I wrote this post last week, but was this close to deleting it instead of publishing. My thoughts happen in images that have to be translated into words. In this instance, they’re on this nonstop circular loop, so I don’t know where to jump in. There’s no real beginning or end to the reel. Just a million little clips that are synchronously independent and interdependent.
Like trying to cut a running fan belt with a pair of scissors.
So here's my 20th rewrite. It starts somewhere mid-loop. Take it or leave it.
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I woke up with a start this morning. I swear I heard my father close to my ear saying “do-itta" in his usual stern tone. Have you ever imagined that someone who’s no longer with you is whispering in your ear? It made my ears ring, and his voice echoed in my head for the rest of the morning.
I hated school when we first moved here. I pretended to be sick every morning for the first two months. My father finally got sick of it and would lean in close and say really simply, "Do itta." (Japanese for "get up") and drag me onto the floor by my hair. The loss of my warm comforter would jolt me awake, because we kept our heat very low to cut costs.
We were teased ruthlessly. And walking home from school in Detroit was a true test of humility. I was okay with snowballs to the head, the mocking about our used clothes and the standard push-to-the-grounds. It was the promise that I'd never fit in that stung.
It's interesting that we (my brother, sister and I) clung to the parent we most favored physically, and we began to mimic their respective dispositions. I don’t think it was on purpose, just ironic. My brother and mother both have fair skin and classic Japanese features. And he clung to her ridiculously. And adopted very traditional Japanese mannerisms.
I inherited my father’s dark skin and monolids. And I stuck to my father like glue from the moment he walked in. I helped him change spark plugs, and practiced putting worms on hooks. After dinner, I'd try to put barrettes in his hair. Or bobby pins. Or bows. It didn't matter. His hair was so heavy and silky that whatever I would clip to his hair would immediately slide out and fall to the floor. He never complained. He would just sit there watching the game silently. He tolerated my ridiculousness.
So when faced with the school bullies, my brother did what my mother would do. He soaked in the insults and decided to silently hate the world. I did what my father would do: I faked the local accent (urban with a southern twang) and laughed at all the jokes about my broken English until they forgot I was different.
So, our parents both worked two jobs to put me through private schools. My brother and sister went to public schools. I don't know why it was me and not them.
I once hid in the closet and watched my father whip my brother for something he'd done wrong. I can't remember what. But it was a really hard beating that left red criss cross welts on my brother's rear end. When my father left, I snuck the lavender oil from my mother’s drawer and tried to cover the welts while my brother said mean things to me between the sobs.
The last thing he said that night stayed with me until now. He said something like, "I can't wait until I'm Head of Household. Then you'll finally know how not special you really are."
“Head of Household” is the oldest adult male in my family. Since my father is no longer with us, and I am unmarried, my brother is my Head of Household. And my mother’s. He has absolute influence and decides what’s best for the family as a unit. If I marry, my husband will replace my brother as my HOH. What he says goes. If I don’t want children and he does, we’ll have children. If I want to work and he disagrees, I won’t work.
That night, I stood on the couch behind my father in his favorite chair and tried yet again to fasten barrettes on his hair. I think he’d heard my brother’s threat, because he sat silently with the TV off. The only noise was the clink of the lock on the plastic barrette fastening to his hair, and a light thud when it slid out of his hair and onto our hardwood floor.
And here we are, two decades later. My brother has his own family. My life is in America but my loyalty is to a teeny, boring prefecture in Japan. My happiness is secondary to humility and kenjouu, and doing what a respectful daughter is supposed to do.
And as I move closer to the moment I give up my existence as an independent liberal gangsta American trekkie, I realize that my brother is finally exacting his revenge.
