From a Town on the Hudson (7 page)

LIVING ABROAD with a family, generally speaking, is a wonderful experience. In the beginning, however, there are many problems to be overcome to fit into the new environment. One of them is the language problem.

In April 1985, our family started a new life in Fort Lee, New Jersey, and our two sons were faced with this problem at their schools. In Fort Lee there were many foreign children whose fathers had transferred to companies in the New York metropolitan area. The language problem seemed to be serious for many of them.

"When can I go to the bathroom? When can I get a drink of water? How can I say it in English? What are my American classmates talking about now? Why are they laughing? What do the letters mean on the blackboard?" For the new pupils who transferred from abroad, to be in a place where an unknown language was spoken seemed to be much harder than expected. They sat at their desks for six hours a day whether they liked it or not. Not all of them were from Japan. However, due to Japans expanding overseas business, many of them were Japanese children. In the 1985-86 school year when my sons transferred to the public schools, Fort Lee had 407 Japanese pupils out a total enrollment of 2,476 students from kindergarten to twelfth grade.
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Some of them were newcomers.

It was easy to imagine that most American homeroom teachers might have had mixed feelings toward the many pupils who weren't able to respond to the teachers' questions immediately. Our younger son's class usually had four Japanese children in a class of twenty every year. In Japan, however, few foreign families had lived outside of Tokyo before our family left there in 1985. If Japan's public schools had as many foreign pupils as the American schools did, it would throw the Japanese homeroom teachers into a flurry. So far as I saw in the American schools our sons went to, however, no teacher showed any sign of confusion, no classmate looked at the foreign children with curious eyes, and no school staff members discriminated against the shy children. I came to understand that this was because of the Fort Lee Board of Education's practical overall program for welcoming children from other countries. The E.S.L. class and the bilingual class were provided to help students fit into the American schools by teaching them English step by step. Until our sons passed the classes, the teachers eased their difficulties and always seemed to make an effort to fill the cultural gap between the United States and other countries. As a foreign mother, I couldn't thank them enough for their thoughtfulness.

Until the language problem of the foreign children could be solved, many of their families must have struggled. I, too, was always anxious about our two sons and the stress they felt in their schools, so from the bottom of my heart I hoped and waited for the day they would be able to understand English. I am not a Christian, but what came readily to my mind then was a phrase from the Bible, "In the beginning was the Word."
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For our family, The Day came first to our younger son, a fourth-grader then. One evening after he had spent a year and a half in School #3, he was hanging around me in the kitchen and suddenly loudly said, "I wondered why I was feeling happy all day today and I realized the reason now. Mother, I could understand everything that was said in English at school!" A few months later, our older son, a high school student then, said coolly, "It took a long time." Then they were finished with the E.S.L. and bilingual classes and could join the regular curriculum.

Since our sons had become familiar with English, they began to relax. In their schools they sometimes helped newcomers from Japan as they had been helped in the beginning. They also invited American friends to our home. They enjoyed summer camps and acquired the habit of listening to American music. Our older son started to watch MTV before supper and bought records by Bon Jovi and Don Johnson. Our younger son enjoyed attending his classmates many birthday parties which were held at their homes, a roller-skating rink, or movie theaters. He also had great fun having water-fights with his classmates. Both sons once attended the opening ceremony for Fort Lee's Constitution Park wearing the same "Just Say NO"
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-shirt as all the other schoolchildren.

Around the time when our family had spent four years in the United States, I noticed that our sons came to insist on their own opinions. To express themselves, they used gestures that American boys used, as well. In 1989, the fifth summer of our sojourn in Fort Lee, our younger son, who was enjoying summer camp, said, "Mother, if our family stays in the United States forever, it will be all right with me." They seemed to have forgotten that they had struggled with English in the beginning.

In 1990, when we returned home to Japan, I saw the Stars and Stripes on the wall over the desk of our older son who had gotten back home a year earlier. I was keenly aware that our sons had been a part of American society and learned more than the English language in the United States.

Our family resumed our lives in Japan after five years and four months of American life. I think of the phrase from the Bible, "In the beginning was the Word" again. Our younger son now is faced with a new problem: the Japanese language.

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From a table of "Japanese/Korean Enrollment, Five-Year Comparison." Fort Lee School District, Fort Lee, New Jersey, 1990.

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John 1:1.

"CAN I work at the doll-making class? That's out of the question. I have neither a license nor teaching experience. I haven't driven my car along Route 4 yet. I'm not good at speaking and understanding English, as you well know." That was my immediate response when my friend Kimiko asked me if I would like to teach the doll-making class organized by the Senior Services Center at the Town House near Route 4 in Teaneck, New Jersey. Every Wednesday morning, from 10:15 to 12:00, a doll-making class for senior citizens was held there, and a few Japanese women volunteered to teach the class. Kimiko was a volunteer instructor and needed help because one instructor had quit. My head filled with negative ideas. However, Kimiko's smile and encouragement brought me there on Wednesday, October 7,1987, to observe the class. It was just eight minutes from my house. The Town House was a brick building located on the corner of Forest Avenue and Tea-neck Road, next to a school.

Certainly, I wanted to become familiar with as many Americans as possible while I lived in the United States. However, I had never imagined that I would spend time with old ladies, of all people. Old women in general looked rather gloomy and were full of complaints about their surroundings. When I entered the classroom, however, I realized I had been wrong. It was still ten minutes before 10 o'clock, but six ladies were already working on their dolls and chatting happily. Though you couldn't say they were young, they looked much more pleasant, charming, and relaxed than I had expected. They seemed to be sociable and independent. I sensed affection in their expressions when they welcomed me. Another instructor, Eriko, was already at work. Since Kimiko and Eriko were taking college courses on Wednesday afternoon, they had to leave the class a little early. I watched how Eriko and Kimiko were instructing the ladies and wondered whether I could do it or not. I helped the instructors with small jobs. I heard from Kimiko that Eriko had been volunteering at the doll-making class for over two years, and Kimiko had joined her last spring. The class seemed to depend on Eri-ko and love Kimiko. Referring to their dolls, they asked, "Eriko, could you put hair on my daughter's head?" or "Kimiko, would you cut the fabric for a new doll body?" The instructors also explained how to stitch the pieces of the fabric together. They looked busy. As I was admiring the skill of the two instructors, Eriko approached me holding a piece of bias tape, a tiny collar, and a bodice of the small dress for some lady's doll, and whispered, but in Japanese so as not to be heard by the class, "Mrs. Koyano, I am confused about how I should put this collar on this dress." This unexpected request for help pleased me. I showed her how to put the collar and the bias tape on the bodice. Eriko whispered, "Thank you. Although I'm sometimes unsure of myself, I love this class. I'm happy I have the time to volunteer." Later, I wondered if Eriko had been discreetly trying to help me relax, because up to that time she was doing everything very well. Then Eriko left to go to her college classes. About thirty minutes later, around 11:00, Kimiko also had classes to attend, so I left with her. Even though I wasn't responsible for them yet, I felt a little sorry for the ladies because they had to continue for one more hour without an instructor.

I spent the rest of the day thinking about the class. The atmosphere of the class was comfortable, and both Eriko and Kimiko were kind. I liked sewing. In my childhood, I remembered, I used to make many dresses for my dolls while sitting next to my mother, who had been very good at sewing. Two and a half years had already passed since our family moved to the United States. I had been busy helping our sons adjust to school life and they had come to understand much more English than I had. My husband seemed to be confident about his assignment in New York, as well. I should try something new, I thought. Now might be the time for me to start enjoying my American life. I may not be an instructor like Kimiko and Eriko, but at least I'll be able to be a good helper. Even though I cant speak English well, I'll be able to make myself understood to the ladies using gestures. Since I've been driving for two years, I'll be able to drive along Route 4, too. I'll call Kimiko tomorrow morning. I had made up my mind.

SOON AFTER I started volunteering at the senior citizens' center in October 1987, a feeble-looking old woman, who seemed to be in her early nineties, was brought to the class by Camille, the director of the center. The woman, whose name was Mrs. Duncan, wouldn't speak to anyone in the class and didn't seem to be interested in making dolls. Camille must have been at a loss about what to do with her.

On the first day, she just sat in class and remained withdrawn. During her second class, a woman named Florence invited her to sit next to her and asked me to cut a doll pattern for the silent member. When I cut the fabric for her, she took it but didn't say anything. Florence looked at me as if to apologize for her. Mrs. Duncan looked a bit fragile, and I was afraid she couldn't hold a needle with her thin fingers. But she started stitching as if the needle awakened her. Her hands trembled and her arms moved slowly like a machine that needed oiling, but she gave me the impression that she had sewn many dresses in the prime of her life. I felt sorry to have chosen such a simple pattern for that lady. I sat beside her and sometimes talked to her about the stitching. She didn't respond at all. Eriko and Kimiko were busy helping other ladies. Florence sometimes talked to her in a warm, friendly way, but I was not yet used to communicating with withdrawn, elderly ladies like her.

I pinned; she stitched. We kept silent in the room that was filled with cheerful conversations. Mrs. Duncan concentrated on sewing as if she were eagerly talking to the red-colored clothes about her long life. The needle might have been her only friend who could convey her thoughts faithfully. It wasn't just her; the rest of the class was also quiet while they stitched. I remembered my family in Japan: my grandmother, who had died long ago, my mother, and my mother-in-law all used to sew silently, thinking about something. The long, thin piece of polished steel, in a sense, absorbed their thoughts through their finger-tips. Gradually, however, I thought that I would try to reach out to Mrs. Duncan even if she wouldn't react to me.

I put the pins closer together, giving her fewer stitches to finish with her slow hands. She looked a bit dubious at first but finished stitching earlier than before and waited for me to come back from helping the other women. She also began to look at me frequently though she didn't smile back. I enjoyed imagining what she was thinking of me. Although there wasn't any conversation between us for a few weeks, we looked at each other, touched fingers, and seemed to trust each other. Sometime before Thanksgiv-ing Day, the stitching was almost finished. When I said to her, "We can do the stuffing next week, can't we?" unexpectedly she relaxed the expression on her face at last and said, "Thank you." It was weak but was the very voice I had been waiting for. Moreover, she smiled stiffly. She may have put forth her greatest effort in doing so. Her real voice and the sweet expression on her face were more than I deserved. I was at a loss for a reply and only held her cold hands in mine. For the first time she left the materials for the stuffed doll in my charge. This modest reciprocal flow of feeling between us helped me settle down to my volunteer job as a doll-making teacher.

Mrs. Duncan never came back. In the summer of 1990, when I quit the class to leave the United States, I saw that the needle with red-colored thread which she had stuck in the fabric about three years before was still shining, not rusted. It reminded me of the spark she had shown when she sewed beside me.