Tea With Milk by Allen Say

From the window in her room, the girl could see the city of San Francisco. She imagined that it was a city of many palaces. And one day her father would take her there, he had promised, riding on a paddle steamer across the shining bay.
    Her parents called her Ma-chan, which was short for Masako, and spoke to her in Japanese. Everyone else called her May and talked with her in English.
    At home she had rice and miso soup and plain green tea for breakfast. At her friends' houses she ate pancakes and muffins and drank tea with milk and sugar.

    When she graduated from high school, she wanted to go to college and then live in San Francisco. But her parents were homesick and decided to return to Japan, which was their homeland. The daughter was sad. She did not want to leave the only home she had ever known.
    Once they arrived in Japan, she felt even worse. Her new home was drafty, with windows made of paper. She had to wear kimonos and sit on floors until her legs went numb. No one called her May, and Masako sounded like someone else's name. There were no more pancakes or omelets, fried chicken or spaghetti. I'll never get used to this place, she thought with a heavy heart.

    Worst of all, Masako had to attend high school all over again. To learn her own language, her mother said. She could not make friends with any of the other students; they called her
gaijin
and laughed at her.
Gaijin
means "foreigner."
    The woman who taught English conversation did not seem much older than Masako. Maybe she'll be my friend, Masako thought. But the teacher refused to speak English with her. She could not teach an American, she said.
    So Masako wandered around the empty schoolyard. Small singsong voices came drifting from the classroom, chanting kindergarten English. She wanted to shout at them, "I know the words you are learning! Why won't you speak to me!"

    At home, Masako took lessons in flower arranging, calligraphy, and the tea ceremony. She did not understand how anyone could sit on the floor for such long stretches.
    "Why do I have to do this?" she exclaimed one day. "I'm not going to be a florist or a sign painter! And I like my tea with milk and sugar!"
    "You are going to be a proper Japanese lady," her mother said.
    "All I want is to go to college and then have an apartment of my own."
    "A young lady needs a husband from a good family."
    "A husband! I'd rather have a turtle than a husband!"
    "We have hired a very good matchmaker," her mother said.

    On the following weekend, the matchmaker introduced Masako and her mother to a young banker and his mother. In a fancy restaurant they drank tea and ate lunch and drank more tea. Then the young couple was left alone for the afternoon. The mothers prayed for the marriage of two good families. The matchmaker dreamed of the full fee she could collect.
    In the evening Masako came home fuming.
    "Isn't he a charming young man?" her mother asked.
    "Charming like a catfish!" Masako answered.
    "His family owns the bank where he works," her mother said.
    "I won't marry a moneylender!" Masako replied.

    Masako could not sleep that night. Mother is determined to find a husband for me, she told herself. I could never marry someone like that. Never! What can I do?

    First thing the next morning, Masako put on the brightest dress she had brought from California and left the house. As she hurried to the bus stop, the villagers stopped and stared.
    "She looks like a
gaijin!
" they said loudly.
    I'm a foreigner in my parents' country, she thought. And they came back here because they didn't want to be foreigners. But I wasn't born here. I should leave home and live on my own, like an American daughter.
    The bus took her to the train station, and there she bought a ticket to Osaka.

    It was still before noon when Masako reached Osaka. She marveled at the city.
    She had not seen so many cars since leaving California. She felt as though the city noises were welcoming her—the noises of trolley bells