Ruth giggled. It was so good, Etsuko thought, to see the happiness in those sparkling brown eyes.
She said, “There is a saying in Japanese: ‘To love a child as if it were a butterfly or a flower.’ Will you be my flower, little one?”
Ruth considered that. “I’d rather be a butterfly.”
“Then so you are. Good night, butterfly.” She leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then went to join Taizo, who was already asleep.
Ruth lay there in the dark for a minute, listening to her father’s soft snoring and the rustle of blankets as her mother settled into bed.
Her father. Her mother. She had a father and a mother! It was a source of wonder and delight to her. She would have to work extra hard at mastering the chopsticks and pronouncing the Japanese words, so they had no reason to send her back to Kapi'olani Home.
That was her last waking thought before, exhausted, she drifted asleep.
Etsuko woke in the dark hours of the morning to find Mayonaka, as was her wont, curled up on her hip. Etsuko lifted the cat up, gently and quietly so as not to wake her, then carried her over to Ruth. She lay the cat down beside her daughter—my daughter; how strange and wonderful that sounds!—with Mayonaka’s back brushing Dai’s arm. The cat stirred, eyes opening to take in her new surroundings; then, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort to move, she closed her eyes and drifted back into cat dreams.
Etsuko smiled and returned to Taizo’s side.
Later—when Mayonaka decided, for reasons only a cat knows, to turn 360 degrees around and then curl up again in precisely the same position—Ruth woke. When she saw the cat dozing contentedly on her arm—felt the soft warmth of its fur on her skin—her eyes filled with tears of joy. She smiled, then closed her eyes, doing her best not to move, and was lulled back to sleep by the soothing trill of Mayonaka’s soft purr.
* * *
In September Ruth entered the first grade at Kauluwela Grammar School, where she was part of a class of about thirty students—Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, and Hawaiian. Even her teacher, Miss Fukuda, was a Nisei born twenty-two years ago in Honolulu. Ruth liked Miss Fukuda; she was smart and nice and made learning the alphabet fun.
But after the Kauluwela school day ended at three P.M., classes were far from over. Each afternoon she and her brothers had to attend Japanese school in the basement of the Buddhist church. There they learned about Japanese culture—etiquette, piety toward ancestors, patience, courtesy, obligation, and the Japanese language itself. At her first class the teacher began by declaring “Kiritsu!”—“Attention,” as Ralph whispered to her—and all the students stood and recited the kōkun, the school motto. To Ruth, at first, the Japanese words were unintelligible, like one of the sinister magic spells, spoken in Hawaiian, in the ghost stories Maile used to tell. But over the next four months, Ruth’s six-year-old brain soaked up both the English alphabet and the Chinese kanji characters as a sea sponge absorbs water, and within four months she was able to join in reciting the kōkun and understood it to mean:
Let us become worthy individuals.
Let us study together in a friendly atmosphere.
Let us take care of our health by eating properly.
Let us be good to our parents.
This was a far cry from a kahuna sorcerer’s spell and, frankly, a bit of a disappointment.
But Japanese school was valuable in explaining the unspoken, often mystifying rules that Ruth found herself unknowingly breaking at home: Lift your rice bowl politely with both hands to ask for more, but it is acceptable to lift it with your left hand when eating from it. Never, ever cross your chopsticks when putting them down. Always remove socks or stockings before walking on a tatami mat, as their finely woven fibers are very delicate. When being taught by an elder, always be attentive, deferential, respectful, and display a willingness to learn.
The hardest thing for Ruth to learn was to speak more softly, avoiding loudness, confrontation, and physical displays of affection in public.
It was also at Japanese school that Ruth heard something that would soon become a disturbing refrain. On her first day she overheard a boy ask Stanley in pidgin, “Why your parents hānai a girl? Dey pupule or somethin’?”
Hānai, Ruth knew, meant “adopt”; pupule meant “crazy.”
“I dunno why,” Stanley shot back, “but dey ain’t pupule so no talk stink about ’em!”
The other boy shrugged and let it go. Ruth tried to do the same.
But she overheard variations on this from other boys and each time her brothers defended their parents with a very un-Japanese belligerence.
She shrugged it off as silly boy-talk until, one day, she and Ralph were walking home and they passed Mr. Komenaka’s general store. They saw him watching them from the doorway, then laugh and say to a coworker:
“Shinji rareru? Ano bakana Watanabe ga on’nanoko wo morrate kitanda!”
Ruth was surprised to find that she understood both the laugh and the words: “Can you believe it? That fool Watanabe adopted a girl!”
She turned and glared at the man, who saw the hurt and confusion in her eyes and quickly retreated to the safety of his store.
“Hey,” Ralph said, “it’s okay, Ruth, he’s just a—”
Ruth burst into tears and ran. She raced down Kukui Street, jostling pedestrians, nearly colliding with rickety food carts, Ralph in hot pursuit but half a length behind. At the back door of the store, Ruth rushed past a startled Etsuko in the downstairs kitchen, kicked off her sandals, then ran upstairs and into the apartment’s sleeping area, where she flung herself, sobbing, onto her futon.
A few minutes later—having been told what transpired by a still-huffing-and-puffing Ralph—Etsuko appeared and said softly, “Butterfly?” When Ruth didn’t respond, Etsuko sat down next to her, put a hand on her back consolingly, and said, “I’m sorry, little one. Komenaka-san was very rude. I will never enter his store again.”
“It’s not just him!” Ruth said between sobs. “I hear it at school too!”
Etsuko sighed. “I had hoped you would not. Dai, come here.” She gathered Ruth up in her arms and held her close. “Do not take this personally. It’s just that …
“In Japan, the birth of sons is favored over that of daughters because boys carry the family name, and the family name is very, very important. A girl marries into someone else’s family, you see, and takes their name. So Komenaka-san could not understand why we would choose to adopt a girl.”
Ruth sniffed back her tears and said, “Why did you?”
Etsuko said quietly, “I had always secretly hoped to have a girl, so I might have someone to make a pretty kimono for, to teach how to sew and cook and pass on all I’ve learned in life. But after Ralph was born, the doctor said I could not have any more children. Your father is not like other men. He knows what sorrow is. He knew my sorrow and was willing to brave the smirks and ridicule of foolish men.” She smiled. “But the reason I wanted you, butterfly, was because I fell in love with you the instant I saw you.”
Ruth said meekly, “So—you’re not going to give me back? To the sisters?”
“Oh, dearest one, no, never, never. We will love you forever.”
Ruth held tight to her mother, more tightly than she had ever held anyone. For the first time in her life, she felt she truly belonged somewhere.
Etsuko held on just as tightly. What she told Ruth was only half the truth—but it was Etsuko’s truth.
* * *