family enough
to be there when she was dying," I replied to my brothers, as my face grew
hot and eyes swollen. Despite our relationship until the day she died, I still
didn't want to embarrass her... I knew that I had no regrets and nothing
to be ashamed of. Even if my father introduced me to no one at her funeral- I
had done what I knew was right. I formed a bond with someone, that only 5 years
before, would have seemed impossible. But still... I knew that no one who
loved her could really accept me as family. In their intimate circle of
friends-those who grew up and survived post-war Japan- that's just not the way
of it.
I cry for her still... with no words to share with people who know us both. How could they understand what was between her and I, because, honestly, I didn't understand it myself... I just know that a part of her is always with me. And I will always be grateful for the time we shared together.
I cry for her still... with no words to share with people who know us both. How could they understand what was between her and I, because, honestly, I didn't understand it myself... I just know that a part of her is always with me. And I will always be grateful for the time we shared together.
The
last time we saw her, we sat next to her empty shell in the hospital bed.
My
father leaned down and pledged his eternal utterances of love
"I will marry you when I see you again in the next life"
"I am sorry"
"You look so beautiful... you were always so beautiful"
... and when he was ready,
... .. he leaned down and told her "Sayonara.... Sayonara"
and walking through the hospital door after him,
I too
turned and whispered
"....Sayonara....”
"I will marry you when I see you again in the next life"
"I am sorry"
"You look so beautiful... you were always so beautiful"
... and when he was ready,
... .. he leaned down and told her "Sayonara.... Sayonara"
and walking through the hospital door after him,
I too
turned and whispered
"....Sayonara....”