Translating poems with my mother
tremendous sense of disappointment, solitude, and regret about her orphaned childhood. When she approached her senior years, she became much more
open, encouraging in a way she was never able to be. I explained to her that the translation project my advisor wanted me to do, was a substitute for Purdue’
s language requirement. She laughed.
“You can get away from it, that’s not right.” But she agreed to work with me. She asked me to study as much Japanese as I could, before I came home
for Thanksgiving and winter break. I didn’t see how brushing up on very rudimentary Japanese was going to help me be a better translator, but I said I would
try to study. She reminded me of what her cousin had once told me, from his Tokyo death bed, 12 years ago — that I had to learn Japanese. My mother’s
cousin was a very literate man, and was interested in my writing, because I wrote English language versions of traditional Japanese forms. He had been a
mentor to my mother when they were young in the 1960s. He took her to see films and recommended books to her. He became a famous broadcast journalist
in Tokyo. By the time I visited him in the mid-‘90s, he had been diagnosed with cancer, and had only months to live. For years, my mother had turned him
into a myth, this great intellectual, successful man who shaped her vision, perhaps, of who I was meant to be. She liked to brag that her cousin was a
bohemian in college who wore the same suit every day, and no matter where his books were stored, he remembered where each one sat, on which case and
shelf.
Unlike my other relatives in Japan, who were down-to-earth, modest, working people; my mother’s cousin struck me as a brilliant and charismatic man. I
will never forget walking into his hospital room, expecting to see a pale man, half alive, waving at me with a weak hand he could barely lift. Instead, he sat
upright in his bed, with great energy, and extended his hand to me. “Nice to meet you,” he said, in perfect English. He asked me many questions about my
writing and what my aspirations were. I gave him a copy of my chapbook of English language poems written in Japanese forms. Later I learned that he
finished reading the book a few days before he died. He wrote on a piece of paper that he regretted not being able to talk to me about my book. It was a
letter he began writing to me, but was too sick to finish. Though my encounter with him was incredibly brief, he remains the only relative on both my mother’
s and father’s side of the family who expressed genuine interest in my work, and who seemed to understand me. As far as I know, he had never expressed any
interest in meeting me.
I think my mother waited until he was dying, to introduce him to me. My family is rooted in Buddhism and the fatalistic, Japanese idea of Shoganai,
which can be translated as “there’s nothing you can do about it,” or “so be it.” According to another definition I found online, Shoganai is the equivalent of c’
est la vie, but with an important difference: where c’est la vie and its foreign variants focus on external circumstances, shoganai focuses on the inability of
the actor to change those circumstances.”
There was no previous occasion for me to meet my mother’s cousin, though I’d spent every summer of my youth in Tokyo. My mother, a typical old-
fashioned Japanese, didn’t see life as a narrative arc, with dramatic turning points. Death was merely an occasion, and she was obligated to pay a visit to
her cousin. I happened to accompany her on this trip to Japan. Maybe she never intended for me to meet him.
open, encouraging in a way she was never able to be. I explained to her that the translation project my advisor wanted me to do, was a substitute for Purdue’
s language requirement. She laughed.
“You can get away from it, that’s not right.” But she agreed to work with me. She asked me to study as much Japanese as I could, before I came home
for Thanksgiving and winter break. I didn’t see how brushing up on very rudimentary Japanese was going to help me be a better translator, but I said I would
try to study. She reminded me of what her cousin had once told me, from his Tokyo death bed, 12 years ago — that I had to learn Japanese. My mother’s
cousin was a very literate man, and was interested in my writing, because I wrote English language versions of traditional Japanese forms. He had been a
mentor to my mother when they were young in the 1960s. He took her to see films and recommended books to her. He became a famous broadcast journalist
in Tokyo. By the time I visited him in the mid-‘90s, he had been diagnosed with cancer, and had only months to live. For years, my mother had turned him
into a myth, this great intellectual, successful man who shaped her vision, perhaps, of who I was meant to be. She liked to brag that her cousin was a
bohemian in college who wore the same suit every day, and no matter where his books were stored, he remembered where each one sat, on which case and
shelf.
Unlike my other relatives in Japan, who were down-to-earth, modest, working people; my mother’s cousin struck me as a brilliant and charismatic man. I
will never forget walking into his hospital room, expecting to see a pale man, half alive, waving at me with a weak hand he could barely lift. Instead, he sat
upright in his bed, with great energy, and extended his hand to me. “Nice to meet you,” he said, in perfect English. He asked me many questions about my
writing and what my aspirations were. I gave him a copy of my chapbook of English language poems written in Japanese forms. Later I learned that he
finished reading the book a few days before he died. He wrote on a piece of paper that he regretted not being able to talk to me about my book. It was a
letter he began writing to me, but was too sick to finish. Though my encounter with him was incredibly brief, he remains the only relative on both my mother’
s and father’s side of the family who expressed genuine interest in my work, and who seemed to understand me. As far as I know, he had never expressed any
interest in meeting me.
I think my mother waited until he was dying, to introduce him to me. My family is rooted in Buddhism and the fatalistic, Japanese idea of Shoganai,
which can be translated as “there’s nothing you can do about it,” or “so be it.” According to another definition I found online, Shoganai is the equivalent of c’
est la vie, but with an important difference: where c’est la vie and its foreign variants focus on external circumstances, shoganai focuses on the inability of
the actor to change those circumstances.”
There was no previous occasion for me to meet my mother’s cousin, though I’d spent every summer of my youth in Tokyo. My mother, a typical old-
fashioned Japanese, didn’t see life as a narrative arc, with dramatic turning points. Death was merely an occasion, and she was obligated to pay a visit to
her cousin. I happened to accompany her on this trip to Japan. Maybe she never intended for me to meet him.
by Kenny Tanemura
Glimmering and Glints
When I called my mother, I talked about my professor, Mary Leader, and the idea she had for my language
requirement. I told her what I hoped she would do, in helping me with the translations of Japanese poetry. I thought
she would laugh, not in a way that expressed a sense of humor, but in a dismissive, don’t-bother-me kind of way. I
always felt lonely calling my mother. Even before our communication was cut off, I remember her as distant,
wrapped up in immigrant sadness. Our communication was cut off, because my mother spoke only Japanese, and
my second-grade teacher complained to my father that I had a speech impediment because I mixed “strange
sounds” with English words, and “grunted like a dog” when I spoke. I will never forgive the ignorance of Mrs. Swift. My
father forced me from that day on to speak only English in the house. I still can’t believe that Mrs. Swift didn’t
recognize the “strange sounds” I was making as Japanese words, or at least some kind of Asian language. Japanese
people grunt — this isn’t the right word, it’s more like a “Hmmmm” with closed lips — to let the other person know that
they are still listening, responding, reacting to what is being said. My mother felt like she had no say in the matter, as
she later related to me. She felt like a bystander in her own family, in motherhood, in her life. I forget that she was
young still, in her late twenties and early thirties, when I was in elementary school, and must have lived with a
Glimmering and Glints
When I called my mother, I talked about my professor, Mary Leader, and the idea she had for my language
requirement. I told her what I hoped she would do, in helping me with the translations of Japanese poetry. I thought
she would laugh, not in a way that expressed a sense of humor, but in a dismissive, don’t-bother-me kind of way. I
always felt lonely calling my mother. Even before our communication was cut off, I remember her as distant,
wrapped up in immigrant sadness. Our communication was cut off, because my mother spoke only Japanese, and
my second-grade teacher complained to my father that I had a speech impediment because I mixed “strange
sounds” with English words, and “grunted like a dog” when I spoke. I will never forgive the ignorance of Mrs. Swift. My
father forced me from that day on to speak only English in the house. I still can’t believe that Mrs. Swift didn’t
recognize the “strange sounds” I was making as Japanese words, or at least some kind of Asian language. Japanese
people grunt — this isn’t the right word, it’s more like a “Hmmmm” with closed lips — to let the other person know that
they are still listening, responding, reacting to what is being said. My mother felt like she had no say in the matter, as
she later related to me. She felt like a bystander in her own family, in motherhood, in her life. I forget that she was
young still, in her late twenties and early thirties, when I was in elementary school, and must have lived with a