Читать книгу Becoming Mama-San - Mary Matsuda Gruenewald - Страница 14

My father was one of many Japanese men who immigrated to the United States at the turn of the 20th century. He started with nothing, or even less than nothing, since he had to borrow money in order to pay for his passage from his native Japan to Hawaii. He was the fourth of five sons, and since Japanese tradition dictated that the oldest son inherited the family home and took care of the parents, Papa-san was free to seek his own way.

Papa-san was 18 years old when he left home, and in those days the only way to cross the Pacific Ocean was by ship—a long, expensive, and potentially hazardous journey. To pay for his passage to the United States, he initially worked in the sugarcane fields in Hawaii and in the coalmines in Alaska. Like most foreigners who didn’t speak English well, Papa-san’s opportunities were limited to minimum wage jobs with long hours and hard labor. And yet he seemed to thrive on this. When I was growing up, not once did I hear him complain about what must have been difficult years.

Part of the secret of Papa-san’s success was that he actually enjoyed work. He took pride in doing even simple, repetitive jobs well, so he had little need to distract himself during his leisure time. His work ethic was not forced; it was part of who he was.

For several decades, Papa-san labored, first, to get out of debt, and second, to accumulate savings. Unlike many people at the time, he did not invest in the stock market; instead, he put his money into an account at a savings and loan. He also followed the advice of a friend and invested in a $1,000 New York Life Insurance policy as a way to earn additional funds over time. I often marveled at how he could be so focused on future gains, denying himself the pleasures that other single Japanese men engaged in. Many of them gambled, or drank to excess, or just daydreamed about future possibilities, but not Papa-san.

He had a goal: To find himself a Japanese bride who shared his vision of raising a family in America. He was not content to take his chances with a picture bride. Most of his peers selected their brides from a book of photographs, sparing themselves the huge expense of a round-trip voyage to Japan. Papa-san was patient, willing to wait, and work, for the most important decision of his life.

When Papa-san returned to Japan to select his bride, he employed the help of a baishakunin (go-between). Traditionally, a third party chose potential couples. This was to eliminate the possibility of diseases, insanity, or alcoholism in the marriage, to ensure matches were made with members of the appropriate class, and to keep both families happy with the outcome.

Even though my parents initially met with the assistance of a baishakunin, the two of them had an unusually long and honest first meeting. They discussed Papa-san’s life in the United States and what each one might want from a life spent together in a new country. Traditionally, the man would have simply stated the terms of the relationship and expected his prospective bride to accept. It was unusual for Papa-san to consider his potential bride’s opinion, much less for him to ask about her hopes and concerns as a peer.

As it turned out, my mother was adventurous and a good match for my father. She appreciated being treated as an equal partner and eagerly embraced my father’s dreams. She really wanted to come to the United States, and was very happy with Papa-san’s proposal to make America their permanent home. My parents were married in Japan in 1922, and came to the United States where they lived for the rest of their lives.

Mama-san was different from many other Japanese brides, some of whom arrived in the United States and were disappointed to discover that their new mates were lowly farmers or laborers. Few of the picture brides even knew what their husbands looked like before arriving here. Still, many young Japanese women preferred the risk of an anonymous marriage in a far-off country to the fate that could have awaited them back home. In the Japanese culture of the early 20th century, marrying a man usually meant living with him in his parents’ home—and possibly enduring a life of servitude under both her husband and her in-laws. Traditionally, the bride was the lowest ranking member of the Japanese household with many responsibilities and few privileges.

The United States was attractive because of the promise of opportunity. Land was plentiful, and the news reaching Japan was that there were many prospects for making money in this young, rapidly growing country. However, Japanese immigrants could not know the difficulties that awaited them. For those brides brave enough to accept the proposals, their passage to this country, paid for by their husbands, was irreversible. Once here, some of the women felt stuck in unhappy situations with no reasonable alternatives. Out of necessity, they adopted an attitude of “shikata ga nai” (it cannot be helped) and “gaman suru” (persevere). This stoic acceptance of their situation would later prove critical during the hardships Japanese Americans would face during World War II.

In a sense, Mama-san was just as “stuck” as the other picture brides, except for her frame of mind: She understood and accepted the hardships of starting a new life, and chose to be happy with her decision. Together, they would handle any difficulties that might come their way.

In their early years together, they lived with other Japanese families in the Seattle area for social and financial support. This allowed them to continue to save for a few more years, and gave Mama-san a chance to adapt to her new environment and learn the farming profession. Living with others also provided a few more helping hands for raising my brother and me when we were infants. In time, they moved to a rented house on Vashon Island, and for the first time the two of them farmed the land by themselves.

By early 1929, Papa-san’s savings had increased considerably and he could have kept his money invested, but he knew when he had enough. Papa-san cashed in his savings account and life insurance policy, bought our 10-acre farm, and built our house. He paid cash, which was more common in those days, prior to the development of the modern mortgage market.

My parents established a simple way of life when I was young, and we were mostly isolated from outside influences. As a child, I had no reason to want anything more than what I already had. Working every day, especially in spring, was a part of my childhood, but I didn’t necessarily consider it work. It was just a part of being in my family. I didn’t earn money for my efforts. As a child, money wasn’t necessary or expected, and I’m not even sure it occurred to my parents to give me any. They already provided everything I needed. As a result, I never got into the habit of spending money in order to feel satisfied. And because I didn’t have money, it was never a solution to any problem I may have had as a young person.

But as I grew up and went to school, I began to compare myself with other children. Gradually, I realized that some of them had things that I didn’t. For the first time, I started developing yearnings beyond my basic needs.

Every fall, before the school year began, our family took the twenty-minute ferryboat ride to the mainland to buy school clothes for the year. This was a big adventure, and I really looked forward to shopping at Rhodes Brothers, a department store in Seattle. Sometimes, we’d shop at JC Penney. One year, when I was in the eighth grade, I found myself looking forward to clothes shopping more than the family outing. When we got to Rhodes, I immediately found an outfit that I just loved. It was a turquoise and magenta plaid jacket, a pleated magenta skirt, and a white blouse.

While Yoneichi and Papa-san went off to another part of the store, I continued to look at all of the other possibilities. Over and over again, I brought various combinations to show Mama-san. “Don’t these look beautiful together?” I asked.

“Ah, very nice,” she replied. “That would look very good on you.”

Soon, I had quite a pile of outfits to consider. Eventually, I decided on three outfits and arranged them side-by-side. I was imagining the compliments my school friends would pay me if I were to wear each of them. Caught up in my thoughts, Mama-san finally called out to me in a quiet, questioning tone. “Mary-san?”

I looked over at her. She raised an eyebrow, and with a gentle, almost amused expression, asked, “How much is enough, Mary-san?”

The question caught me completely off guard. I stared at her, open-mouthed, for a long time. “I—I—I don’t know,” I said.

My cheeks flushed, and I looked away, embarrassed. When I glanced back at Mama-san, she gave me a reassuring smile and nod, and I felt better. She was still proud of me.

I turned back to the three outfits. Then I scanned the dozens of racks of clothes in the store, with hundreds of clothing choices. How much, I asked myself.

Mama-san could have just told me how much was enough, but then I wouldn’t have had to think about it for myself.

Mama-san and Papa-san wore simple, serviceable work clothes day after day as they worked in the fields. They wore khaki work pants, long sleeve shirts, sturdy shoes, and a hat; that was all they needed. They each had a nice outfit for special occasions, but nothing more.

Did I really want a lot of nice clothes, which would only make my friends envious? I wondered.

I had always been taught not to show off, and I had certainly been tempted to do so, even right there in the department store. I decided I only needed two sets of new clothes. I still had nice clothes from previous years that were in good shape and still fit me. I kept my original choices, including the turquoise and magenta plaid jacket! On that day, I also learned to ask myself, How much is enough? A simple self-examination that has stayed with me a lifetime.

My parents never bought more than they were able to afford and use. Even when our finances improved and we were fairly comfortable, they never wasted anything. Mama-san continued to save pieces of string to tie up sweet pea vines by the house or climbing pea plants in the vegetable garden. She saved paper bags that could be used again for another purpose. Coffee grounds and peelings from fruits and vegetables were buried in the garden. My parents didn’t think of themselves as frugal. They just naturally recycled useful things. Back then, we didn’t have a garbage service to take away our trash every week, so we found that reusing and recycling was easier than throwing things out.

My mother and father bought everything we needed with cash. Credit cards didn’t exist in those days, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. If my parents didn’t have the money, they wouldn’t buy at that time, and so they always stayed within their means. Their frugality was not forced, and neither did they ever express any sense of feeling deprived of any luxury.

In the course of their lifetimes, my parents accumulated few material possessions. Instead, they found something wonderful about the quiet pleasure of saving and living well within their means. Perhaps some of this came from their lives as farmers. Even today, professional farmers know that each year’s crop is at the mercy of the weather and other forces beyond their control. Such uncertainty naturally tends to create a sense of restraint when it comes to money. They never know whether next year’s crop will be a success or failure.

Of course, life today is much different than the life I led while growing up on Vashon. Yet, today, there is movement toward voluntary simplicity and rediscovering ways to live with fewer things and find greater happiness. Along the way, there are many unexpected benefits to reap: the pleasure of sharing our abundance with those in need, rediscovering the benefits of physical fitness, and enjoying “doing” rather than “having.” This approach may seem new in modern times, but it isn’t. What is old is now new again.

My parents instinctively understood this concept of voluntary simplicity. They would have been surprised to discover that people were writing books about a lifestyle they took for granted. They recognized what was needed in order to live a modest yet elegant life, close to the land, and they knew how much was enough.