I miss Japan.
It’s a phrase that my private story viewers see at least once a week. I lament daily about my nostalgic Japanese lifestyle that I’ve been missing. I want to have their catchy commercial jingles stuck in my head again. I want to indulge myself with frequent trips to onsens (hot spring baths) and refresh afterwards with frozen treats that cannot be found in any grocery store here. While I feel some guilt in subjecting my friends to my (albeit—privileged) sorrow, I can’t help but express my sadness somewhere.
It’s approaching four years since I’ve stepped foot in the Land of the Rising Sun, and it’s probably also the longest I’ve ever gone without visiting. My mother is from Japan, so for the first decade of my life, almost without fail, I’d stay at my grandparents’ house in the inaka (countryside) of a western prefecture every summer. To me, summer is practically synonymous with Japan. I can recall the environment vividly, even as I sit in my dusty, dry dorm room: the never-ending shrieking of the semi (cicadas), the smell of burnt fireworks, the humid air on my skin, and the taste of the nostalgic natsu-matsuri (summer festival) treats.
As I got older and school became a bigger priority, visiting during breaks was no longer as simple. I visited thrice in the combined five years between middle school and my sophomore year of high school. One of those was a short trip to spend time with my grandmother while she was sick. The one following was another short trip to attend the one-year anniversary ceremony of her death.
I still think about the trip we took when we knew she wouldn’t be getting better. I was oblivious to the weight of the situation. She had been sick for years, and things were up and down constantly but never seemed fatal—at least not to me. I was fourteen. I was just excited to be back in Japan and wanted to spend the limited time we had there as we did in the summer, visiting the nearby mall and going grocery shopping. I recall thinking to myself that maybe I should slow down and spend more time with Baba, because you don’t know how much longer she may be around for. At least, at the time, that’s what I told myself. Despite that, I remember exactly when, on our final day, we said goodbye and began driving away. I did know that I certainly wouldn’t see her alive again and that I’d screwed up. I was right and I am sorry.
Retrospectively, I don’t understand how I hadn’t comprehended what it meant for us to go on that trip and I haven’t forgiven myself for not making the most of it. I (stupidly) felt embarrassed to express my love and appreciation for her back then, which is why I think I kept trying to treat the week as any other. I’m hoping that she knew how I felt, despite how much I took her for granted.
In November, my grandfather passed away, too, and it had also been the end of a long battle. Recently due to Covid-19, but mostly because of our busy lives, we hadn’t been able to see him in person during the last four years. I was thankful to at least have been able to see him on Zoom and let him know that I loved him. I don’t remember being particularly close to him, but when I got the text informing that he had passed away, I found myself sobbing in my bed at 2 A.M. Each time I thought it had subsided, a new wave of grief would wash over me. At the time, I was surprised by the fervent crying that took over me, but now I recognize that moment as the striking realization that I’ve permanently lost a huge connection to my ancestors, specifically my Japanese ancestry.
Despite holding dual citizenship, speaking Japanese since birth, and celebrating most major Japanese holidays and ceremonies, growing up in America has undoubtedly weakened my relationship with my Japanese heritage. My social life, school life, and entertainment and media consumption are dominated by the English language and American culture. I spoke less and less Japanese at home as my English proficiency increased with age. At times, I even resented my “Asian-ness,” particularly during puberty, when I was surrounded by Eurocentric beauty standards, wishing that I looked more white than I did Japanese. Also, obviously, I didn’t actually grow up in Japan. I know that I’m not an active part of Japanese society, nor do I have the confidence of a native in navigating the country.
Given my geographical proximity with my American family, I have spent more holidays and celebrations with them. I know more about my dad’s parents and their ancestors in comparison to my mom’s (though I don’t know all that much from my dad’s side, either), for when school projects asked for family trees and family interviews, they were the ones I turned to.
My “half” Japanese ethnicity also exacerbated the growing distance from my heritage, something that I wasn’t particularly attuned to when I was younger. Being biracial and multicultural in America isn’t an alien concept, especially in the South Bay of California where I’m from. However, concerns about how “worthy” of a Japanese person I was crept into the back of my mind, especially as I explored my identity as a teen. Maybe I wasn’t “Japanese enough” to consider some of those holidays and cultural differences as my own. Maybe I wasn’t proficient enough in Japanese to call myself fluent. Maybe I wasn’t knowledgeable enough in traditional and pop culture to claim to be a part of the Japanese world. And now, I’ve lost my Japanese grandparents. Could connecting with them again have bridged the gap between my doubts and a sense of security in my cultural identity? I’m not sure.
After years of progressively neglecting my Japanese identity out of a combination of unworthiness, a lack of confidence, and a resignation on trying to fix those feelings, I found myself experiencing a revived desire to embrace my Japanese-ness—a ~renaissance~ if you will.
During the initial lockdown of the pandemic, I began intensely rewatching all of the Studio Ghibli movies I watched as a child (I’m a Kiki’s Delivery Service gal through and through), sometimes three times a week, and expanded to the ones I’d never seen before. I now proudly boast that I’ve seen every single Ghibli movie, most more than once.
I’ve been watching whatever I can find of Japanese dramas, children’s shows, and variety shows on YouTube and DailyMotion, particularly those of the iconic Japanese idol group Arashi (who are now on “hiatus,” which I’m plenty distraught over, but we don’t have to talk about that… yet). I spend any remaining time on YouTube vicariously living through vlogs and lifestyle videos of Japanese residents.
SIDENOTE: I want to make it clear that consuming Japanese pop culture is a very superficial way to associate with Japanese culture, which is much more rich and complicated. However, these forms of entertainment are nostalgic to me and my identity as a young Japanese girl, and re-incorporating them into my life has made me feel closer to Japan in some sense, while also giving me more opportunities to practice the language.
I decided to pursue a minor in Japanese Language and Literature at UC Irvine to further my language proficiency and educate myself on Japanese history, since the last time I actually studied Japanese was in third grade when I quit Japanese Saturday school. Looking back, I wish I had stuck it out, but nine-year-old me had had enough with kanji (the Chinese characters, one of the THREE—technically FOUR—writing systems that are used concurrently… written Japanese is EXTRA, folks). Learning new kanji and speaking in class has boosted my confidence immensely in my all-around Japanese proficiency, even though it has only been a quarter of lessons. I find myself chatting in Japanese at home with my mother more often, and I even switch in conversations with my Japanese-speaking friends at UC Irvine.
Now, I have my sights set on working in Japan after graduation, whether that be through teaching English there or by weaseling myself into the Japanese branch of a company. I have absolutely no idea of how long I intend to be there. It may only be one year, maybe I’ll find myself a permanent resident, or maybe this ideal future will never come to fruition—only time will tell.
This pandemic and the general complications of transitioning into adulthood has made any visits to Japan a no-go, but my determination to go back and soak in the culture has only deepened by the week, to which my private story viewers can assuredly attest to.
I realize that a large portion of what I am longing to “go back” to is the Japan of my childhood where the summers were carefree, I was naïve, and my grandparents were still around. I know that even if I’m lucky enough to see myself in Japan within the next year or two (crossing my fingers!), it won’t be the same and that I may find my inner-child disappointed and unsatisfied.
The romanticized, breezy version of Japan that I keep reminiscing on won’t exist for me to revisit anymore, and maybe it never did; that’s just the world of my memories. I may not have my grandparents to fault back on for an instantaneous or effortless connection, but I know that it’s in my power to create a new, real, intentional relationship with them and my heritage, far beyond the pop culture and cuisine. I remind myself, too, that I still have my mom, uncle, cousins, and my friends—an entire community of people I love who still tie me back to my Japanese roots. I know to cherish them and let them know that I do.
My recent inspiration has got me itching to experience Japan again, no matter what this new version—the Japan of my adulthood—will be. I have no doubt that it will claim another part of my heart, and I can’t wait to step into it.