When I was 24, I went back to my birth country in search of a childhood romance.

It started when I was about eight years old and visiting my grandparents in Tokyo over Christmas. My grandfather called my young brothers and me out into the yard to show us a sheet of ice that had formed in a bucket overnight. Having grown up in Southern California where ice is created by a machine called the freezer, this was a delicate glimpse into a world I was not accustomed to.

It was also a moment where my strict Japanese grandfather, who rarely smiled or chatted, opened up to his grandchildren. He was neither expressive nor affectionate, but I knew in that moment that he adored us. He was not taught in his life to hug affectionately to express his love. So he showed us some ice.

There were many moments like this in my childhood, but I buried the memories in the back of my head so I could go to the mall with my American friends. As I grew up, I held on to these memories. I could never shake the romantic image of the country of my birth.


It was also a moment where my strict Japanese grandfather, who rarely smiled or chatted, opened up to his grandchildren.






Nihon (Japan) was a word that was twirled around our household regularly, a word which brought to mind lime green melon sodas with vanilla ice cream, milk delivered every morning in glass bottles to my grandparents' house, the fresh smell of tatami mats, my favorite raisin rolls from the corner bakery.

And with those material things or foods come the memories, the history, and most of all, the explanations of who I was, and why I was.

So there I was ten years ago, a 24 year old Japanese American at Naha Airport in Okinawa, two refrigerator-sized suitcases in tow. The compact Japanese woman who met me at the airport glanced nervously at her compact Japanese car, and I knew I had to start making adjustments immediately.

I was Los Angeles-bred and college-educated. I was bilingual, ambitious, and my ego was supersized, just like my bags. I thought I was ready for Japan—until the Japanese woman next to me started speaking quickly into her phone. I had no idea what she was saying.

Sunset in Okinawa.

Wait..what? I'm fluent in Japanese! What is this woman speaking? If I had done a little bit of homework, I would have known the Okinawans had a painful history with a dialect all their own, though the main language spoken now is Japanese. The woman on the phone was speaking the traditional Okinawan language, as many in the older generation still do out of habit and pride.

Obviously, I wasn't in Japan to "learn about my roots." The fact was, I had a good teaching job lined up and Okinawa sounded like the Japanese version of Hawaii. I would learn quickly what living on a tropical island really means - storms and humidity.

I had no clue what I was searching for exactly. I had quit my job, sold my Volkswagen Beetle (plastic pink flower in the plastic vase and all), moved out of our run-down Santa Monica apartment with the creaking floors and drunken memories, said goodbye to my carefree single life in Los Angeles, and packed my bags.

My American-made suitcases didn't last long, but my romance with Japan—with its many heartbreaks along the way—lasted ten years.

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Next week: My heartbreaks in Japan.