I came across something today that I wrote in December of 1990 while I was still working.  Margaret and I had a house guest, a young Japanese boy who was spending a month at our school.  Tetsumasa was thrilled to be in America.  He was bright, and he wanted to know everything about being American.  I had met his parents in Tokyo, and their son was obviously their joy.They asked if it might be possible for him to come to spend a few weeks in our school.  I wrote in my journal about them, and I’ll print that verse here on the blog one day.

Tetsumasa Imai

“Come here.” he said as softly as he could make his voice actually work,

motioning and bowing slightly at the same time from the doorway of my study,

having forgotten that a simple please is all he needs to add when asking for a favor,

but he knows that there is something not quite right about his plea for help

so he keeps saying as I follow him, “Excuse me, excuse me, I don’t know how to say.”

The Japanese are a wonderfully curious breed among the people of the world.

An adversary would be a fool not to see the latent energy and power

surrounding like an aura the young man who smiles and nods and looks.

Tetsumasa Imai struggles with my language and he wrestles with his feelings

as he makes himself keep his shoes on his feet when he enters the house

and forces himself to stifle the impulse to bow as he passes me in the hallway.

He says, “I don’t like Japanese people. I prefer American people… and English.”

What he means, I think, is that he believes all Americans think of themselves as preferable,

and he wants to compliment and please me by saying he prefers mine to his own culture.

I don’t believe him, but I know he would not understand my rejection of his idea

if I tried to explain that it isn’t necessary for him to say he doesn’t like the Japanese

just to make the point that he is pleased to be with me and speak my language.

Sunday, December 30, 1990