When New York Yankees outfielder Hideki Matsui (right) fractured his left wrist making a catch in 2006, the Japanese baseball star apologized (!) to teammates and fans, promising he would do everything possible to heal as quickly as possible. Or even more quickly than possible. And he would not let pain or the rigors of rehabilitation stand in his way.
Ganbatte! Persist! Do your best! Many parents, teachers, coaches, and office managers in Japan exhort their charges to work hard, to be determined, to persevere. Sometimes, even friends use the phrase.
Roger J. Davies and Osamu Ikeno, authors of The Japanese Mind: Understanding Contemporary Culture, rightly contrast this with the American mantra, “take it easy.” Matsui’s former manager, Joe Torre, may advise a tense player to “just go out there and have fun,” but that’s not the way Matsui was brought up.
My wife, who spent most of her childhood in Japan, understands. She says that the “ganbatte” imperative does not just mean “Do your best!” – but “Do better than your best!” And don’t even think of wimping out.
Surviving World War II
Carol, the aforementioned wife, is the daughter of a Japanese woman who could teach us all a thing or two about gambari (persistence). Her mother, Mieko, lost her first husband, a member of the Imperial Armed Forces, during World War II. At the time, Mieko and her baby boy, Kazumi, were living with her husband’s parents. When Mieko refused their order to wed their second son, they made her leave their home.
Struggling to survive in a country destroyed by war, Mieko eventually had to give Kazumi to her in-laws so he would have a chance for a better life. She then soldiered on, eventually meeting a handsome American serving in the occupation. They got married, he wangled military assignments that kept them in Japan for much of the next 20 years, and she had five more children, including the one I was lucky enough to wed.
But Mieko never gave up the wish to reconnect with Kazumi. The problem, though, was that the boy’s paternal grandparents had died in the 1940s, leaving no clue as to his whereabouts. She made inquiries for years; she had persevered just to survive, and now she persevered in the search for her firstborn.
In 1975, Mieko’s sister finally helped her track Kazumi down. He traveled to Tacoma, Washington, where Mieko and her family were now living, and thanks to sheer, never-say-die gambari, mother and son were reunited.
Family Reunion, Japan-Style
Fast-forward 15 years to my virgin visit to Japan. Carol and I spent the first week visiting Carol’s old haunts, savoring Kyoto and Nara and Takayama, and loving everything we ate, with the notable exception of uni (sea urchin), one of the few foods that I simply cannot abide. And we looked forward to Week Two, because that’s when we would visit Kazumi and his family, whom I would finally meet. Carol’s parents and one sister had flown over from Washington State, and I’d also see Mieko’s 93-year-old mother.
When Kazumi picked us up at the Kawaguchi station, he impressed me as a trim, charismatic man, a Japanese Paul Newman who drove like a Formula One racing champ. He took us to his home, which is built on a relatively large plot, and he and his wife, Fumiko, along with their grown children, made us feel thoroughly welcome.
The Sushi Challenge
We sat at the traditionally low dinner table, nursing Asahi beers, and fielding questions from Carol’s maternal grandmother, who was fascinated by all the hair on my forearms. Then the doorbell rang. A delivery man entered with three huge boxes of sushi and sushi, an extravagant and delicious gesture. More beers materialized, we toasted the fact that we were all together, and we reached our ohashi (chopsticks) into one of the boxes.
This gaijin wasn’t really paying attention to the selection, but when I brought my ohashi closer to my face, something wasn’t right. “Carol,” I whispered, “this is a kind of sushi I’ve never eaten before. What is it?”
She hesitated, then whispered back, “It’s uni.”
I looked up at Kazumi, Fumiko, Mieko, and Obaa-san (Grandma). They were all looking back at me. “What should I do?” I muttered under my breath, panic-stricken.
Turning her head so only I could see her face, Carol smiled a little and whispered one word: “Ganbatte!”
Adapted from To Japan With Love, edited by Celeste Heiter.
Comments