A Letter to My Japanese Host Mother
Dear Okaasan お母さん,
When I met you, I was a lanky twenty-year-old, unsure of the world outside of New York, unsure of the life I wanted. As I waited at the unfamiliar school in that unfamiliar country, I pulled down the sleeves of my jacket to hide the bruises left behind by a man who didn’t want me to leave.
When you saw me, your black eyes looked into my green ones, and at once I knew you could see right through me. This was a girl in need of guidance. A job that wasn’t yours to tackle. But you took me in your arms anyway and pulled me close. For the next seven months, this is where you kept me.
When you drove me to your home in Kyoto, I marveled at the view of the bubbled pine trees and clean sidewalks. Women in Kimono walked upon wooden sandals up and down the mountainous terrain. You rolled down the window and introduced me to a friend of yours. She shuffled to my window and gently cupped my chin in her small hands. In careful English she pronounced: Pretty, pretty!
As we continued to drive down a winding country road, you pointed out your neighbors and their children. And once we finally arrived home, I was amazed by the beauty of it all. You took me in, gave me a room complete with tatami mats and a warm kotatsu table, and told me I was home.
