Riding on the train, I literally could not sit still. I was about to see the family that took me in as a college student when I studied abroad in Japan 15 years ago, and my hands were shaking.
I’ve always felt lucky that my host family and I had
maintained a connection over the years, even if the communications came
sparingly, and was usually initiated by me. I would send nengajou cards
every New Year’s for a while, my host sister and I were friends on Facebook,
and I contacted them during the Tsunami and nuclear crisis in March of 2011,
even though I knew they were not near the disaster and fallout. I just wanted
them to know I was thinking about them and the country I considered my home
away from home.
But I always had a nagging feeling that they were only
humoring this homesick-for-Japan-American. Now that I’m a professional in
international education, and prepare college students for their own study
abroad and potential home stay, I often reflect on my time living with the Suzukis. Did I follow the advice I give my own students? Was I a respectful
and dutiful home stay student? In my own eyes, I often come up short when
compared to the standards I set for my own students. Each time I send messages
to my host father, I always worry he would role his eyes and tell host mother
that “the crazy American girl is writing to us again."
As I sat on the train headed to the station where my host
father said he would meet me, my emotions where a mix of excitement and
nervousness. I realized it had been
fifteen years since my host mother gave me the biggest bear hug in history when
arriving at my host school. Would I
recognize them? Would they recognize me, now that I’m in my mid-thirties,
married with two children (and a much shorter haircut!)?
I purposefully arrived a few minutes early, and anxiously
watched the passersby for a familiar face.
And then, I saw him. Standing by
the turnstiles, “otoosan” (father, in Japanese), looking at me with a quizzical
look, trying to figure out if I was the young woman he met for the first time
at his kitchen table, and welcomed into his home.
“Otoosan!” I exclaimed, and felt tears leap to my eyes! I
ran over to this man who faithfully made me breakfast every morning before work
(fried egg, salad, and sausage, with orange juice), and gave him as big of a
hug as an elderly Japanese man could stand.
Okaasan (Japanese for mother), soon followed behind him, and
both of us had to struggle to contain our emotion. Our reunion in the subway
station was one of the happiest moments I could have dreamed of. I couldn’t stop smiling, and both my host
parents marveled over how long ago I arrived, and how little that time seemed
to matter. We spent the afternoon enjoying “shabushabu” and enjoying
the magic skills of their two beautiful grandchildren!
The reunion was going better than I had hoped, but all the
while, I still worried. I wanted to let
them know how much I appreciated them opening their home to me, and that I
loved them dearly. I told them I was
probably a very bad student, but I wanted to thank them from the bottom of my
heart and let them know I appreciated everything they did for me, and they were
a very important part of my life (and thankfully my Japanese was still good
enough to express these thoughts).
My host mother responded with: “Mandy, we have 3 daughters.
Our two children, and you.”
My heart just about exploded with joy. All of my fears
evaporated, and I knew that it wasn’t just me who thought our time together was
special.
When it was time to go, Otoosan gave me the traditional
farewell when you leave home:
“Itteraishai” (Come back soon)
“Ittekimasu” (I will come back), I responded, as tears
threatened to fall.
Although I only spent 10 months in Nagoya, Japan, and
I now have a family and career in the U.S., the Suzukis will forever be my
family, and I will forever be theirs. I just hope I have the privilege of
seeing them again soon. If I’m lucky, they can come to my home, I will host
them.
