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The experiences of a father and son struggling to communicate without a shared tongue. |
| What is it, beyond language, that is tested in the open, strained, by the stresses, the pushes and pulls of love? |
| Yes, there is a mother. I will no say more about the mother. |
| We had our usual morning fight, even though we did manage to sneak some play time in and had a fairly good breakfast. But just before heading out the door for school, he wanted a snack. I told him one would be okay, but he insisted on two: his new candy and the old standby, kanyuu, which is basically like soft, sweet cough drop. Kanyuu is medicine, or so his mother and grandparents have convinced him. It's candy. I know it's candy. I've told him it's candy, but he doesn't believe me. I told him "only one," but he got angry, insisted that he needed both because he wanted candy and medicine. He launched into the complicated, speedy kid's Japanese, the grammar structures I can't follow, only words popping out at me like road signs at night, hinting at the convoluted yet beautiful landscape beyond the headlights. I could catch the word "medicine." He fired off a question at me. I assumed he just wanted the candy. I said, "No. You can't have two. Only one." He grew frustrated, screamed the question at me again. Is this the Asberger's? I wondered. I wanted so much to calm him, so I guessed an answer, but I had little clue as to what he was saying. He started crying, throwing things around the room. I did my best to calm him but, failing to understand his questions about "medicine," only succeeded in frustrating him, and me, further. My insides twisted in knots. I, who have spent so many years perfecting my English, a published writer and former university English teacher, one of the best ESL teachers in this region of Japan, can't handle to simplest communications with my son, who I love more than anyone else in my life, who, I fear, I am losing. Finally, I realized his question was not about the candy that he thinks is medicine but the medicine his sometimes takes for his allergies. "Where is my medicine?" he was asking. "You don't need that medicine today," I said, relieved to be getting somewhere. "Oh, really. So, you want me to die?" He is six, so he has yet to master the art of guilt-trips. We argued more. I gave up. He gave up. We stood tense, facing off against each other in the kitchen, finally apologizing. We left for school, but before we walked down the stairs, we sat down. "I love you, you know," I said in English. "I know," he said in Japanese. "But, papa, even Americans have to study Japanese in Japan." Anger rose in me as I heard this reprimand again. Two years ago, the company I worked for went bankrupt, the largest in Japanese history. Since then, I have struggled to bring in money by setting up my own school and working two other part-time jobs to make ends meet. I also write, hoping that someday I can make a living this way. Perhaps I don't study Japanese as much as I could, but I do study about three or four hours a week. I try. I have no friends, no family other than my wife and son, and I get to speak English, naturally, about twice a month. I know I should study more. I want to study more. I do not have the energy to study more. I am tired. I am very, very tired. I kissed him and sent him off to school. Tomorrow is Saturday. We will not have to fight like this again for two more days. What can I do to make the most of it? |
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