Moving to America for good

Although we had only been back in Japan for one year, my brother had stayed back in America to continue his education, but things were not going well. Things were also becoming difficult for my mother in Japan. My father had been more successful than anyone had imagined in reaching Japanese young people. They came in droves and slept wherever we could find space. The house was always abuzz with Japanese chatter, mouth-covered laughter, and the strumming of a guitar. That year, I rarely used my own legs as a mode of transportation as someone was always hugging me or sitting me on their shoulders. It was heaven for a toe-head girl but became unnerving for an introverted, shy mother.

That year, I had unprecidented freedom to roam the machi streets or explore the mossy mountain forests at will. The summer was particularly adventurous as the other MKs from around the country gravitated to their cabins Karuizawa for summer vacation. We played endless games of kick the can and ghost in the graveyard together. In the fall, I rode my bike to the one-room school house where I was the only student in 2nd grade. My best friend was Ann Gay. She was in the 5th grade. To this day, i have every bike trail, rock, tree route and shortcut around TEAM Center memorized. When I close my eyes, I can smell the Tamarack trees. This was home.

In 1982, we moved back to America for good. Again, my father took us the long-route. We flew to Amsterdam, where my mother lost her purse at the zoo. For $2000 dollars, we bought a blue van and some camping equipment. That summer, we drove to Germany where we visited friends at Black Forest Academy and then on to Auschwitz. I recall the gravel road and fence surround the concentration camp. The ovens made a great impression on me as I learned about the horrors that had happened during the war. Although I was only nine, it made a lasting impact on my view of war and history.

I recall climbing the narrow staircase of the tower of Pisa in Italy and frightfully peering out a window near the top. I recall the beautiful gardens of Toulouse, France and being pulled over for speeding in Andorra. Spain and Portugal were particularly hot during our visit and I remember blowing up a yellow and blue inflatable raft which we used in a stream near one of our campsites. One campsite even had a pool. I also recall with a mix of delight and disgust a can of pig feet that my parents served us during one meal. We children were convinced that we found a piece of pig hoof-nail.

In Portugal, my father had some trouble selling the van but eventually we boarded a flight and returned to America. Tim and I were enrolled at Living Word Academy, a private charismatic school that I had been taught to believe was a cult. I quickly relearned the ways of a chameleon and tried my best to fit in. That first year, I recall several fights with some boys in my class which evolved into an on-going series of boys against the girls games at recess and physical challenges of strength and speed in PE class. I still brought seaweed as my lunch time snack. In the 10th grade, I enrolled in the public school and endeavored to expand my knowledge of America beyond the conservative Christian circle that had enveloped my life. Since, then the expansion has only continued.

written by

Sparkplug on February 23, 2007 from Nagano, Japan

from the travel blog: Nomadic Pushpins

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