by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

It was just after 11 a.m. Sunday. I had just finished subbing a step class at 24 Hour Fitness in Millbrae. A fit woman, perhaps around my age, walked up to me after class. Thin-rimmed glasses framed her petite, rectangular face. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a headband.

“You should teach step here,” the woman said as we walked toward the locker room. Before going in, the woman stopped and gave me a serious look.

“So you’re Japanese,” she said with a smile.

I nodded, pleasantly surprised that the woman could “see” that I was Japanese. Usually, the new people I met expressed shock when I told them that my mother had come from Hokkaido because I looked more like my African American father.

“You can tell?” I asked hopefully.

“Yes,” she said. “Your name gives it away.”

I smiled, heartened that my name had given me such a clear connection to my Japanese heritage.

“So, do you speak Japanese?” the woman asked in a bit of a Mother-knows-best tone.
I cringed, knowing that my answer would not please this woman.

“Skoshi … hanashimasu,” I said tentatively, wondering if I had completely messed up the verb choice.

The woman began speaking in Japanese. I could barely make out any of the words that came racing from her tiny mouth. My friend Melissa, who had come to Millbrae with me that morning, began to chuckle.

“Watashi no okaasan … nakunarimashita,” I said, praying that I had come close to correctly pronouncing the word for “dying” enough so she could understand me.

“Oh,” she said, gesturing sadness with a slight nod of her head.

The woman resumed her Japanese, mentioning something about her mother. Yes, her mother died, too, she said.

“Your mother died too?” I said, trying to indicate that I understand some of what she said.

“Yes, in 1990,” she said.

“We lost our mothers about the same time,” I said, hoping the moment would allow us to bond – and speak in English. “I’m so sorry.”

The woman slipped back into Japanese. My mind began to whirl. I felt like it was test day in my Japanese 101 class with Asano Sensei at San Francisco State University.

All I could make out was something I heard her ask about my father and a verb that sounded like “iteku,” or “itaku.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Your Japanese is terrible!” she exclaimed.

A lump formed in my throat, but I tried to maintain my composure. I didn’t want the woman or my friend Melissa to see me crumple in embarrassment.

And after all, this woman was right. My Japanese was horrible. Though I had spoken a decent amount of Japanese when I went back to Japan in 2001, I had clearly forgotten much of it.

“I know. I can’t remember anything anymore. Maybe I should take Japanese from you?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I shouldn’t teach you Japanese,” the woman scolded me. “We should speak Japanese together.”

The woman was again right, but my ears grew hot. I felt like a little girl who had just gotten in trouble for not making her bed.

“Well, I’d better go,” I said. I wanted to tell the woman I would see her soon in Japanese, but the only way I knew how, “Ja … ne,” seemed too casual. Besides, she probably wouldn’t want to speak to me again.

I headed for the exit. I had planned to shower at the new gym, but decided going home was a better idea.

“I really hope to see you again,” the woman said slowly, in English.

I turned back and waved my hand towel. The tension in my shoulders released. “I hope so too.”