The Emperor and I
Pomp and planting trees at the Midori-no-hi ceremony
Not long after I graduated from college, I came to Japan to work as an assistant English teacher. I was assigned to a high school in Naruto, a city in Shikoku, southeast of Osaka, noted for its tasty seaweed and huge, natural whirlpools.
The principal of the high school was very friendly and often invited me to drink tea and chat with him, so I was none too surprised when he called me to his office one April afternoon. This, however, wouldn’t turn out to be a typical encounter.
The principal began to tell me about the annual Midori-no-hi (Green Day) ceremony. Each year, it’s held in a different prefecture, and that year it was Tokushima’s turn. The Emperor and Empress are always in attendance. Only a select group of people would be invited to attend the proceedings, the principal told me, and I had been chosen to participate.
How could I refuse? I imagined meeting the Emperor and Empress and telling them about my hometown in America. Maybe we’d sip green tea together from the locally-crafted pottery cups.
A full rehearsal was scheduled a couple of weeks in advance of the actual event. I boarded a bus at 5 a.m. along with a group of high school band members who would be performing during the ceremony.
As we approached the park settled in the mountains of Tokushima, I noticed that the formerly rough road had been paved. The roadside was lined with marigolds which had been freshly planted in anticipation of the imperial couple’s visit.
At the park, we all practiced our separate parts. Mine would be quite simple. Two other young women — a Brazilian of Japanese descent and an Australian who’d just arrived in the country — and I would be escorted to a spot in front of the Emperor and Empress. We would then bow, accept a sapling from the governor, and plant it in the ground with the help of boy scouts.
As the Emperor would be there and the entire ceremony would be broadcast on national television, everything had to be perfect. We practiced bowing many times with our backs straight and our hands primly layered.
Finally, Midori-no-hi arrived. The day was cloudy and occasional rain drops spotted my silk dress. Everyone hoped that the weather would not ruin the proceedings.
Marching bands, an orchestra, and a choir made up of students from various local high schools and colleges filled the morning with music. Instead of the sun, we had the bright brass of trombones, trumpets and cymbals.
Modern dancers in green leotards enacted the growth of trees. Later, expatriate children form Canada, France, Peru and other countries announced “I love green” in their native languages. This was followed by the release of hundreds of red, blue and yellow balloons into the gray sky. A hillside of aging local dignitaries were on hand to view the pageantry.
About mid-way through the ceremony, the Emperor and Empress arrived. They followed the red carpet laid out to the specially-constructed wooden dais, the Empress a few steps behind her husband as protocol demanded, to “Pomp and Circumstance.” The rustle of Japanese flags waved enthusiastically in the air threatened to drown out the orchestra.
After many solemn addresses and much bowing, the Emperor and Empress stepped down to “plant” trees. His Highness pushed some dirt around the base of a cedar sapling with a wooden hoe. His pink-suited consort did the same while balancing on high heels. The placement of the trees was only for show. Later, everything would be transplanted to a more suitable location.
At last, it was my turn. The other young women and I were led to the grass stage to the accompaniment of a harpist. I accepted my tree and buried its roots in the ground. The tree was a sudachi, which bears small green citrus fruit and is the official tree of Tokushima Prefecture.
The music and majesty of the occasion made me feel like I was doing something important on earth. I was adding to the verdure of the world, enabling Nature. I felt a sense of awe.
When all of us were finished planting, we bowed in unison to the Emperor and Empress, then filed off the field. Afterwards, there was a mass-gardening session as all of the attendants on the hillside began planting prepared saplings.
I didn’t get to meet the royal couple after all. Although they passed by within a few meters of where I was standing, there were no handshakes, no pleasantries, not even any eye contact.
What I did get was a big bag of souvenirs — a cap, a small wooden folding chair, commemorative stamps, a flag, sudachi juice, and a book of photos so that I could always remember that misty day, that baby tree.
Suzanne Kamata is an American writer living in Japan. Her most recent novel is The Baseball Widow, which is set in Tokushima.
