I was orphaned in my sixties.
When I wrote to my three younger siblings after our father’s death, observing that we are all orphans now, no one replied. To this day I am only in touch with my brother.
I do not seem to have the luxury of that place Robert Frost describes: ‘home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.’
Since my son Jude’s death, I do not even have children for whom I am able to create such a space.
Nevertheless, over the years, I have created my own home. And it is not a physical address.
Home is a turtle I found when I cleaned out Jude’s car—it is a tiny wooden green shape whose hard shell is reminiscent of Australian Aboriginal artwork. Its bobble head reminds me of a compass frantically trying to find true north.
Home is a photo of me as a two-year old brat somewhere outside my grandparents’ house in Kobe, decked out in full Japanese girl kimono, topped with a pink hair bow. I am bent at the waist yelling out ‘no!’ when my mother insisted I come in for a nap. For years I have carefully carried a worn picture snapped of that moment, one of its corners creased and bearing the markers of its age. My husband, bless his heart, had it restored, enlarged, and framed for me on a birthday, or an anniversary, or perhaps just an ordinary holiday.
Home is also the community I have created around me for the past 40 years.
My name is my home.
****
You see, where I come from, names are important. They are the most basic form of identity, of uniqueness, of self. Naming a newborn is an important act of love, of belonging, of ensuring that the child is welcomed as part of the family. Some names are passed on from generation to generation, some are made up, still others are given a new twist in spelling just to feel unique.
Shakespearean skepticism regardless, names have power. We carry them as talismans.
In the sixth book of my Walkerville Desires series, ‘Renaissance’, my main character has a Japanese American mother and an unnamed Caucasian father. She is named Topaz. This was her mother’s way of honoring the Relocation travesty of the World War II era – the Executive Order 9066 of March 29, 1942, that began the forced evacuation and detention of West Coast residents of Japanese-American ancestry.
Four of my protagonist’s ancestors were sent to the relocation camp at Topaz, Utah. Three years later, only two returned to Walkerville. My character is called Paz and eventually, she confronts her mother about this name that is both a mystery and a burden to her. As a young child she had two quests. One was her name’s origin, the other her father’s identity. Her search is many-layered, resulting in her leaving Walkerville for almost a decade, living her own life, making mistakes, making consequential decisions, and finally returning home with stronger resolve and an unquenched desire for answers.
It is essentially a search for identity that makes Topaz ultimately evolve her own.
In my family of origin, my father’s name was Yoshio, and my name is Yoshimi. My mother’s name was Shigeko and my brother’s Shigeru. I know my parents, or at least my mother put much thought into the names of her first two children.
My career Army father, with his ability to speak Japanese, was a translator in Kobe, Japan during the Occupation. It was there that he met my mother, born and bred in Kobe, who loved all things American. She had the gift of sewing and was an exceptional seamstress – it allowed her to see any dress or suit and make up her own pattern, so she was always turned out in up-to-date fashion.
My father grew up in Wahiawa, Oahu. He used to say that Scofield Barracks was spitting distance from his family farm. As the youngest in a family of four boys (with the oldest child being the only girl), my dad was pretty spoiled. He ran around cane and pineapple fields barefoot – he hated wearing shoes. One of my earliest memories is of Dad coming home from work, immediately taking off his work shoes and slipping into his zories.
This wild Hawaiian boy met the sophisticated Kobe girl and they married and raised a total of four children. Only my brother and I received Japanese names at birth. My sisters, born years later, were given Anglicized names; their Japanese names added later, as an afterthought.
When I was four years old, my mother, my brother and I were transferred to San Antonio, Texas. It was the early 50’s – the Korean War was coming to an end. My father never joined us in San Antonio – he was sent to Austria. So, it was three of us in San Antonio Texas; an environment of unrestrained hatred for anyone whose skin was yellow, with slanted eyes and thick straight black hair.
A few days after our arrival, we were greeted by a group of Army men and their Asian-born wives. The unofficial leader of this group was an older white woman. At this gathering, my mother was given the name Ziggy, I was to be called Jean and my younger brother, Kenny. It was explained to us that our given names were too hard to pronounce, that these names were easier to say and would help us fit in better.
I have to say though, – I never ever felt like a Jean. I always looked over my shoulder when someone called out that name.
Later, in my mid-20s, I found myself in a divorce court, where, in the course of proceedings, a judge asked me what I wanted. I asked for two things – the complete custody of my son and my name back. After a few minutes’ deliberation, he banged the gavel announcing, ‘Done!’
****
Fast forward several decades to the Fall of 2017.
I have been writing in some form or the other all my life, and in 2017, I had written my first women’s novel. I was exploring the vast and rather confusing world of self-publishing. And on this opportune day, I was introduced to a successful Romance Writer who had been self-publishing for almost a decade. I was honored that a real writer was willing to give us (my husband was my publishing factotum) an hour of her time.
My first intuitive impression of RW (I’m going to call her that henceforth, for obvious reasons) was that that she felt like a block of ice. I couldn’t feel any warmth from her and from the onset, it seemed to me that she didn’t really want to be doing this, that she had better things to do.
Now, it is my nature (indeed, perhaps it is not so unique to me but rather a common human folly) that when faced with this kind of offhanded impatience from someone whose opinion matters to me, I become more eager to please, almost fawning, in my manner. I acted more – more grateful, more excited, more respectful; even honored, that she could eke out this hour to recount her journey, her inspiration, and her advice about the self-publishing world as she saw it. Yes, she loved the attention; my husband asked questions and took notes while I watched her fluff and strut.
Then, with smug assurance, she declared I would have to create a nom de plume. “No one will want to read books from someone whose name is so un-American,” she confided.
I think another part of me died inside then. It was happening again – this country, that is my own, until it keeps telling me it isn’t, was showing me my place, again.
In that instant, I wanted to get away from all three people in that room, even though one of them was my husband, my biggest cheerleader, and the person I trusted the most. I wanted to disappear.
And so, the shame of being intrinsically inadequate burning inside me, I disappeared. I could not hear the rest of the discussion. I felt no excitement, joy, or curiosity. I made no eye contact with anyone in the room, although I felt my husband gently nudge me at some point.
Turns out my husband did catch that remark and, like me, decided he was going to move on; continue to get his questions answered. We could triage the situation later.
Which we did. Once the shock and the immediate shame that followed wore off, I took action. I wanted to know if the advice to change my name was accurate. I wondered if I truly even wanted to be a published author if that was the reality.
I wrote to a dozen writers, none of whom I had ever met, asking about adopting pennames to become a successful author. Two of them generously replied. The first person to respond identified herself as a ‘white woman with unusual first and last names’. Her surname is French thanks to her ancestors, and her first name is unusual thanks to a mother who loved the holidays. She replied that the thought never occurred to her to change her name. She was born with this name; this was who she is. End of.
My second response came from a writer who, unbeknownst to me when I sent out my queries, was an Asian American who had changed her name. She honestly did not know if she would have had the same success had she not done so.
I thought about the RW and her insistence that I change my name, her casual confidence about the average American reader’s rejection of it. I often wonder how she would have responded if I had been Black, Hispanic? I wonder also if she meant to be racist or if she was merely trying to be supportive of a fledging new writer, giving out tried-and-tested formulas for how the “market” worked?
To be honest, I did spend hours thinking of ‘acceptable’ nom de plumes. But in the end, I did not change my name. And four years later, with the seventh book of a 10-part series self-published, I am grateful I didn’t. I honor the name my mother gave me, and in that, I remain true to myself.
****
Since COVID-19 struck, the person who had occupied the White House before President Biden and Vice President Harris, has often referred to this pandemic as the ‘Chinese flu,’ ‘kung flu,’ and worse. He has drawn a target on us not just by the sound of our names but by the color of our skin.
For the past year, around our country, Asian American activists have been reporting on the escalating violence towards AAPI individuals, many of them seniors. Mainstream media did not pick up on these stories until the Atlanta, Georgia shootings on March 28, 2021, in which six of the eight victims were women of Asian descent.
NOW we were newsworthy.
As a young woman I have sometimes stayed home on December 7, Pearl Harbor Day. I understood the newsworthy importance of recounting the suffering and casualties perpetrated by the Japanese. However, because of the color of my skin and my name, I did not feel safe in public as a visibly Asian woman.
Many times, on that day I have even been threatened. Men, usually white men, would breathe down my neck on the bus, in a hallway, as I exited a building alone and tell me to go back to ‘my own country.’ ‘My own country’ that isn’t this one, apparently, – this country that has been my home since I knew one.
I feared for my safety, both emotionally and physically. I would call in sick, or not attend class. Just stay safe.
Now, years later, when the protocols of COVID-19 dictate that we isolate in our own place, I have willingly complied. Staying in to stay safe is an old habit. I used to find solace and exercise in my solo walks on local beaches. But now, since these attacks on elderly Asian Americans, the prospect of a solitary walk too, brings fear, not comfort.
As a Japanese American woman, I want to feel safe when I venture out of my home. I want to walk the beaches, the Fair Grounds, or the Ohlone Trail anytime I want.
We have made homes out of brick-and-mortar structures. Many of us have created homes of the heart, whatever that means to us. These places are our refuge.
But the homes we’ve created – whether physical houses or the people, places, mementos that live in our hearts; are no longer safe and welcoming. A home becomes a prison if one must live there in fear, instead of being able to venture out with openness and curiosity.
****
There is an endearing childhood memory that I find myself clinging to increasingly nowadays, while the world outside my doors grows ever uncertain.
It was this short exchange as I left for school – “Ittekimasu!” (I’m leaving!)
Smiling, my mother would reply, “Itterasshai!” (Take care!)
Wrap me in a warm hug.
Illustration : @THEFLIANG, and Remembrance by Bob Matsumoto