Unfortunately I was disappointed in this book; I had expected more insight into the Japanese-American experience. I first registered this book onon BookCrossing ten years ago and kept it so long because I’m interested in the immigrant and expat experience. This book failed to deliver on its promise, partly because Kadohata was protected from the reality of ‘otherness’ by her stepfather, the almost always cheerful Charlie-O, who had enough money to buy into half of a garage business in Arkansas. This lent a stability to Kadohata’s childhood that many other Japanese immigrants did not have, working as itinerant farmhands or food processors.
When translating her grandmother’s diaries, she comments on being bilingual, an experience many expats and immigrants share.
“I liked the two languages, Japanese and English, how each contained thoughts you couldn’t express exactly in the other. For instance, because you didn’t use spaces between words in the same way in English and Japanese, certain phrases - such as “pure white” or “eight slender objects” or “how many people “ - seemed to me like only one word in Japanese. Seeming to use only one word changed slightly the meaning of what I was saying. It made me think about what exactly was pure white and not merely white.” (p.110)
It was quite amazing how the Japanese community managed to stay in touch over long distance and time, traveling frequently to visit each other, but there is no Japanese flavour to this story. Apart from the rice triangles Kadohata prepared as one of her chores, placing one on her grandmother’s shrine in their house. I did enjoy the all-too-brief description of the house:
“Intricate lace curtains hung in all the windows, but none of the curtains matched, and baskets, statuettes and pottery sat in every corner. Nothing matched, yet it all matched.” (p.83)
Later on, she describes the feeling she had had as a young child travelling across country with the family in their car. Moving into her first flat, “I liked where I lived. It gave me that old feeling of being displaced and safe at the same time, like when I used to play in the small woods back of my house at night. I could close my eyes and from any point at the edge find my way to a certain tree in the center.” (p.155)
Another unforgettable influence in the book is the grouchy grandmother, Obāsan, who makes the children’s lives a misery. The child Kadohata feels responsible for her death because she didn’t tell her mother that her grandmother needed help. Quite a terrible secret to have.
The problem with this book is that it is not much more than isolated stories, many of them not particularly interesting because they could simply be describing any childhood with a certain background. And that background is not particularly immigrant or Japanese.