A Step Back...

Saturday, February 6, 2010

I’ve had too much nestle instant coffee. It’s so much better here than instant coffee in America, but in America we have the real thing. I think I prefer the trade off. Recently all I’m interested in are cheesy love stories. Even the worst chick flicks are appealing to me. I look at this picture of Tetsuya and me at Utsumi last summer. We took it ourselves, digitally, and sent it along with perhaps seventy other pictures to my mom upon request. She printed this specific one out. I was surprised when she sent it to me, framed in a dark wood with vines playing around the edges. It’s a fabulous shot. Tetsuya isn’t quite smiling, his mouth slightly open, face over my shoulder. He looks like he’s telling me something. And whatever it is he is saying it’s making me smile. My makeup is smeared and my hair is wet in my face. It’s a picture straight out of a magazine. It's an advertisement for biracial couples in the 80s or something. I find myself looking at it all of the time and I thought I was just a silly romantic for it, until Tetsuya told me last night that he, too, finds himself gazing at it when I’m not home. We are so in love. I guess that’s why I watch these stupid movies all of the time these days. My life has become just like them.

Our world isn’t a perfect one, but it is beautiful. Tetsuya and I have built our love around these uncomfortable situations, living in tiny, dark apartments, trying to make the best of it. I feel like we’re constantly trying to make the best of everything. We’re pros at it, now. I love him for it. I love him for teaching me patience and for being patient and for loving me. He isn’t perfect, neither am I. But I think we’re perfect for each other. We’ll make it.

Tonight we’ll be perfect. Michael is having a dinner party at his place. I went to the local florist down the street to buy flowers for the occasion. The florist was a middle-aged man with absolutely filthy fingers. The dirt looked permanent under his nails. He saw my face and spoke to me slowly, looking relieved when I replied smoothly, if only with a bit of an accent. He sold me two small bouquets, (bouquets in Japan, single stems to an American), and added a single rose. “Extra,” he said.

My life hasn’t been much by way of excitement. I’ve lived a very normal, Midwestern lifestyle for a long time, but now it’s become more than that. Tetsuya has brought something new and exciting for me. He’s made my efforts worthwhile. I think my life started when I met him. Of course the life from before that is crucial to the life I live now, and I will never forget the fond memories of my childhood in Iowa, but I can’t belong there anymore. I’m bigger than that, now. Just like Tetsuya escaped his little town life, I’m doing something more. We’re doing something more.

I can’t wait to see what comes next in our cheesy love story.

Another cup of instant coffee, anyone?

How We Met

Applying for Greencard is like gathering up all of the pieces of your life and sticking them in an envelope. One of these required pieces to be photocopied and stuffed is a detailed story of the way in which you and your spouse met and how the relationship developed. This is ours:

February 11, 2010

How We Met

In late September, 2007, Tetsuya was working towards finishing his bachelor’s in Business/Finance at the University of Iowa and I was a sophomore, double majoring in Japanese and International Studies. At the time, I was attending third year level Japanese language courses with a particularly lazy teacher who preferred doling out work to resident Japanese students, or likewise, inviting them to come be interviewed during class time. A classmate of mine happened to be rooming with Tetsuya during that semester and thus invited him to become a “guest speaker” for our class. As students, we were to be prepared to interview each Japanese guest with various questions pulled from the unit’s key vocabulary list.

Albeit I’ll admit I was not looking for love at that particular moment, I couldn’t help but notice Tetsuya the second he entered the class. I could only hope to have the chance to chat with him during the interviews. As we were paired in groups of two to three, the guests duly circled from one set of students to the next. I never did get that chance to talk to him, because the teacher only called two rotations. As class ended, I frantically packed away my supplies, knowing that I might not get a second chance to chat with Tetsuya. I exploded out of the door after him and invited him to come and see me at the local pizza place, “Pizza on Dubuque,” where I was working. He didn’t seem too excited but managed to suggest politely that he’d do his best to show up.

I did see him that night.

Tetsuya later relayed to me that he had been drinking with some friends across the street from Pizza on Dubuque at a bar called “Deadwood.” It was a popular hangout for guys needing a cheap drink. The pizza place I had been tending, on the other hand, was slightly on the expensive side. But, it was, and still is today, a tasty pick for the hungry drinker at the ‘Wood, since they never do mind a plate of outside food so long as it comes from the P.O.D.
Tetsuya came to visit me, and although I was busy, I managed to stutter some of my atrocious Japanese at him, which apparently didn’t amaze, but did humor him quite well. He assured me we’d meet again.

We met in subsequent times, starring together in a low, low budget film done by our friend and then attending a Halloween party together where we shared our first kiss. We continued dating from there. It was November, 2007. I invited him to my mother’s house for Christmas where he got a good taste of real Iowan holiday cheer and the next year he basically moved into my apartment.

The next summer, 2008, we spent on the road together making pizza for Pizza on Dubuque’s mobile pizza gig known notoriously as “Pizza on Wheels.” We traveled the Midwest attending music festivals, camping in a tiny one-person tent together, caked with flour, tomato sauce and pepperonis. It was hectic, tiring and I think we’ll both agree, one of the best times we ever had.

We moved in together the next school year in an efficiency apartment, (only slightly bigger than the tent we were accustomed to), and Tetsuya began working towards graduation as I began preparing for study abroad at Chukyo University, Nagoya, Japan. I would begin school at Chukyo in April, 2009, but we would be separated much sooner. Tetsuya had found an internship at Konami in Los Angeles. He left January 3rd, 2009. I had spring semester off, where I worked and prepared for the big move to Japan.

Before I left for Nagoya, I took a ten-day break in Los Angeles to visit Tetsuya. He was renting a room in a suburban house in Redondo Beach. I had actually found the place for him on Craig’s List in December. Four miles from Konami, it was safe and ideal, although it was painted the most horrid shade of mustard yellow. During that period, we did everything we could to maximize our limited time together and Tetsuya promised me that he would see me in Japan in only some months. 10 days later, I left L.A. for Japan at the end of March.

Having been apart, first during the time Tetsuya was in L.A., then when I was alone in Nagoya, I was thrilled when Tetsuya came back to Japan and drove all the way from his hometown in Kumamoto to my very street in Shiogamaguchi, (over a twelve hour drive he managed non-stop). We went to bars, karaoke, love hotels, Utsumi beach and everything in-between. Then we took the long trek back to Kumamoto to meet his family. Every day we went fishing, came home and ate the fish we had caught mere minutes ago with Japanese shochu and beer. There, we got married, promising each other never to be separated again.

Now we live together once more, in a tiny Japanese-style efficiency apartment in Moto-yagoto. He works every day at a hotel restaurant and I work part-time as an English teacher at a pre-school in Gokiso. Our relationship has been full of ups and downs, but it has always withstood the tests we lay before it. I am confident that Tetsuya and I are capable of anything, so long as we do it together. Now our goal is to return once more to the United States where everything started. From there, it will all begin.

A New Beginning...

Originally this blog was created for a Japanese class assignment, which duly explains the mumbo jumbo in previous posts. I thought about deleting them. I didn't. Feel free to peruse, attempt to decipher or copy/paste into google translator. Though, there's not much of substance there.

I'd rather leave the past where it sits and move on. I actually began writing a personal journal starting in January. I'll start from there and post until I've hit the present. Is that considered cheating? Am I blog cheater? A wannabe informal columnist forsaking the title that is, "Blogger?" So be it.

I really believe this story is worth telling, otherwise I wouldn't bother with it at all. It's the story of a young love, but mostly its a story of international relations and culture brought into bed. You think when you snuggle into your stolen futon with your husband that it's just you and him... but actually, U.S. Immigration is spooning you both, snoring loudly. This is our challenge. I hope you find it as hilarious as I do.

January 20th, 2010 Wednesday

I feel like I swam out too far in a lake, not noticing until just now. As I look back I realize how far I’ve come, but look ahead and the next shore is still a long ways out. For a minute I can’t decide whether to swim back or continue to the other side. And I’m a terrible swimmer.

Since I came to Japan I’ve been suspended in this limbo between shores. Shores separated by language, culture, childhood and adulthood… is it time to grow up already? They asked me at the ward office if I’d like to use “Hayashi” while I’m in Japan. That would certainly complete the façade. I’ve managed to hide myself in this country almost entirely.

Except from Tetsuya. I can’t ever hide from him. He knows me too well. Living in tiny, one room studio apartments both in the U.S. and Japan has well seasoned us to each other. He grounds me. He keeps me sane in this fantasy world.

In Japan I’m a celebrity. I’m a star. I’m stared at wherever I go and at times randomly photographed on the subway or at the bar. People want to talk to me, ask me where I’m from. “Japan,” I say, straight-faced. Japanese people are unbelievably gullible. They take everything at face value. This also means that they believe every stereotype they’ve ever heard, no matter how ridiculous.

“America is so dangerous! How many guns does your family own?”

“But I thought Americans ate McDonald’s at least three times a week! How can you not like it?”

“Sure I know where Iowa is!” he waves his hand broadly from left to right, “It’s in there somewhere.”

“You’re from America? Do you know John?”

There are so many good ones, (so-to-speak). Unfortunately the “best” ones were likely said at a party and forgotten, tossed away with the empty cans and bottles.

Drinking is religion here. There are manners, if only a few, and immense pressure for everyone to lift their glass full of frosty nama chu beer for the kampai! Of course, I have no qualms with this sect and consider myself devout. Even now I sip my cheap red wine, a nice change of pace from the atsukan Tetsuya retrieved from the restaurant and that I’ve been savoring for the past couple of weeks.

Eight o’clock looms over my head. Tomorrow I have my third day of work at the western-style bar and grill up the Tsurumai line. “Shooters,” as it’s called, boasts an entirely American menu, written exclusively in English and provides comfort for those of us stranded on this island of ramen noodle shops and CoCo Curry Houses.

You’ll honestly walk into a Curry House and decide what you’ll have on the menu based on what item you prefer fried and slathered with the same mild brown sauce over rice. There is no other sauce. Just three or four pages of Japanese brown curry dishes with assorted meats or vegetables. Though, in all fairness to the Japanese, the restaurant never seems too busy.

Ramen, on the other hand, is a godly creation here. Entire television shows devote themselves to sending little-known celebrities to various noodle shops around the country to sample the local flavor. The essential shot includes the celebrity, gearing up for the taste, preparing the audience. “Okay, here we go!” The camera zooms in. He slurps up a mouthful of noodles. American mothers would squirm at the sound. With his cheeks aptly full, he turns to the camera and squelches out a sound, “umai~!!”

But I’m detouring here. I was talking about a lake. That’s right. A lake. I’m treading water in this immense lake. At this point I’m not entirely sure how I got here. It started somewhere when I decided to study abroad at Chukyo University. Does that mean it started in America? Maybe it started when I met Tetsuya. Or maybe when I started learning Japanese in high school. In any case, I’m here and I’m trying to figure out where I’m going, what it means and how it will all come together in the end.

I hope it does, anyway.