I got used to feeling weird a long time ago. As a gaijin living in Japan, I’ll never truly fit in, and that’s okay. No matter how long I may live there or how well I may speak the language or understand the culture, I will never blend in with the crowd. Little kids will still point and stare, even though on bad days I feel like telling them that I’ve lived in Japan a lot longer than they have.
In the U.S., I do blend in. I look like everyone else, though admittedly a good bit frumpier. But I sometimes feel pretty foreign, even here in my “home” country.
My girls and I traveled for a little over 30 hours to get to Nashville and the comfort of my oldest daughter Katie’s apartment. The farther we got away from Japan this time, the safer we felt. The Narita airport was still showing signs of slight damage from the earthquake with some ceiling panels missing and some areas roped off because the panels above looked a little iffy. On the 12 hour flight to Washington DC, there was quite a bit of turbulence, which, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have phased any of us. It reminded us just a bit too much of recent tremors, though, and we all held hands through most of it. I noticed other passengers doing the same. Caroline was still feeling earthquakes in the DC airport. But she hasn’t felt any since we arrived in Nashville.
The farther we got away from Japan this time, the weirder I felt. There has been some serious bonding going on in Tokyo over the past 12 days. In a land where chit-chat is NOT encouraged, it has become easy to have conversations with strangers. Instead of hiding their feelings, people are talking about them. Tears are flowing openly at church. Prayer times are intimate and powerful. I’m missing that already.
On our international flight, we were surrounded by U.S. military wives and children who were evacuating Japan. They had obviously done some bonding too and were talking about how happy they were to be getting out. Most of them have lived there for a short time and their connection to the country is limited. “Happy” isn’t really the way I would describe the feeling I was experiencing. Yes, I was relieved on behalf of my kids, but “heartbroken” may have been the emotion I would’ve circled on that little feelings chart that counselors use.
Now that we’re in Nashville where life is completely normal, the girls are doing great. Katie is distracting them with chick flicks, nail polish parties, Lucky Charms, and Mountain Dew. It’s just what they need.
But me? I’m spending my time trying to catch the Japanese news broadcasts on the internet to learn what is happening at the Fukushima Nuclear Power Plant. I’m following the Japan Meteorological Agency website to know how many aftershocks they've had in Tohoku and Tokyo (50 in the last 24 hours). I’m praying for my husband and the others who are working 12 hour days to coordinate volunteer teams in the relief effort. I’m communicating with people at CRASH to see if the relief trucks are getting to the people. I’m grieving to hear that rescuers are no longer able to show bodies to families for identification, and thousands will never have closure for their loved ones.
As Japanese-American children’s author Allen Say wrote “No sooner am I in one country than I am homesick for the other.”
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