It has been a fascinating experience to marry into a
Japanese-American family. Before marrying my husband, I had never
tasted sushi, never heard of an origami crane or tried using
chopsticks. As we celebrate my father-in-law’s 85th birthday this
week, I think back over the adventure of joining this family.
It has been a fascinating experience to marry into a Japanese-American family. Before marrying my husband, I had never tasted sushi, never heard of an origami crane or tried using chopsticks. As we celebrate my father-in-law’s 85th birthday this week, I think back over the adventure of joining this family.
When Henry Hideo Teraji heard I was going to marry his son, his reaction was not what I had anticipated. He informed his son for the first time – that he was expected to marry a Japanese woman.
“It’s a little late for that dad. We’re already engaged,” Steve said.
“Only a Japanese woman will be the best wife,” Henry said.
He can’t be serious, can he? I was shocked.
“I will line up a group of Japanese women for you to choose from,” Henry said.
“What would I have to say to these women?” Steve asked. “I don’t even speak Japanese.”
But I was really worried about how much influence his father might have. What if Steve listened to him and broke off our engagement? My future was in jeopardy. So I did what I always do when I am stressed out: I wrote.
I wrote a letter to my future father-in-law, and I told him all the reasons why I would be the best wife for his son. I reminded him his son and I had gone to the same junior high, high school and community college; that we had studied philosophy and logic together; that we speak the same language. We grew up on the same side of the same town, and we had been friends for 11 years. I said that no one would ever understand his son the way I do.
In typical indirect Japanese style, Henry never said a word after reading the letter. We never discussed it. But from that day forward, he smiled at me every time we met. I felt totally accepted. That was that.
Later on, Steve gave me a card depicting a traditional ancient Japanese wood block painting of portraits of Japanese women with fierce and frightening expressions on their faces.
“Is this what I am missing out on?” he had written in the card. I was relieved that he was keeping a sense of humor about it.
On one of our first dates, Steve took me to an 80th birthday party for his Aunt Helen – a significant birthday in Japanese culture, and a time of great honor. I walked into the restaurant as the only Caucasian among 80 Japanese guests. I felt like a giant towering over everyone there.
“Does she need a fork?” was the question of the hour.
“No, I do not!” I was determined to use chopsticks for the first time. As I somehow made it to my lips with a morsel of some exotic unrecognizable food, I could catch the slightest hint of a whisper wafting across the room.
“She’s eating it. Look, she’s eating it!”
It took a long while, but I finally managed to get everything from the plate to my mouth. It was only after the entire dinner was over that I discovered what everyone was too polite to mention: I had been holding the chopsticks upside down for the entire meal. I thought I could grab more food with the wide end.
My Japanese in-laws and my English-Irish-Welsh-Scottish-German-Swedish parents became the best of pals, spending every holiday and attending all family functions together. My parents were included at every wedding, family celebration and reunion for Steve’s 200-plus Japanese-American family. My parents were never allowed to pay for anything.
Although many family members had experienced being imprisoned in internment camps during World War II, I never heard any complaining or bitterness expressed. All I ever witnessed was acceptance, resilience, kindness and generosity.
When I was opening the stack of wedding cards we took with us on our honeymoon, I was shocked to discover money inside the cards – this would have never happened in my family – with $20, $40, $50, $100 and even $500 tucked inside card after card.
“Had I known the generosity of your family would enable us to make a profit on our own wedding,” I exclaimed to my husband, “I would have bought a fancier wedding dress!”
My mother-in-law died shortly after my father. After that, my mom and his dad attended the same church together every Sunday morning so they wouldn’t be alone. I will never forget Henry driving over to pick up my mom each Sunday for church until the time she passed away.
When you marry, you not only marry your fiance, but you also marry his family. It seems like only yesterday, but how fortunate I have been to be so enriched by this Japanese-American family I became a part of 20 years ago.
