From a Town on the Hudson Read online

  From a Town on the Hudson

  TUTTLE SIGNATURE EDITIONS

  Osaki Shinagawa-ku, Tokyo 141-0032, Japan

  © 1996 by Yuko Koyano

  All rights reserved

  LCC Card No. 96-60249

  ISBN 978-1-4629-0116-6

  First edition, 1996

  Printed in Japan

  To

  Jane and Gene Holben

  my host family of twenty-two years

  preface 9

  1 • My Respected Professor 15

  2 • Moving to the United States 17

  3 • Schools of Their Own Choice 20

  4 • The First Two Months 23

  5 • Sumito Tachikawa and Kimigayo 27

  6 • Encounter with Sumo Wrestlers 29

  7 • Exercise and Rest 31

  8 • We Lose Our Way 33

  9 • Homework 36

  10 • A Fine 38

  11 • Fallen Leaves 42

  12 • How to Refuse to Be Kissed 44

  13 • Hannah 46

  14 • Fairness 51

  15 • JFK 52

  16 • To Dye or Not to Dye 56

  17 • The Language Problem 60

  18 • Determination 63

  19 • The Needle with the Red Thread 66

  20 • Instructors 69

  21 • Different Customs 73

  22 • Ladies I Love 75

  23 • Hospitality 81

  24 • At the Risk of Ones Life 83

  25 • Wings 87

  26 • Silence and Noise 90

  27 • A Long-awaited Opportunity 92

  28 • Regarding Cabs 94

  29 • Driving 97

  30 • Friction 102

  I AM SLIGHTLY hesitant to write about the beginning of my life because the place and the time in which I was born have made me feel a sense of guilt about the war.

  I was born in China in 1946 as the fifth child of my parents. My father was a seaman and worked for a steamship company in Manchuria. The year I was born was a time of confusion and great scarcity of food after the war. I was a dying eight-month-old baby, just skin and bones, when my family returned to Japan in 1947. A cup of thin rice gruel my grandmother gave me saved my life. Until I was nine years old, I was weak and had a poor appetite, so I am small even today. I have not visited my birthplace since returning to Japan. Although the fact that Japan colonized China during the war makes me feel a sense of guilt, I long to see the beautiful city of Dalian.

  I grew up in my father's hometown in Saga Prefecture, in the northern part of Kyushu. For family reasons, I moved to Chiba Prefecture in 1960 and then to Hyogo Prefecture in 1965. From 1965 to 1967, I studied English literature at a women's college in Kyoto. Following graduation, I worked for an insurance company in Kobe for about three years and then returned to Chiba Prefecture to get married to an old high-school classmate, Toshio Koyano, in 1970.

  I gave birth to our first boy in 1971. My husband, who worked for a bank, passed the bank's test to go abroad for study in 1972, and entered the graduate program of the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania in 1973.

  In 1974, our son, almost three then, and I joined my husband, who lived on campus. This was the first time for me to see America. Even though it was only a one-year stay, I met many fine Americans. Mr. and Mrs. Holben, among them, have been our host family in the United States since then. In 1975, we returned to Japan and learned that my father, sixty-one, had died seven days earlier. We resumed our life in Japan in one of the company's apartment houses in Tokyo. On Christmas Eve of 1976,I gave birth to our second boy.

  In 1985, my husband was transferred to New York on business, and our family moved to the United States again, to live in Fort Lee, New Jersey. This was our second time in America. I had a problem with the language but no culture shock. The abundance of nature there fascinated me, the spaciousness gave me a feeling of relief, and American hospitality awakened something in me. I felt refreshed in everything I did, as if America had infused me with new life. If I could have spoken English fluently, I would have talked enthusiastically about both the United States and Japan to my American friends every day. As it was, however, I kept my thoughts and feelings to myself.

  When I realized how little ordinary Americans knew of Japan and what negative, stereotypical images of Japanese most Americans had, I thought that even with my poor English I would at least try to convey my feelings to my friends. I had one more way of expressing my feelings: writing. I wrote a booklet titled "My Memories" to show my gratitude to my friends and sent it to them right before I left the United States in 1990. That booklet became the basis for the essays in this present volume.

  After I returned to Japan, I wanted to write about more of my experience in the United States. In the fall of 1991, I took a creative writing class at Tokyo's Asahi Culture Center to learn writing techniques. However, my mother, who had been waiting for me to come back to Japan, became ill and bedridden. I couldn't attend all the classes, but it was wonderful to learn more about writing. My mother died in 1992, and in the summer of 1993, I resumed my writing. The next year, my father-in-law, who had been the center of the family, also died. For these reasons, therefore, it took me some time to complete these thirty essays.

  I believe that my friendships with Americans kept encouraging me to write. Moreover, I have received much encouragement from my husband, who gave me the chance to see America twice, and from our two sons, who gave me many opportunities to be a happy mother in the United States. I must express my affection and gratitude to them.

  I offer my heartfelt thanks to Ms. Heidi Frank and Mr. Bennett Walker, teachers at Margaret's Institute of Language in Funabashi City, Chiba Prefecture. Without their careful grammatical review, my readers wouldn't be able to accurately understand what I want to express.

  I loved America and realized a greater love for Japan through this experience.

  From a Town on the Hudson

  THIS FIRST chapter does not have to do with my life in America but with my decision to write about it. I was motivated by my enormous admiration for a professor who taught me English literature at a women's university in Kyoto from 1965 to 1967.

  Because the thirty-four-year-old gentleman at that time was witty, earnest, and attractive, he got the enthusiastic support of his young students. Even when his classes were over, nobody would let him go. We used to catch him on the bench in front of the fountain on the college grounds, at a nearby temple, and sometimes at the faculty office. Not only did we meet him on campus, but one day in the fall ten students visited him at his home in Fushimi in the southern part of Kyoto. I remember our sitting close to one another in the narrow living room with his lovely wife and two children. Moreover, several students even visited his parents' home in Shimane Prefecture during the summer vacation. Each time we talked about English literature with the professor, I felt as if I could easily master the English language, create poems in English, and even write long stories in English. His ardent passion for English literature told us how worthwhile learning English was. He was such a vigorous and great teacher to us all and always treated everyone with the same consideration.

  One warm June evening, however, at a streetcar station called Higashiyama Shichijo near the university, I happened to meet him on the way home. Hanging on to a strap in the rattling streetcar I was lucky enough to be given a private lecture about Shakespeare's Macbeth. But I couldn't concentrate on the lecture at all, because I was so excited by the unexpected encounter. While walking to the Kyoto Station terminal building after we had gotten off the streetcar, and before I said good-bye to him at the main wicket, I was just thinking how jealous my classmates would be of me the next day when they heard that I had
had our favorite professor all to myself. I recall that I jumped with joy and almost whistled as I bounded up the steps to the platform for Osaka. The next day I was actually shunned by a jealous classmate, the first person I had told of my "betrayal."

  The last time I saw the professor was at Kyoto Station in the summer of 1968, when he left for England to study at Oxford University. I had nothing to do with English for many years after that. I got married and enjoyed making a home and raising two sons. I even forgot how to spell "Saturday" or "January." When our younger son entered nursery school, I began to think about what I, as a person, liked most all my life. It was English. The words of that professor, who died of cancer in 1975 at the age of forty-four, rang in my mind. I felt that his humorous, wise, high-spirited, and warm-hearted style which he had shown us students was about to lead the way to my learning English again.

  "NO, I WONT go to America." At the end of January 1985, the story opened with our sons refusal to be transferred with their father's job to New York the coming spring. They said that they could live with their grandparents in Japan. The two boys' reaction was unexpected. However, it was impossible for us to leave our thirteen-and eight-year-old sons in Japan. Although we were living in what was soon to be the twenty-first century, when the techniques of broadcasting had greatly improved, we still couldn't see what the real world was like as long as we stayed in Japan. This would be a chance for our school-age boys to see the world outside of Japan. My husband and I insisted that our family should live together even though we would be living abroad, and we told the boys that we would like to have a new life together in the United States. Then the two brothers seemed to reconsider the move and forgot to fight with each other for a few days. They still seemed to be worrying about their pet lovebirds and goldfish, but they agreed with us in the end.

  "Mother, do you understand English?" Actually, I had majored in English. Besides that, I had had the experience of living abroad: I had been in Philadelphia in 1974 with my husband when he was studying at the Wharton School. Nevertheless, I couldn't be confident about English. In Philadelphia, I could neither catch what Americans said nor make myself understood in English very well. I remembered regretting that I was unable to express what I thought. This would be my second time in America and, besides that, our sons were growing. I didn't have to look after my family all day. This would be an occasion for me to master spoken English. I was optimistic. In January 1985, I never imagined that I would return to Japan in 1990 still being unable to speak English well.

  "What school will I go to?" "Will I be able to speak English soon?" "Are the American teachers friendly?" "What kind of lunch will I eat at an American school?" "Will you really help me if I have trouble?" "What do American boys do for fun?" Both of our sons worried about what they would undergo in the United States. As parents, we naturally would help them whenever they needed it. My husband and I tried to alleviate their fears as much as possible. If the new experiences in the United States could become a positive part of their lives, that would be wonderful. For the younger son, who was born in 1976, it would be the first time to live in America. In reality, especially in the beginning, they struggled with many things in their American schools that they had been anxious about. However, both of my sons were helped by many Americans and were able to overcome their difficulties.

  "I want a wife, too!" I ridiculously said to myself, counting the number of sealed boxes in our house. From February to the end of March in 1985, I was occupied with packing, doing daily household chores, looking after my children, and taking care of every other kind of preparation. But I couldn't drop my routine household chores and taking care of my children. My husband also was busy handing over his job at the bank and preparing for departure earlier than the rest of us. However, thanks to his wife, delicious meals and a Japanese-style deep bath filled with comfortably heated water were always guaranteed to be waiting for him at home. Even though I was pleased when he told me that he was happy, I was still busy. Our older son was no help because he was occupied with his tennis club activities at his junior high school until it got dark. In addition to packing, I had a gardener trim the trees as much as possible, called a secondhand bookseller, and disposed of unused articles. To prepare for renting our house to the bank my husband worked for, I also asked a housing company to check the boiler and the roof. In addition, I often took our younger son to the doctor's office, went shopping, cooked meals, washed clothes, hung them out to dry and, in the afternoon, took them in and prepared the bath as usual. I attended several farewell parties, too. After my husband had left for New York in the middle of March, I at last invited some people to our house. My mother-in-law, sixty-four then, came to help me and stayed at our house for a while. My mother, seventy then, also came but soon returned home to Yokohama because the mere sight of the chaotic rooms seemed to exhaust her. Moving was really a big job. Unlike endless housework, however, it had an ending. I, thirty-eight then, was losing weight.

  "See you again!" "Have a safe trip!" "Come back as soon as possible!" On April 13th, our two sons and I arrived at John F. Kennedy Airport in New York and met my husband, who had arrived a month earlier. It was cold and the sky was gloomy-looking. We got into a limousine and headed for Fort Lee, New Jersey. Listening to my husband's description of our new home, town, schools, and car, all of which he had arranged for us, I saw forsythia blooming along the highway. It looked like a light in a gray world on our family's first day in the United States of America.

  "WHAT SCHOOL will I go to?" both of our sons asked us almost every thirty minutes after arriving in New York. For all of us, that was a big problem. About the schools, there were a few choices we would be able to make: a public school, a private Catholic school, or a Japanese school in New York. For the older son, my husband and I had thought it might be better for him to transfer to the Japanese school so he would not have to struggle with the language problem. For the younger son, the choices were limited to two schools: a private Catholic school or a public school. The Japanese school did not include the lower elementary grades at that time, and he would have been in the third grade if he had been in Japan. We agreed that we would decide after checking on those schools.

  About 8:30 A.M., April 15, 1985, two days after we arrived at our new residence in Fort Lee, my husband, who had arrived a month earlier, took us to those three schools. Both Fort Lee School #3 and Holy Trinity School were on Myrtle Avenue, in the neighborhood where we lived. We first went to the Holy Trinity School. It was a small, pretty school. Students wearing school uniforms gathered in the school yard around their principal, a woman. Then they entered the classrooms for the first period of the day. We went to the school office and waited until the principal came. The secretary gave us a kind look and said, "You don't have to be nervous" to our two sons, who had been taken to an unknown world. Soon the principal came into the office. After we greeted each other, she told us about the school. Because there wasn't room for our sons in the school at that time, she said that she couldn't enroll them. "However," she continued, "if you will come again in September, I will be able to welcome your sons."

  Then we went to Public School #3. The secretary was a beautiful, friendly-looking lady. She was busy with one job after another, but she told us that our younger son could enter any time with the completed health forms and a certificate of proof that he had attended a Japanese elementary school. That was all. It didn't take even one minute. To many Japanese parents who had been accustomed to Japan's bureaucratic system, this might have been the very first moment when they noticed how open the school system of the United States is. We also knew many Japanese students were in the school. This seemed to be the most important thing for our younger son.

  Then, because we had no car yet, we walked to the bus stop at the George Washington Bridge and got on a bus going over to the New York side. There we took subways and buses and then walked to the Japanese school. "It's too far." This was the first impression that we had as we made our
way there. We heard an explanation about the school and that our older son would be able to transfer to the school.

  We returned to Fort Lee and then went to the Lewis F. Cole Middle School. There were no students around since the school-day was over, and we felt assured by the open atmosphere of the school. A secretary at the office looked kind, and she explained a little about the school, just as the secretary of School #3 had done that morning. Our older son could be accepted any day after submitting a health report.

  Each school had its good points. However, as we couldn't wait until September, we gave up the idea of going to Holy Trinity School. This meant the younger son would go to School #3. That night we talked about the schools that we had visited during the day. As parents, my husband and I decided it would be best for our sons to choose their own schools. We weren't being irresponsible; we hoped that the boys would become people who could take responsibility for making their own decisions. That night was the very first time for our two sons to make an important decision concerning their new lives in the United States. After a while, they said that they liked the public schools.

  MY SONS chose the public schools in the town where we lived. For them, the two months from April 18th to the end of the 1984-85 school year seemed to be an exciting as well as tense time.

  Because my older son, Kyosuke, who was thirteen years old at the time, had been in Philadelphia when he was three years old, and also because there were few strict rules in his new school, Lewis F. Cole Middle School, he looked more relaxed there than in Japans public junior high school. Besides, in the United States he had no daily piano practice and was not busy with after-school activities. He seemed to enjoy his free time fully. Though he couldn't speak English, he didn't seem to feel so anxious about it. The school had a bilingual class where he could learn American history and science in both English and Japanese. It seemed to be a surprising experience for him to be able to take lessons in fluent Japanese from an American teacher, Mrs. Wheeler. She also used to talk about Japan because she had been there. He was able to take the school trip to Washington, D.C., about ten days after he landed in the United States because of the teacher's timely advice, as well. Moreover, in his class, there were many Japanese girls but only one boy, who had come the previous year. Luckily he and my son became good friends immediately. Not only the students but also their parents could ask the teacher anything in Japanese. In a sense, the class was like a window through which Japanese newcomers could see the United States and Japan. Mrs. Wheeler always opened it wide with a smile.