Thoughts On Japan -- Tsunami Wreckage

Like a shadow on my heart, sadness for the victims of the tsunami in Japan stays with me. I worked on the following bit of writing in the writing workshop I took a couple of weeks ago:



Nearly a month has passed since the catastrophic tsunami swept over coastal Japan creating a churning stew of destroyed ships, wrecked homes, smashed cars and unfortunate victims, but I still can't seem to stay away from the news. It's like a drug you hate but can't stay away from, this need to know the latest developments. Haunted by the specter of those swept to sea, I sleep fitfully, tortured with nightmares of black water. My father was Japanese and I feel a visceral connection to the tragic events unfolding across the Pacific. I grew up in Boulder, Colorado at a time when it was still a ranch town populated with Caucasian faces. My sister and I were the only kids of color until we reached junior high. Then, scientists from Japan arrived to work at NCAR and the Bureau of Standards, bringing their wives and children that shared part of my heritage, but none who were mixed race like me. My father's Japanese features stood out, and to this day, when I see images of Japanese men above a certain age, I think of my dad.

Now, I see his likeness on YouTube every night, trying to make miso over a campfire or looking stoic in a fireman's uniform as he searches for survivors. I see him in the face of the man crying "I'm sorry" over and over because his mother is under the rubble and he could not save her, in the man who lost his wife, his son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren. A band of steel seizes me around the middle and squeezes hard bringing the dual pain of empathy for the country and the reminder of my father's passing. He was my Rock of Gibralter, his arms a safe haven from schoolyard taunts and snubs.

My father modeled the Japanese way: honesty above all, honor paramount, always be civil and never angry, never show your feelings. In the 86 years of his life, I don't think he ever started a sentence with "I feel...". I can’t recall one instance. I knew he loved me by the way he treated me: strict but loving, always ready to listen, to share a pot of green tea, never angry or dismissive. He never voluntarily expressed his love for me, not until three years of a brutal and excruciating battle against cancer left him plagued with continual pain and infernal itching of the skin. Broken down by the relentless progress of the disease, he would take my hand when I went to see him in the hospital and tell me he loved me. When I see the Japanese on TV crying, sobbing even, I know. The impenetrable social mask of the Japanese has been broken by feelings just too devastating to contain.

Several years ago, the only relative in Japan who spoke English passed away. When the tragedy hit, I wrote to my two cousins in Tokyo hoping that they could translate my offer of assistance. Today, one of the letters was returned undeliverable. I turn it over in my hands then look out at the steely blue Pacific. Outside is a postcard view of cerulean skies and glossy foliage bursting with blossoms. I have hot water and food; life is good. A month ago my counterpart might have been looking east. Now, while I enjoy this perfect environment, an ocean away she starts digging out from the mud, one shovelful at a time.