How to Be an American Housewife - Margaret Dilloway [81]
The few times I did go to Dad’s church—to see a baptism or a film about its founder—I came with a healthy dose of skepticism, drilled into me by my mother. I watched a woman getting dunked, or Joseph Smith spoken to by God, and I simply didn’t believe it.
Sumiko whispered, “The middle is the Tenchi Kane no Kami altar.” It had a framed scroll with lettering on it, and more edible offerings. A stack of papers sat on one side, and on the other, a big bag of salt. Sumiko went to the main altar, knelt, bowed once, and clapped four times. Taro-chan did the same. Then they bowed their heads.
We copied them. Instead of praying, I watched people discreetly, trying on this religion for size but feeling no profound connection, no shooting light from above. I stood when Sumiko did. The others had already gone to a pew, and the man in the white robe was coming out.
It was Taro. He held a tapering piece of wood, which he stuck into the fold of his robe. He wore a cap with a long plume coming out the back and curving skyward. It wasn’t a feather; it might have been carved wood, but I couldn’t tell from this distance. He faced the main altar and clapped four times, saying a prayer.
“This is the mitama for all the priests who have died. We remember them and pray for their guidance,” Sumiko said. Taro-chan held his finger to his lips, silencing her.
The congregation approached the altar. We were offered a tree branch with a piece of white paper attached to its branches. “Put it on the table, and pray to the priest you want,” Sumiko instructed quietly.
I looked at the tableau of photos, stopping at a man with a small smile on his face, the expression wrinkling around his mouth and eyes. “That’s your great-grandfather,” I whispered.
“People are praying to him? Like a god?” Helena peered closely.
“Not exactly,” I hedged, though I suspected she was correct.
I settled down and tried to make my mind go blank. What did I want to pray for? World peace sounded like a Miss America contestant. Mom’s health was a given, like the health of the rest of my family. I wanted to pray for something I could change. I swallowed. My throat was ash dry. For guidance. I need guidance in my life.
Americans have several odd manners you should be aware of. When you eat with others, it is considered impolite to slurp your soup or noodles, though this improves the flavor. If you eat noodles in the company of an American, twirl them on your fork and eat as silently as you can.
Americans are also insulted if you do not finish everything on your plate. They consider it wasteful, though overeating only leads to being fat. Your host may be openly hostile if you leave food, though in Japan, this is only politeness. Take small portions and try to finish it all to signal you are done.
—from the chapter “Turning American,”
How to Be an American Housewife
Ten
After church, Sumiko took us shopping and then to lunch for the best sushi and sashimi I had ever eaten. The fish was pulled straight from the ocean and sliced up, eyes still moving, at a little restaurant overlooking the water.
“What do you want to do for the rest of our time?” Helena dipped deep-red tuna into the sashimi sauce. “We have a week. Are we going to do any more sightseeing? How about the monkeys in the hot spring?”
“Those are in the north.” I took a bite of fish that melted in my mouth. “And I still haven’t given Taro the letter.”
Helena blanched. “Come on. What’s the big deal? He’ll read it and respond, or not.”
“Mom needs an answer, not silence.”
“He’s not going to change just for you, you know.” Helena sounded wiser than I felt. “Will he, Sumiko?”
Sumiko twirled some long noodles into her son’s mouth, a mother bird feeding her baby. The wind picked up and blew her hair off her face. “One never knows with Taro.”
“Does he change his mind a lot?” I asked. “How he thinks about things.”
“Ah. Never.” Sumiko went off to wash Taro’s hands.
“See?” Helena nudged me. “Never going to change. Mom, you