It’s officially T-minus three months until our trip to Japan! This will be Mark’s first time there, and my first time returning in 22 years. I am equal parts anxious and excited. I’ve been wanting to take my husband for so long now, and with the yen down and my courage up, it seems like a good year to take the plunge.

Japan in the late 90s, early 2000s is what comes to mind most when I think of “home.” In the beginning of the 90s, my family was stationed at Clark in the Philippines not long after I was born in Misawa, AFB Japan. After Mt. Pinatubo’s eruption, we drifted to the U.S. for a bit. We returned to Japan when I was five years old, this time to Yokota, AFB where we lived until mid-2002. Seven years of my life, eight if you count my infancy, were spent in Japan. I think I look back fondly on that country often because when we PCS’d to the U.S., I faced some of the most isolating and painful years of my life.

Two decades would go by before I felt ready to return to Japan, focusing rather on China and subsequent university classes in Southeast Asia in the meantime. In retrospect, I take special pride in that internship I had in Malaysia during grad school where I was able to help women and children combat harsh Islamic divorce laws precisely because the cause felt so close to home.

What if Nothing’s the Same?

When my mother suggested a visit to our old masjid, I was taken aback. Of all the places, I was surprised she still held fond memories of the Tokyo Islamic Center after all these years.

I have decided I probably won’t venture there this time around. If grad school has taught me anything, it’s that the increasing Arabization of Islam has made Islam less tolerant in Asia, and I want to remember the Center as it was. I might perhaps visit with my mother one day for old time’s sake, but the thought of just simply walking in fills me with dread. Yet, it was a nice conversation with my mother. To hear her chatter about wishing she could drive us around Japan like the old days. It brought back memories of the mother I knew before my brothers were born. The mother I knew when my father was deployed and we had free reign to do as we wished.

Baggage Claim

A death on my American side last week brought up some unpleasantness. I had to reach out to my brother to contact my estranged father of nearly ten years for a signature. Everything worked out, but it shook the calm I’ve worked hard to maintain. I am sad to say that it’s taken a pandemic and my thirties for me to really put in effort to end this intergenerational cycle of dysfunction and address toxic beliefs, including a drilled-in need to take care of everyone emotionally and financially.

My therapist said something last month along these lines that still has me reeling:

“There is no such thing as sacrifice with parents. They chose to have kids. All the time and effort put into raising children is a gift. It’s not the child’s fault if the parents cannot achieve their dreams.”

She told me that the job of parents is to raise kids to be autonomous, like they are (or ought to be), and that it is not the child’s job to “repay” the parents as there is NOTHING to repay. It’s the parent’s job to raise their kids and to take care of them, not the other way around.

Boy, when I tell you that her saying this to me, the first generation Asian American daughter of an immigrant, threw me for a loop, it THREW me. Her statements went against literally everything I’d been taught as a child and as a person of color.  It caused me to really look at the guilt and shame I carried for years about all the bad decisions the adults around me made and continue to make. When it boils down to it, adult problems are not for kids. I am embracing this idea now, for my own mental health. Their problems never should have been mine to bear, neither from my parents or step-parents, nor extended family. I have to constantly remind myself of this when it comes down to hearing about them, especially my youngest brother. No more will I acquiesce to the, “You need to talk to him.” My new mantra is: I am not the parent.

I also finished an audiobook, “Maame,” by Jessica George that I really resonated with. Her message was on a similar note about finding your footing outside of cross-cultural filial obligations.

A couple years ago, I did my filial duty paying for my grandpa’s funeral during Covid. Everything from the casket to the food for the priest and anything the mourners needed for the multi-day ceremony, I provided. I emptied my bank account doing so because I felt I had to. I am happy to have been able to do that for him as a last respect, but it also enrages me that no one in the entire extended family did anything for him other than one of my mother’s cousins who organized it all back in the Philippines. With my only known grandpa gone comes the end of a few dreams of visiting, the end of decades-long remittances, of having to share my income and scholarship money, of sending giant balikbayan boxes. No more obligations.

And yet as I write this, my first response to my mother texting me is still, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Rather than a simple, “I love you, too.” It’ll take time, I know, I know.

I am not the parent.

What if It’s All Different?

I want to share the good times with my husband, Mark. The places and memories I do cherish: volunteer river clean-up every spring at the Tama River, holding armfuls of baby chicks at the tiny Hamura Zoo, the giant Buddha at Kamakura, and all the food. My dream is to be happy with him in the places that made me happiest. I do worry about how much has changed, but that’s an inevitability, no? So much time has passed. I know I’ll grieve, but it’ll also be nice to make new memories together.

In the meantime, I’ve been grinding away at Duolingo to try to relearn much of the Japanese I’d forgotten over the years. Having taken years of required Japanese culture classes and a summer camp, you’d think I’d be able to remember more, but I admit I was a terrible student as a child. All I wanted to do was sing folk songs, eat, and do arts and crafts. I was also painfully shy until about sixth grade. My mother would often push me to ask the Japanese shopkeepers how much things are. I’d bleat out a frail “いくらですか?” and run behind her. My heart still beats terribly when I have to haggle. It’s the worst. Duolingo is a lot of fun, except now I’m having trouble keeping Chinese pronunciations separate from Kanji!

Mark is passionate about Gundam, so we’re focused on finding the best stores for him. It’s unfortunate that the giant Gundam is being taken down for an Expo next year, but on the flipside, there’s a Taco Bell near the Gundam Base to continue our connoisseurship of the numerous McDonald’s and Taco Bell’s outside the U.S.

We’ve also started watching at least one episode of the current popular anime we’ve seen merch of online. With help from a subscription to Crunchyroll, we’ve binged Chainsaw Man and Jujutsu Kaisen, so far. Both shows were pretty good!

There’s lots of little logistics to work out, however we still have three months. It’s when we’re a month out that I’ll probably have my hands full making reservations and booking tickets to things. I do have our hotel in Shinjuku and flights booked. We’re stoked to be trying Delta Premium Plus for the first time. We’ll be stopping for a few days in South Korea first to see my friend who had a baby last year, and then it’ll be off to the Land of the Rising Sun!

Throwbacks:

The gentle pitter-patter of rain outside keeps me company as I contemplate how surprisingly different having Covid feels this time around compared to the messiness of having both Covid and strep at the same time two years ago. Thankfully, now it just feels like I have a stuffy head cold. No need for Paxlovid or a steroid shot to the butt cheek this time around! I hope you’re keeping yourself safe and healthy.

Until next time,

Steph ❤