Becoming Mama-San. Mary Matsuda Gruenewald

kendo classes, where I was the only girl. Kendo is a martial art that requires full body armor and a padded helmet, and teaches discipline of mind, body, and spirit. My parents registered me for the class not only for the exercise and discipline but also for my posture. Whenever I walked, my head leaned out in front of the rest of my body. Kendo required me to stretch my arms back behind my head, forcing my posture to be more upright.

      When we had learned enough of the basic strokes, we were told to put on all the armor for our first taste of combat. My heart was already beating briskly from the warm-up, but my whole body broke out in a sweat as my muscles tensed in preparation to fight. I was paired up with a boy a year older than me. At the word to begin, “Hajime!” he took a swift swing at the left side of my head. Stars flew, I heard ringing in my left ear, and I staggered to maintain my balance. I was stunned, not expecting him to act so quickly.

      The teacher standing beside us shouted, “Raise your shinai! Defend yourself!” The boy hesitated. In that moment, I angrily and swiftly swung my shinai and hit him on the padding on the left side of his neck. I said to myself, There, how do you like that?

      I felt satisfied that I had evened the match. That was the end of our encounter. After that, the teacher paired up other students to give each one a chance to engage in combat. Kendo gave me many things in life, including a sense of comfort and confidence during times of conflict. Thanks to kendo, I have had good posture ever since. And in the years and decades that followed, it allowed me to negotiate many battles with deftness and integrity.

      Because we lived in such a small community, my grade school went from first through the eighth grade. I looked forward to the big step to high school, and though I was anxious, it was easier knowing that Yoneichi was already there.

      About thirty-five of us attended the orientation for the incoming freshman class, where each girl was assigned a “big sister.” Mine was a popular white girl named Bobbie, who was a senior. She put me at ease immediately, and introduced me to a number of girls and female teachers. I felt special having such an outstanding student as my “big sister.” Later, I realized this honor may have been influenced partly by Yoneichi’s high standing in the school. Maybe they expected me to follow in his footsteps.

      In those days, I did not detect any racism on our island. Vashon High School was a melting pot in which Japanese-American students held leadership roles. We were well represented in the student government, the Honor Society, and sports. Yoneichi participated in all of these activities as the secretary of the student body, and as a short but fast player on the varsity football team.

      High school presented the usual challenges for me, along with some that most of my Caucasian peers wouldn’t expect. For the first time, students my age gradually started pairing off, but none of us Japanese-American students would dream of doing so. It just wasn’t culturally acceptable to date, certainly at that age. It was an unspoken assumption in the Japanese culture that we would have arranged marriages, which made dating unthinkable. But for me and my Japanese peers, watching our classmates date opened us up to a whole new set of ideas. I began to wonder if an arranged marriage was best for me, and whether I could be happy in such a relationship.

      At school, I found myself interested in a handsome, athletic white boy, and we enjoyed chitchatting with each other. I knew my parents would not approve, so mentally I kept him at arm’s length. Still, I couldn’t help but think about him, and I wondered what he thought about me.

      One day, while we were preparing dinner together, I asked Mama-san, “Am I beautiful?”

      She looked up at me briefly, surprised, and then turned back to the carrots she was chopping. “No, you’re not,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “But be grateful for the face you have. If you were too pretty, boys might pursue you for your looks alone. On the other hand, if you were ugly, they might avoid you because of that.” Mama-san smiled at me and continued, “Be grateful for the face God gave you.” Then she swept the carrots off the cutting board into a saucepan.

      I looked down at the floor to keep from showing Mama-san that I was very disappointed, but deep down I knew she was right. If she had said that I was beautiful, I might have thought she was saying that to keep from hurting my feelings. I thought about what it would be like to be beautiful and glamorous, like Greta Garbo, Carole Lombard, or some of my other favorite movie stars. Wistfully, I imagined crowds cheering for me and asking for my autograph, knowing that it would never happen. As it was, I decided I had an ordinary looking face and a healthy, maturing body. I knew Mama-san loved me just the way I was, and that was enough. I could always count on her to be completely truthful with me.

      My mother’s blunt honesty was just one of many ways in which my parents demonstrated an unusually deep level of respect for me. Looking back, I think they were both quite extraordinary. While my mother and father were clearly products of their culture, they were also quite different from most of their peers in important ways.

      My father treated his wife as an equal at a time when the Japanese tradition was that the husband made all of the decisions. His charm extended to the way he was quietly considerate of others. One of my adult friends recalled that Papa-san was the only one at community gatherings who brought special treats for all of the children, such as soda pop or candy. As a boss, when dozens of workers came to our farm to help with our harvest, he would give each of them candy at nine o’clock every morning. And to celebrate the end of the harvest, he bought ice cream for all of the workers and any of their family members who showed up—even during the height of the Depression.

      Many Japanese fathers gave special attention to their oldest sons, and Papa-san clearly had expectations for Yoneichi that he didn’t have for me. But Papa-san made me feel special, as well. When he and I ran errands together in Seattle or Tacoma, he always made it fun. When we went to Seattle to see the optometrist, we always went to Maneki’s restaurant and had the same thing for lunch every time: miso soup, rice, and buta dofu (pork with tofu). After lunch, we would tour different stores, or visit a family friend, or have an ice cream soda.

      My mother was the youngest of ten children. Her father died when she was only two, and her mother died when she was six. She ended up being raised by her adoring older siblings, who nurtured her and provided her with an education far beyond what most Japanese girls in that era received. Her outlook on life was always upbeat and positive, even in the most difficult of times.

      As a family, we talked with one another more than most, and in a different manner. My parents were genuinely interested in my brother’s and my daily lives, but I never felt like they were prying. I felt comfortable talking about school, my friends, or whatever else was on my mind. Sometimes, Mama-san or Papa-san told us of their early lives, including Papa-san’s harrowing experiences, as a young man, of extreme prejudice. No topic was off limits.

      Both of my parents had a sense of adventure and a relative lack of need for control. From a young age, I felt respected and loved by my parents. It did not matter that my wants and desires might change from one moment to the next, or that they might seem unimportant to an adult; my thoughts and opinions were still honored by them. Their guidance was gentle, and mostly by example, rarely verbal. Arguments were almost unheard of in my family. Punishments were meted out with care, but hardly seemed necessary except on the rarest of occasions.

      Later, it was this degree of respect from my parents that ironically would allow me to deviate from the path that a Japanese daughter was expected to follow. My decision to marry a hakujin (white man) in 1951 created the only serious conflict between my parents and me. At that time, interracial marriages were rare in the United States. A strong but unspoken sense of cultural pride within the Japanese-American community implied that marrying outside of our community was “beneath” us.

      As open and as generally accepting as my parents were, nothing prepared them for the shock that I delivered on the day I announced my engagement. It was a scandal that brought shame on my family. And yet, once their dismay wore off, my parents’ values and respect for me would win out, overcoming their initial expectations that came from culture and precedent.

      In