My Roots in Okinawa

Chapter 1: A Quiet Homecoming

         Eleven days ago, I was feeling somewhat faint as the plane descended onto Okinawa’s Naha Airport. Twenty-one years had passed since I was on the small southern island of Japan. It’s the place where I was born and raised until graduating from high school. The beautiful island is the place of my ancestry and culture. But it’s also the place that I had once quietly and privately turned my back on and vowed never to return.
         My return to Okinawa was largely by chance. About forty years ago, while Dad was still working on Okinawa, his Okinawan relatives were allocating his late grandfather’s land. Dad was a Nisei, a second generation Japanese American, whose father emigrated to Hawaii. Therefore, many of his Okinawan relatives felt he wasn’t entitled to a distribution. However, one of his uncles insisted on giving him at least a token portion. Since that time, Dad retired to his birthplace of Hawaii and the valueless property was mostly forgotten.
         However, last month a man named Hideo Kaneshiro unexpectedly approached Dad in Hawaii to purchase the land. Since Dad was unfamiliar with land transactions, he asked me to accompany him to Okinawa to consummate the sale. I agreed to go with him.
         Admittedly, my willingness didn’t come primarily from wanting to assist Dad in the land deal, nor was it from a passion to return to my native island. Rather, I simply thought it’d be a good opportunity to get away from my family, failing business, and lackluster life.
         The relationship with my wife had become increasingly tenuous over the years. The tension wasn’t my wife’s fault for she was unquestionably a good mother and faithful spouse. Largely to her credit, our minor children were well behaved, intelligent, and active. The rift was due to personal differences between us, which was getting larger over time.
         The garden pots with blooming flowers lining the airport wall leading us to the baggage area gave me mixed feelings. The flowers reminded me of the beauty of Okinawa and the kindness of its people. But it also reminded me of the island mentality that I rejected long ago as a weakness and counterproductive to carry on in the states.
         Upon retrieving our luggage, I spotted my cousin Takako Kinjou. It was ten o’clock in the evening, dark outside, and the number of people in the airport was light. Previously, I told her over the phone that it wasn’t necessary for her to pick us up because we’d be arriving late in the evening. Shamefully, I was a little annoyed by her not following my instructions. I was uncomfortable about asking people for help and uncomfortable receiving it. So I was self-conscious about burdening Takako. I preferred taking a cab to the hotel on our own rather than feeling uncomfortable for inconveniencing her.
         But Okinawan people were known for their hospitality and I wasn't surprised to see Takako, who must have felt some obligation to meet us on our arrival. I remembered when I was a kid, relatives who literally shoved plates after plates of foods in front of us whenever our family visited their house. It was as though they didn't want to leave any doubts that we were welcome.
         “Joe! Hi!” Takako waved to us. I immediately recognized her even though it had been over twenty years since I last saw her. She gained some weight and her face was rounder than before. But she had the same attractive large, slightly droopy, eyes. Her smile, although friendly, didn’t beam and made her look somewhat oblivious to her surroundings.
         I continued toward her rolling our two suitcases in each hand. “Hi Takako,” I called out smiling. I stopped to shake her hand when I approached her. “You didn’t have to come,” I said apologetically. “But we really appreciate it.”
         “Don’t mention it!” she said to mollify my concern. “Joe and Uncle. You must be tired. Was your flight all right?”
         Dad didn’t seem concerned at all with burdening Takako. He obviously felt at ease and happy that Takako came to greet us and drive us to the hotel. “The flight was all right.” He smiled with a jovial chuckle. Dad had white hair, white mustache, and a round belly that made him look like an Okinawan Santa Claus without a beard.
         Dad’s legs were weak from old age so we paced ourselves as we walked to the parking lot over the well-lit walkway. The last time I remembered interacting with Takako was during our childhood days when our families got together. Even then, I mostly played with her two brothers while Takako hung out with my sisters. By high school, all of us were busy with our own school activities and hardly met. I was still a little tense about meeting my Okinawan relatives because of my perceived cultural differences with them. So I was pleasantly surprised of how smoothly we conversed in Japanese as we walked.
         I instinctively cringed and gritted my teeth when we walked past the International Terminal. It was a habit I had formed to block out unpleasant memories or thoughts. We flew into the Domestic Terminal, rather than the International Terminal, because we already went through customs in Osaka before flying into Okinawa. The Domestic Terminal, which was built after I had left Okinawa, was a three-story architectural marvel compared to the old building sitting next to it. The International Terminal was a remnant of the old airport buildings that I departed Okinawa many years ago.
         Takako drove a white, high mileage, compact car made by Honda that wasn’t sold in the United States. The car wasn’t fancy and looked rather like a large shiny box on wheels. But it was extremely energy efficient and ideal to navigate the narrow and curving Okinawan roads. Despite its small size, we fit our luggage into its trunk without difficulty.
         It was a clear night as we drove in light traffic toward our hotel. My return to Okinawa suddenly hit me when I noticed the vast difference from the streets I was accustomed to in the states. We were driving on the left hand side of the road, the road signs were all in Japanese, the traffic lights were different, the roads were narrower, the cars were smaller, and the buildings were distinctly Japanese.
         It was a quiet homecoming. As I looked out onto the harbor in the pitch black, I was determined to make the most out of my time on Okinawa.