Miss Japanese & The American Thief

“No!” I shouted to my father. His words had stung me, as had the uncharacteristic tone he’d used. I’d heard him raise his voice before, but never like this. “You’re lying!” I cried out again, tears streaking down my cheeks. “It’s not true!”

“Didn’t you make us a promise?” he said in an icy tone. “When you met him, you were going to tell me about it. And you never did. Isn’t it a good thing I am your father?”

He was standing in the doorway to my bedroom. A crooked smile upon his face as if I was a child who had come home with the “wrong” book.

“Now will you please start acting like the daughter I raised to be a lady? And hear me! There will be no more running away. If you choose to go off with this man, destroy him!”

“He loves me. He won’t hurt me.”

I didn’t understand why I had said that. I thought my father was mad, but I knew he was listening to every word I said. I never realized how much power the people who raised you had over you until I decided I did love this soldier.

My father gasped. “What kind of man would say something like that?”

I didn’t have a reply, so I ran into the living room and started crying on my mother’s shoulder. She stood up from the table and put her arms around me.

“Never do that again,” she said. “You know I love you, but don’t do that again.”

After a few moments I said, “I just want to go back to America.”

“Never say that again,” said my father. “You are Japanese, and you must stay here and be Japanese.”

“Do you love me?” I asked my mother.

“Of course I love you,” she said. “You just have to understand that.”

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“I hate this!” I said, throwing my hat down on the bed. It was late and I hadn’t slept much in my four days working in the flower shop owned by my older sisters.

“Try putting it on. That’s what my mother did when I was growing up, and she looked lovely in it. Besides, you’ll get more customers that way,” said my sister, to which I rolled my eyes.

I clenched my teeth and put on the hat. My head stuck out the back, but at least I looked feminine.

When I came out of the dressing room I saw another customer waiting.

“Is the young lady ready for her flowers?” asked the man.

I looked at my sister and Nyx. “You two don’t need to do this,” I said. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Good luck,” said my sister.

I stepped out and found myself staring at the man in the suit and tie.

“Are you ready to be surprised?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you mean. But I guess I am,” I said, nodding.

He laughed at my “answer,” then handed me a small box. I took it and turned back to my sister and Nyx.

“I’ll see you two later.”

“Good luck,” said Nyx.

I turned back to the man and smiled. “Where do you want me to put my flowers?”

“Just set it down somewhere,” he said, smiling back. He glanced at his watch. I decided to put them on a table near the front. Just as I finished the door chimed and another customer walked in.

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“Is the young lady ready?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

“Follow me please,” he said. His words were shined in the dazzling light of the spotlights surrounding me. I walked down the red carpet and past the small gazebo that was in the center of the room. I heard a loud gasp and then I was in the spotlight.

My heart dropped. “Oh no,” I muttered. “I can’t do this! Please don’t make me do this!”

I looked around the room where all of my sisters and nieces and nephews were sitting. My oldest sister walked toward me and kissed me on the forehead.

“Congratulations,” she whispered in my ear. “Now go and make him happy.”

I was conflicted with joy and terror. I wanted this, but I was afraid of what would come with it. I was terrified of losing my family. But it was time. I was ready. Now it was time to get married.

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I suppose the American family knew about our culture and thought this would be a great wedding. I was wrong in my earlier estimation of the American man. He was sweet and caring and very kind to me. He took all of my fears as a joke. But I could never joke about my culture. It had carried on since long before my birth, and I was afraid of breaking it. My family was Japanese, and I would be Japanese.

“It’s official,” said my husband. “You are now my wife.”

“So you think I should call you ‘daddy’ now?” I asked.

“I was thinking about something else that’s specific to your heritage,” he replied.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I was thinking that you should call me ‘master.’”

I threw my bouquet at him in anger. He was being silly, and I didn’t appreciate it. I knew this wasn’t going to be fun, but I had always known that and had done it anyway. My parents were proud of me. My sisters were proud of me. Everyone was proud of me. It didn’t matter now. I was going to be an American wife. And that is what made me happy.

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From that day onwards I was the American wife. For some time I didn’t care about my heritage. I didn’t want to be Japanese and I didn’t want to remember to be. I couldn’t because it was part of me.

My husband was from America and didn’t want to talk much about his home, so I never asked him about Japan. I didn’t want to hear about Hawaii or Japan or anybody else that I wasn’t part of.

I tried to remember my roots when the anniversary of my death day was approaching, but when I was reminded of the day I would return home, I would have to be reminded to be Japanese again. My husband did the same thing. None of us wanted to talk about it. But I could not escape, so I tried to be kind and respectful to his culture.

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