“Moshi-moshi?”
My fiancé answered her phone as we pulled into the restaurant parking lot.
Her mom had phoned to tell us that they will be arriving shortly. In a sea of stress, a drop of relief landed. My finance’s father, whom she obviously got her stubbornness from, would not be joining us for this crucial meeting. It seamed his traditional rural Yamagata values wouldn’t allow him to accept our marriage proposal.
The object of my fear was absent, yet I could still feel his presence. My tie was like the tight hold of his talons firmly gripping my jugular.
The day before, my image of a casual dinner with drinks and jokes, followed by a quick confirmation that nobody objected to our wedding plans, was shattered when her mom called to remind me to wear my best suit and tie. My best suit? I only had one, and I hadn’t anticipated this would be so formal.
Nearly dizzy, I nervously tried to release her father’s sweaty palms around my neck. I brushed off the non-existent fuzz on my suit, and smoothed out wrinkles on my pants that weren’t there either.
Our reservation was for the nervous couple, plus mom, sister, and brother, who would play the roles of the judges in this affair.
I slipped out of my shiny loafers and placed them neatly in front of our private dining room. Were they too shiny? Did I line them up straight enough.
I readjusted them. Should the toes be facing the room or the hallway? I had no idea.
Half a step into the tatami room I froze. I had forgotten the gift in the car that I intended to bribe the jury with. How could I forget? I’d had a hard time swallowing the custom of spending a ridiculous amount of money on a handful of sweets wrapped in enough unnecessary packaging to inspire Al Gore to make another film.
Desperate to fetch the bag from the car before her family arrived I snatched the keys and jetted outside.
In the parking lot I brushed past a stone faced sarariman. Was he her father? No, he said he wasn’t coming. Oh, I really didn’t want to run into her family outside without my fiancé around to cushion the blows.
A car pulled in. My noose tightened. It was them!
With bag in hand I snapped the car door shut and quickly slipped away. I felt like the only gaijin in the whole prefecture of Yamagata. Certainly I was the only one facing judge, jury, and executioner, all at the same time.
I struggled with the restaurant door, I forgot it was the Japanese sliding type, but managed to sneak back inside undetected.
I didn’t lock the car door! I could hear my finance’s words in my head.
“We have to lock car in Japan.”
Mother entered first without a smile or greeting, followed by Elder Sister and Elder Brother. Their expressionless faces offered no warmth. Perhaps this would be harder than I thought.
The panel that would hear my testimony knelt perfectly neat, feet tightly folded beneath them, across the table from us. Her brother, in dark business attire, bowed politely and spoke softly to me. His gentle demeanor encouraged me, even if I didn’t understand a word he said.
The kimono clad waitress gestured silently to offer Mother a menu, but she was politely turned away. The tension in the room was thick enough to be cut with a katana, yet there would be no drinks to ease the pressure. Nor was there a sword to commit seppuku should the need arise.
No drinks? No alcohol? I was really counting on us having at least a beer or two first.
After brief customary greetings, my elementary Japanese passed the preliminary hearing. Like watching a monkey make primitive gestures with his zookeeper, they seamed mildly impressed at my ability to communicate. But then they sat silent.
They were waiting.
Politeness prevented me from shifting my legs. Already my knees were aching.
I turned to my girlfriend, who I made sure I wasn’t sitting too close to.
“What do we do now?”
“I don’t know.” Her response was not encouraging. “I never did this too.”
I couldn’t hold back anymore. I had to move my legs just a bit.
Her mom whispered something to her sister, who calmly but coldly asked something of my fiancé. She was as unsure and nervous as I was. They exchanged some words as a family, isolating me even more.
Annoyed, her sister looked me in the eye, and appeared to be telling me what to say. I tried to focus. I caught a few words only. I knew why we had all come though, and I gathered as much as it was time to make my plea.
As I practiced all day in my head, I started with thanking them for coming, and tried to be Japanese in apologizing for inconveniencing everyone. I thought the words came out pretty well, but their faces showed only impatience. It was time to spit it out.
Oh, my knees hurt.
I had forgotten what her sister had told me to say, so I played with my tie in an effort to release her father’s claws a bit, and forced out my thoughts in broken Japanese. Laced with several yoroshikuonagaishimasu’s I humbly begged for them to allow the first child of their strictly traditional family to marry this gaijin. The strange foreigner who had been her inspiration for abandoning her family and backpacking around the world, leaving home, moving to the big city, and defying her father’s wishes by carrying on a Romeo and Juliet relationship.
My potential wife repeated the message much more smoothly than I had. For a moment my stress lifted slightly. My part was finished, and it made me so happy and proud to see her enduring this pressure too. At that moment I could understand the importance of this traditional custom, and that what we were proposing was not something to be taken lightly. It was indeed worthy of ceremony. I no longer feared this moment as an obstacle blocking the path to our future, but rather as an honor.
“Omadettogozaimus.” Her sister’s sudden approval surprised me.
It was not to be granted without deep consideration, however. I hadn’t been acquitted yet. A barrage of questions hit me from all angles. Questions that would have been hard enough to find the answers for if it had been in English. Had I been home in Canada, inquiries about my salary and doubts of my ability to lead a responsible adult life, might have offended me. But this was Japan, and I was willing to say anything just to escape this trial.
“Mada!”
Sister’s sudden congratulatory remark was cut short by her still skeptical mother. She reminded us all that the ever so important householder, did not approve, and his absence was in protest of our marriage proposal. Regardless of that night’s outcome, the matter of his acceptance still posed a significant rift in our future plans.
My knees were throbbing, and I couldn’t feel my feet anymore.
The pretty geisha like server quietly slid open the door, lowered herself below us all, begged forgiveness for disrupting, and awaited our order. Her glowing charm warmed the chill in the room.
Then shocking even to myself, without thinking, I asked my hopefully future wife, if she wanted a beer. Horrified that I’d thrown away all my positive gains in an instant, I joked about the pressure of the situation clouding my thoughts. Of course, she couldn’t have a drink. She’s driving! Maybe in Canada having just one beer before driving was no big deal, but in Japan, my question was totally unacceptable.
Fortunately, much of the tension left with the server, and even more was released when she brought our drinks. My gaff was overlooked.
The terrible dryness in my mouth soaked up half a pint instantly. My legs forced their way out of their concubine, and the mood lightened. I answered honestly, smiled genuinely, and in turn, everyone acted much more natural. The topics eased from trial to conversation. Their stone faces melted away to smiles, laughter, and warmth. I was still subjected to some rather difficult questions, but at least the mood had become less threatening.
My education, my past, my future plans, and my ability to take care of the baby of their family were all part of questioning the defendant. Where will we live? Will we have kids? Will my wife work?
Gradually fears were lifted as we all became more familiar with each other.
Slowly, in simple Japanese they explained to me that Brother was the first son in their family. The role he was born into carried a lot of responsibility. He must care for his mother and father as they grow old, and he must take care of the family house until he too had a son who could take over. Already in his forties, he had no prospects for marriage. Not because of a lack of trying, but because it’s so difficult to find a bride willing to endure the lifelong hardships that come with being the wife of a first son. She too, would be charged with living in his family house and caring for his parents. Her duty would be to become the housewife of his whole family.
I was painstakingly reminded of these ever important details of Japanese culture, since I too was the first son in my family. The severity of the conversation didn’t discourage me though. In fact, I was rather relieved.
“You see,” I explained through vague interpretation, “In Western culture, we have no such custom. Of course we care about our aging parents, but we don’t take care of them the way Japanese do.”
It took some convincing that their daughter wouldn’t have the same obligations as if I were Japanese, but to their pleasant surprise, they understood that I would not be bringing their daughter back to Canada where she would be expected to forfeit her life taking care of my parents.
Smiles ignited the room. Their deepest fear had been losing their baby.
A few days later the Japanese marriage documents requiring two witness’ hanko arrived in my mailbox. One stamp of approval from my new mother-in-law, and the other from my new father-in-law.
With a grin, my future wife looked pleased, but reminded me next time to lock the car door. And one more thing…I forgot to give her family their gift.
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