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“I want to be a scholar.”

I knew the path ahead was a rocky one. I was born in Shizuoka; I grew up in Tokyo; and I went to the States where I graduated from High School and University. When I entered grad school in Tokyo after returning to Japan, I began researching radio broadcasts that had been jointly produced by GHQ (General Headquarters; the Allied Occupation forces) and NHK immediately after the war. In those radio broadcasts, there survive the voices of the defeated Japanese addressing a victorious America. By lending an ear to those voices, I came to confront my own upbringing in the cultures of both Japan and the United States.

While I became increasingly confident in my research, I wondered more and more about what would happen if I just stopped. One winter, while in Kyoto to attend a conference, I was tormented by such thoughts. Thinking something sweet would cheer me up, I quickly searched “Kyoto,” “Japanese sweets,” and “tasty.” Guided by the pale light of the phone glowing dimly in my palm, I set out alone for the shop.

It was a charming café straight out of a novel. I found myself seeking personal advice from the owner, who somehow reminded me of my grandfather.

“You’re a young woman. You can do anything you choose, can’t you?”
Indeed; there is no single path in life.
“Thank you very much, it was delicious.”
As I was about to stand up and go, the owner, who had perhaps heard my voiceless voice, murmured:
“I wonder when she will be back for her next conference…”

Unable to offer adequate thanks, I left the shop in a hurry and allowed myself to cry until I reached the nearest station.

Winter ended, spring came, and with it my interview at Nichibunken. On my way, I visited the Chion’in temple and sought furtive inspiration from the cherry blossoms there. After returning to Tokyo, I was fortunate enough to learn that I had been successful. The person with whom I most wanted to convey this felicitous news was in Kyoto.

Thinking I would telephone first, I searched for the name of the café whose owner I had never for a moment forgotten. What appeared on the screen, though, was not a phone number, but two words impossible to grasp:
“Permanently Closed.”

Immersed in research listening to the voices of the past, had I avoided engaging with people in the present? Despite the fact that my attention should have been on others rather than myself.

These days, I am being made to feel most welcome by fellow professors, the admin staff, the security guards, and even the local baker. Enveloped in the voices of people involved with Nichibunken, I am starting new research projects and, in my own way, slowly building my connections in this new world. If I continue in this way, then perhaps the day will come when I can announce:
“I am not back for a conference; I am here for good!”
Dreaming of a second encounter, I shall boldly stride up the hill.

The stone steps of Chion’in which my late grandfather so loved have led me to Nichibunken. (photo by the author)