Warnings: period typical racism, sexism, language.
Timeline: 1906, we meet Toshiharu Fujimoto - Sakura Fujimoto's father.
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Prologue: Nanakorobi yaoki
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When he was nineteen, still young and green and slightly sheltered, Toshiharu Fujimoto kowtowed before his beloved okaasan, agreeing to set sail for the Gold Mountain—America, as they called it—to seek his fortune. For there was nothing for him in Nihon, he was told quite frequently of late, and perhaps he'd find something in the gold-paved streets of California.
"And when you're settled," his okaasan added softly, quietly, still as gentle as ever, "send word, and we'll find a suitable bride for you." His okaasan was old and worn yet pride still forced her to keep her spine straight. Or taut, as if in anticipation of another emotional blow. "Also, take your younger brother with you—you both will do well."
His okaasan, even after every loss she had suffered, still spoke with unwavering certainty. Nothing seemed to unsettle her. Not the memory of a raging husband refusing to give up the life of the samurai. (Toshiharu couldn't recall the features of his long deceased otosan, but other family members and the few servants working for them still whispered behind shoji screens, still discussed Akihiro's hatred for the new industrial era and the corrupt officials taking the seats that once belonged to the samurai caste. His otosan must have blazed as brightly as a field fire).
Not the memory of her two eldest sons serving (and dying) in the Nihon-Qing war. (Again, Toshiharu couldn't recall the features of his long deceased older brothers, his niisans, but other family members and the few servants working for them still whispered behind shoji screens, still discussed how the two young men had echoed their otosan in nearly every manner and perhaps that was the reason why both had found their end on a battlefield so far from home. Their fire, some whispered while others silently agreed, had been snuffed out far too quickly).
So Toshiharu packed his reed suitcase, bought two steamship tickets, offered incense at the nearest temple, bid farewell to everyone he knew—from family to servants, neighbours to monks—and led his brother across the gangplank onto the S.S. China with the certainty his okaasan possessed, his okaasan had instilled in her four children. Thus he left, dry-eyed and wide-eyed, full of expectations and goals (he vowed to send enough money back home so that his beloved okaasan could live with them in America), and at nineteen, he remembered all of a sudden, he was as old as the brother dying in war (and a year older than the other).
With that chilling thought in mind, he and his grinning sibling—Toshiyuki Fujimoto, proud and adventurous—sailed to a new world, both imagining many great things to come.
The voyage was long, the sea rough, and as Toshiyuki joined the other passengers around a crate to play go (or to gamble), Toshiharu pulled out his English book, then his dictionary, and revised word after word, phrase after phrase, until he dreamt about faceless hakujin giants of America. He was eager, utterly determined.
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They arrived in Honolulu soon after midday. Leading a bleary-eyed (and quite possibly hungover) Toshiyuki down the gangplank, Toshiharu departed the harbour and made his way into town, his steady stride slowing into a stroll as he took in the sights, both the familiar (shirtless workers from the East lined up in a yard, a nearby board stating in three languages WORKERS WANTED) and the strange (two laughing hakujin women wearing knee-length skirts, walking in heels that seemed too unpractical).
"Let's find a hostel, older brother," said a yawning Toshiyuki. His face scrunched up as he looked this way and that, turning in a slow circle on the spot before glancing up at the sky. He stepped back blindly, then turned around with start when he walked into the edge of the sidewalk. His shoulders drooped. "I need a wash."
"Later, we're not the only new hopefuls." Toshiharu gestured down the street; in the shimmering distance, the rest of the passengers of the S.S. China were making their way inland. "Asaoki wa nanatsu no toku ari." Early rising has seven advantages, he said.
If Toshiyuki was annoyed, then there was no sign of his displeasure—he had been taught to respect and defer to his niisan. The younger Fujimoto didn't kick up a fuss at the prospect of plantation work, which was an utter embarrassment, a shame, for their family name, and instead, he joined the queue of workers before sitting down on his haunches, kneading the crown of his head as Toshiharu fetched some water.
Thus the two brothers sat in a companionable silence, sipping from their bamboo bottles as they listened to the gossipmongers and storytellers, waiting patiently to sign a three-year labour contract on a sugar-cane plantation—ten hours a day, six days a week for twelve dollars and fifty cents a month. But it was a start.
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For the next three years, the Fujimoto brothers lived frugally. Toshiyuki frequently jested that they were too tired to do anything else, but then he swiftly sobered, whispering (as if he already felt the shame of his confession) that if they had had more money, they could have immediately sailed to the States, thus avoiding the back-breaking work on Hawaii. Toshiharu, in turn, would clap his brother on the shoulder, warmly telling him to not give up just yet.
(Again and again, Toshiyuki would sniff wetly, nod his head and start the next week with a skip in his step; again and again, Toshiharu would wonder if he should have stayed in Nihon so that his younger brother could have disembarked at Seattle, or even San Francisco, instead of Honolulu).
Together, they worked and dreamt and made plans for the future. We'll live in the same neighbourhood, send our children to the same schools—they'll look after each other, see—and we'll help them get degrees. They supported each other, laughing and jesting and whispering encouraging words when they were needed the most. And perhaps, one day, we'll also have degrees. Imagine, us, with an American education! And the Fujimoto brothers eventually sailed to California.
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("Never give up hope," okaasan had said, time and time again).
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Toshiharu had heard many things concerning the western nations, and even though he had seen a bit of Honolulu, had went off on walks when he had time, had met a number of the hakujin locals (some had ignored him, one had helped him with his "dreadful" English pronunciation), he couldn't help being surprised by nearly everything on the mainland. From the different colours of hair—he had seen a hakujin woman with yellow locks, and he had wondered if it somehow felt different—to the way women were treated and how the Americans lived.
Women didn't have to kneel down before their husbands, didn't walk behind them but beside them, didn't cover their mouths when they laughed. Doors had locks, shoes were worn indoors, books were read back to front, noses were blown on dirty cloths that were stuffed back into pockets. It was a strange, alien world, but a determined Toshiharu squared his shoulders and kept trying, despite his confusion and the overwhelming homesickness that started to plague him after three years of absence. (At least there had been some semblance of home on the plantation).
So he learned. To light a stove, to make a bed, to give a firm handshake, to dial a telephone, to set a table. Then, slowly but surely, he started to get used to his strange, alien world—the funny way the locals walked, their tendency to gather in noisy groups and stand talking without respite (why didn't they sit down?)—and tried his best to blend in. Dressed like them, walked like them, sometimes even avoided them. While some of the Americans would make fun of his pronunciation, others were outright hostile.
And Toshiharu didn't want any trouble, yet his mere appearance seemed to set something off in others. He worked hard for less pay, doing the tasks no self-respecting American would do, and over time (as the Fujimoto brothers travelled down the coast to San Francisco and then Los Angeles) he learned that the locals just didn't like that, for some confounding reason. Some (though sometimes it seemed like all) of the hakujin seem to hate seeing others work well. ("Those yellow monkeys are taking our jobs!")
Most days, Toshiharu had a crick in his neck from keeping his head bowed constantly, a headache pounding behind his eyes from navigating the stressful boundaries of race and class that dominated the Gold Mountain—which, he understood now, only enriched a certain type of man. Not a man like himself or the other immigrants, and said immigrants weren't always supportive or welcoming of other immigrants. They distrusted him—the Chinese—or immediately hated him—the Koreans.
After a while, he had to admit to himself that the rumours had been utterly false: the streets of California weren't paved in gold, and the Gold Mountain wasn't an opportunity for everyone, only a select few.
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("Never give up, keep trying," Toshiharu reminded himself, time and time again).
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The Fujimoto brothers found their little corner, their safe haven and possibly permanent home, in the ethnic enclave of Little Tokyo, Los Angeles. There, they found respite from the complexities of the country and surrounded themselves with home: from music and newspapers to restaurants and bathhouses, even the blooming cherry blossom trees populating the area.
There, they rented a matchbox of an apartment (two small bedrooms, a kitchen, a tiny bathroom), and when the last tattered bag had been unpacked, and everything had been carefully put away, Toshiyuki sat down on the floor, resting his back against the closed front door, then sighed for a long moment before turning to his niisan.
"Big brother," he said firmly, seriously. With his toned arms wrapped around his legs, and the hunch in his back, Toshiyuki looked uncertain yet again; actually, over the last few years, he had been becoming more and more hesitant as the challenges of America slowly chipped away at his pride and diminished his sense of adventure. It all started in Honolulu, with the long days under the blazing sun, and Toshiharu sincerely hoped that the enclave could help his brother find himself again.
To regain that spark of fire.
"Big brother, when will you contact a marriage broker?"
Toshiharu brushed a hand down his face.
Marriage broker, baishakunin, marriage broker, baishakunin, it was all that Toshiyuki seemed to think about nowadays. To have someone make all of the arrangements relating to a wedding, to find a suitable match by looking at the family background, health, ages, wealth, and photographs of the possible candidates.
And Toshiyuki started discussing marriage (quite persistently) the moment they arrived in San Francisco. Big brother, look at that automobile! We should get one, then sister-in-law won't need to walk home from the harbour. (Toshiharu would say, but we would take the bus.) No, no, the bus won't do!
Big brother, when we get our own place, you should get yourself one of those big American beds. (A laughing Toshiharu would interject, but they look too soft!) Eh! Then sister-in-law will be sleeping on clouds! Imagine how happy she'll be. Then: big brother, let's take this apartment; it's close to a department store, a grocery store, a market, the library. Hmm, sister-in-law won't need to walk far. (And Toshiharu would ask, so we want her to become fat?) Big brother!
Sighing, Toshiharu looked away from his brother, casting his gaze across the room. In a matter of seconds, he had listed everything that still needed to be done: replace a few hinges (two of the cupboard doors couldn't open properly), recoat the wood with varnish (the cupboards, perhaps the old table that had been left behind by the previous owners), scrub every surface clean (there was a suspicious stain on the far wall).
And eventually, Toshiharu turned to his silent, watchful brother. "We should first buy a ticket for mother," he insisted, and when Toshiyuki raised a hand, he quickly added, "We always said that we would send money back, have her live with us." Toshiharu knuckled his eyes, then rolled his shoulders as he stretched his tired body. "We will have to move quickly. The government may ban our family from entering the country."
There was already a different ban in place. Two years after the Fujimoto brothers had arrived in Honolulu, America and their homeland had signed the Gentlemen's Agreement—it cut off the flow of labourers from Nihon, but luckily contained a crucial loophole that permitted the entry of family members of the labourers already residing in America.
The agreement had been a victory for the man in the street (and the man in parliament) who would spit at immigrants, who would burn down productive immigrant farms out of spite, who would place himself above them because of the mere colour of his skin, who would yell at them to return to their countries—even though the man in question still spoke with a noticeable Irish burr.
Toshiyuki nodded. "All the more reason for you to get married now?"
"Do you want to be rid of me?"
The layers Toshiyuki had been carrying for months now (stress over panic, disappointment across weariness) seemed to flutter weightlessly to the floor as his lips curved into a lopsided smile. His eyes brightened, his back straightened, and then he laughed, not unkindly. "No, but I do want you to be happy."
But I am.
Head bowed, Toshiharu gnawed on his lower lip, staring unseeingly at the scuffed boards underfoot. He strolled up and down the length of the room, pondering silently, drawing in slow, deep breaths of air. Keep trying, he had frequently reminded himself. Keep moving, and keep working for the possible future.
He nodded. Turned back to Toshiyuki.
"Alright." Toshiharu bent over to genially clap his brother on the shoulder. "Alright." He straightened, and stood arms akimbo, glancing around the room before casting Toshiyuki a sliver of a smile. "I'll write to mother, tell her that I've 'settled'. Send her my photograph."
Months later, the two brothers left Little Tokyo well before sunrise (both bleary-eyed and yawning), boarded bus after bus (now Toshiharu wondered if he should have bought the automobile Toshiyuki had mentioned repeatedly) before arriving in San Francisco to meet Toshiharu's bride for the first time. They halted on the sidewalk for a moment, hurriedly neatened their appearance as well as they could, and headed off to the pier to join a crowd of waiting men.
Both Toshiharu and Toshiyuki were silent, the latter squinting up at the blindingly bright sky as he restlessly moved his weight from one leg to the other, the former thinking back on their time in Hawaii. Toshiharu, watching as the picture brides gathered on the deck of their ship, awaiting to disembark, recalled the conversations he had heard on the sugar-cane plantation concerning baishakunins, brides-to-be and black-and-white photographs.
The marriage broker's arranging everything. I just have to send my picture. I sent my best friend's picture instead of my own. I sent one of my old pictures. I asked to use the picture of a handsome stranger. I sent my bride letters—I don't want to be a complete stranger. I'm not good with words, but I tried my best, and I hope she likes what she reads. I asked my priest to help me compose the letters. I paid a professional to write the letters in my place.
Wearing colourful kimonos, hair done in a rounded coiffure, the women walked down the gangplank, taking mincing steps in their brocaded zori. With photographs in hand, the women anxiously scanned the group of men, and Toshiharu wondered how many of them would be disappointed or even scared after meeting their new husbands for the first time. (Would his own wife, one of the women heading toward the group, be disappointed?)
The new husband might be ten to twenty years older than the young man in the photograph. Might be a complete stranger, not the handsome man in the photograph. Might be the friend of the smiling man in the photograph. But contact was made between picture bride and husband, both parties bowing respectfully as they greeted each other, "Yoroshiku onegai itashi masu." I thank you for your future care and concern.
Toshiharu watched nervously as the couples walked away—the women following their men at proper distances—and then Toshiyuki was tapping him on the shoulder, "Big brother, big brother, is that sister-in-law?"
Toshiharu swallowed thickly. Followed the direction of his brother's curious gaze.
Ayumi Ito—Fujimoto. His wife.
His wife, he first noticed, was slightly taller than him. As she came closer, face carefully blank as she studied the unfamiliar faces around her, he saw how painfully young she appeared. And that she looked quite green around the gills, clammy and pale and sick, truth be told. When her trembling hand, still clamped around his photograph, closed on the worn material of her kimono, Toshiharu had forgotten his own hesitance and strode quickly to the young woman.
He (and Toshiyuki) probably startled Ayumi as he stormed right up to her, introducing himself (and then his brother) before offering to take her suitcase, like an American gentleman. The offer clearly caused confusion, but Ayumi thanked him and insisted that she could carry her baggage. Then they stood there for a silent, awkward moment.
Toshiharu quietly cleared his throat, gesturing behind him. "Shall we go?"
Again, his wife looked confused, but she nodded, hand (and photograph) still pressed to her chest. Toshiharu turned on his heel. He brushed his clammy palms down his stomach, hopefully discreetly, and led the way to the nearest bus stop.
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When they returned to Little Tokyo, Ayumi agreed to rest for an hour, and only for an hour, for there was much she wanted to do: clean her clothes, cook their dinner, greet the neighbours, and explore the rest of their enclave. Toshiharu, seeing out of the corner of his eye how she pressed a hand to her lower stomach, let her sleep for two, then three, then—fifteen hours.
As she slept, Toshiyuki left for his evening shift at one of the local groceries, and Toshiharu cleaned Ayumi's clothes, prepared their dinner, notified the neighbours that his wife was indisposed, stood in the alley outside their apartment to watch as his community went about on their business, pondered about the next few days, attempted to read the Rafu Shimpo (something he hadn't had time for in weeks), and greeted a returning Toshiyuki who collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. Over their cooling dinner, the brothers spoke about their plans for the next week and then both retired to bed.
(Toshiharu hesitated for a long moment at the foot of his bed—the big, soft American mattress Toshiyuki had insisted on buying for him—steadily avoiding the image of his slumbering wife (a stranger, and was this a good idea?) before slipping under the sheets. The night was unusually long).
The next day, Toshiharu took Ayumi to the department store run by an immigrant couple, replacing her kimono with a knee-length dress, her white tabi socks with silk stockings, and her brocaded zori with oxford shoes. Finally, after some consideration, he pinned a hat with a small brim to her hair, tilting it smartly to one side. How pretty you look! one of the customers exclaimed, and Ayumi bowed in thanks.
The next two weeks would echo their third day of marriage, which passed like this:
Toshiharu would go to work early in the morning after having breakfast with his brother and wife. When he returned in the late evening, he would clean his shoes, hang his suit and brush it down, comb his hair before applying a thin layer of pomade, and join his brother in the kitchen. Toshiyuki would wash the punnet of fruit he'd brought back from work, and the brothers would discuss Toshiyuki's own marriage plans as they nibbled on their snack.
Ayumi, on the other hand, would be silent in the morning as they had their breakfast, would politely greet them when they left for work, would politely greet them when they returned, and would occasionally say a word or two as she prepared their dinner. By the time she went to bed, the dishes would have been washed and put away, the kitchen and the bathroom would have been scrubbed clean, and their lunch for the following day prepared and set aside.
During those two weeks, the three Fujimotos would be overly polite.
They would interact courteously.
Yet, husband and wife were still strangers.
Luckily, a slight change in their routine occurred on a rainy, cold day when Ayumi, slightly damp and shivering, scuttled indoors before promptly slipping in the puddle of water Toshiyuki had brought in with him (and had forgotten to mop up), then cursed like a sailor as she picked up the groceries she had dropped. Seconds later, she abruptly fell silent, eyes flicking up to see her husband and her brother-in-law watching her from the kitchen table.
Toshiyuki blinked, his fork halfway to his lips; a black-and-white photograph of his future wife sat on the table before him. A beat passed in silence, then he quickly spun away, smothering his snorting laugh as Toshiharu ambled over to his wife.
"Gomennasai!" a pink-faced Ayumi whispered in a rush. I'm sorry!
But Toshiharu ignored the apology. "Let me help you up, wife." He held his hand out to her, waiting patiently for a hesitating Ayumi to sort through her thoughts. When she finally accepted his hand, he gently helped her to her feet, picked up the groceries by himself, and then asked her if she desired a cup of tea. "I could prepare a pot for you."
Ayumi nodded jerkily. "Thank you …" she swallowed thickly, nervously, "husband."
Toshiharu smiled.
Their routine would gradually change over the next few weeks. Toshiharu would tease his wife more, Ayumi would no longer look at him as if he had grown two heads over the course of the night, and Toshiyuki would spend more time away from home to give the couple some space, either posting letters to his picture bride (who was scheduled to arrive in San Francisco in a few months) or sailing down the coast with a fisherman friend.
Husband and wife got to know each other, could eventually anticipate the other's next move, and spent one day every weekend strolling side-by-side through the park, trading titbits about their families, discussing their childhoods and revealing an innocent secret or two to make the other laugh. Both tried their best to be truthful, to be open and approachable, so Ayumi eventually admitted that their mattress had been too soft, initially, but had grown used to it.
"I thought you hated me," she revealed one night, half-buried under their blankets, watching as her husband placed his watch on their rickety nightstand, "I hoped you wouldn't."
Toshiharu lay down beside her. Then: "But I don't."
Ayumi studied him in the dim candlelight, lips parting and closing, parting and closing. Her breathing was steady, gentle, yet her eyes shimmered with unvoiced concerns. In the end, she swallowed thickly, brushing aside her qualms as if they hadn't bothered her.
"Let's build a life here, together?" And he still asked, never demanded. "We'll have our ups and downs, but we'll keep trying. We'll never give up hope."
"Yes," Ayumi breathed, "let's."
Toshiharu studied his wife's features, taking note of the enticing curve of her lips, the slope of her blushing cheeks, the length of her lashes (sweeping up and down slowly, almost sleepily), the different shades of brown in her hooded eyes. He remembered, then, seeing Ayumi in the crowd, brave and young, and now he remembered, realized actually, that he hadn't given her a proper greeting when they had first met.
(No wonder she thought he had hated her).
Inhaling slowly, he carefully brushed her hair out of her eyes (she didn't flinch, didn't withdraw, only watched him closely), and then whispered, "Yoroshiku onegai itashi masu." I thank you for your future care and concern.
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("This life isn't so bad," Toshiharu announced one morning.
Toshiyuki beamed).
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Kenji—his first-born, his son, his pride—came into the world kicking and wailing. Toshiyuki got a daughter, not a son, but Toshiharu quickly told him that it didn't matter in America. Sakura—his daughter, small and silent—came smiling, Oh, you! And Toshiyuki eventually got his son—three of them.
"You have done well," his okaasan, even after their long separation, still spoke with unwavering certainty. It was strange to see, as if time had stood still in the East, but the pride in her whispery voice, in her steady gait as she walked through Little Tokyo for the first time, comforted Toshiharu. "You both have."
Toshiharu smiled. "I'm happy you're pleased, mother."
He would have given her a proper bow, but the package he was cradling against his breast, underneath his slightly worn cardigan, impeded his movement; instead, he nodded his head and pointed out a few locations his okaasan would be interested in exploring, making a quick, sweeping gesture with one hand before wrapping his arms tighter around himself.
When his okaasan disappeared inside the Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist Temple, Toshiharu stepped into the shade of a weeping cherry blossom tree, gently unbuttoned his cardigan, and looked down at his precious cargo.
Sakura, nestling quietly against his chest, yawned widely.
Toshiharu patted his daughter's back, pressed the back of his hand to her still-feverish brow, before hoisting her up so that her little head rested on his shoulder instead. He paced up and down for a few minutes, listening to the tweeting of birdsong, the tolling of bells, the rumbling of passing automobiles, before crossing the street to sit on a wooden bench that faced the entrance of the Temple.
Sighing, he stared ahead unseeingly, thinking about each and every year that had passed since he had left Nihon. It was strange that he abruptly felt the weight of those years on his shoulders. "I've just realized," Toshiharu whispered, "that I've seen a lot, and done so much." He looked down at his dozing daughter. "And I never gave up. Perhaps my mother had been with me all this time … constantly whispering, 'never give up hope'—nanakorobi yaoki."
But Sakura wasn't listening, and Toshiharu hummed softly as he smiled.
He patted her back again, cradling her tighter and tighter against his chest until she squirmed, and he reluctantly loosened his grip on her. Toshiharu brushed her hair aside, then pressed a fleeting kiss on the tip of her nose. "Fall seven times," he said in English, sitting upright as his okaasan emerged from the Temple, walking slowly, carefully, down the steps before standing in the shade of the cherry blossom tree, "and stand up eight."
His okaasan watched him, head tilted slightly to one side, her hands clasped in front of her as falling cherry blossoms kissed her shoulders. A gentle smile curved her lips, and Toshiharu felt his eyes prickle with unbidden tears. He looked down at his cargo once again, gently rocking Sakura from side to side. He sighed contentedly.
"Sakura?" His daughter looked up, eyes blinking slowly. Yes, papa? they said. "See where your grandmother's standing? That tree outside the Temple?" Toshiharu spoke carefully, because for a long while he had only conversed in the Americans' language; for he wished that his children would at least know his mother tongue. His last link to Nihon. "The cherry blossom trees were named after you. Sakura."
Sakura blinked owlishly. "Honto desu ka?" Is that so?
No. Toshiharu chuckled. "Yes."
With that, he hurried across the street, and watched the sheer look of wonder on his daughter's face. His okaasan met him at the edge of the sidewalk, and this time, he bowed respectfully to the woman who had taught him so much, who had always wanted more for him and his brother, who had never collapsed under pressure.
He hoped, as he hugged Sakura tightly in his arms, that he could teach his own daughter to be as strong, proud, and self-assured as his okaasan. But first, he'd teach her the one thing that had helped him survive the setbacks life had continuously thrown at him: nanakorobi yaoki.
* Nanakorobi yaoki, fall seven times and stand up eight – a Japanese proverb. When life knocks you down, stand back up; keep trying; never give up hope.
* Toshiharu – genius peace.
* Fujimoto – (one who lives) under the wisteria.
* okaasan – mother.
* Gold Mountain (Gam Saan) – the name given by the Chinese to western regions of North America, particularly California, USA and British Columbia, Canada. After gold was found in the Sierra Nevada in 1848, thousands of Chinese began to travel to California in search of gold and riches during the California Gold Rush.
* Nihon – Japan.
* samurai – warrior. A member of a powerful military caste in feudal Japan, especially a member of the class of military retainers of the daimyos (rulers/warlords).
* otosan – father.
* shoji – a door, window or room divider consisting of translucent paper over a frame of wood which holds together a lattice of wood or bamboo. The doors are often designed to slide open, and thus conserve space that would be required by a swinging door.
* Akihiro – large glory.
* Nihon-Qing (Japan-Qing) war – the First Sino-Japanese War (1 August 1894 – 17 April 1895) was fought between Qing Dynasty China and Meiji Japan, primarily over control of Korea. After more than six months of unbroken successes by the Japanese land and naval forces, as well as the loss of the Chinese port of Weihai, the Qing leadership sued for peace in February 1895. The war is commonly known in China as the War of Jiawu, referring to the year (1894) as named under the traditional sexagenary system of years. In Japan, it is called the Japan–Qing War; and in Korea, where much of the war took place, it is called the Qing-Japan War.
* Qing – the Qing dynasty was the last imperial dynasty of China, ruling from 1644 to 1911 with a brief, abortive restoration in 1917. It was preceded by the Ming dynasty and succeeded by the Republic of China.
* niisan – older brother.
* Toshiyuki – clever and happy.
* go – ancient Chinese board game.
* hakujin – white person.
* Asaoki wa nanatsu no toku ari, early rising has seven advantages – a Japanese proverb. The early bird catches the worm; early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.
* baishakunin – a marriage broker/matchmaker/go-between.
* the Gentlemen's Agreement – an informal agreement between the United States and the Empire of Japan (1908) whereby the United States of America would not impose restriction on Japanese immigration, and Japan would not allow further emigration to the U.S.
* picture brides – the practice in the early 20th century of immigrant workers (chiefly Japanese and Korean) in Hawaii and the West Coast of the United States selecting brides from their native countries via a matchmaker, who paired bride and groom using only photographs and family recommendations of the possible candidates. This is an abbreviated form of the traditional matchmaking process, and is similar in a number of ways to the concept of the mail-order bride.
* kimono – T-shaped, straight-lined robes worn so that the hem falls to the ankle, with attached collars and long, wide sleeves. Kimono are wrapped around the body, always with the left side over the right and secured by a sash called an obi, which is tied at the back.
* zori – flat and thonged Japanese sandals made of rice straw or other plant fibers, cloth, lacquered wood, leather, rubber, or—increasingly—synthetic materials.
* Yoroshiku onegai itashi masu – the definition is hard to translate in the English language. There are different ways that yoroshiku onegai itashi masu is used, as well, depending on the situation. It's a very important part of Japanese culture, and is somewhat equivalent to "I'm depending on you".
* Ayumi – pace, stroll, walk.
* Ito – thread, yarn, string.
* The Rafu Shimpo – a Japanese-English language newspaper based in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles. The paper began in 1903 as a one-page, mimeographed Japanese-language newspaper produced by Rippo Iijima, Masaharu Yamaguchi, and Seijiro Shibuya.
* tabi –traditional Japanese socks. Ankle-high and with a separation between the big toe and other toes, they are worn by both men and women with zori, geta, and other traditional thonged footwear.
* Kenji –intelligent, second son; strong and vigorous.
* Sakura– cherry blossom.
Notes: Hello everyone, I'm the author of Dreaming of Butterflies. For a long while, I put that story aside, and eventually, I decided to rewrite it instead of continuing it (I'll remove DoB from this site in a day or two). I just finished this prologue (so it might need some more work), but I decided to post it at the beginning of this (hopefully great) year just to say that I haven't abandoned Sakura's story. It may take a while for me to post the actual chapters, since I'm still quite busy with research (books upon books upon books). But what can you expect? Sakura's childhood (Little Tokyo), her family (parents, brother, grandmother, uncle, aunt, cousins), her education (high school, nursing school, etc), the Depression (unemployment), pre-Pearl Harbor (which is exciting in my head, but on paper? We'll see), post-Pearl Harbor (the consequences), the internment (I have so much on that portion of the story, I could probably write the internment chapters now), and Other Stuff. So, it will take a while before we actually meet Easy Company. I hope this is interesting, and I hope I'll please everyone who has been so patient for so long. Thank you for hanging in there. You're all the best!