My earliest childhood memory is of a train ride. Standing in the aisle, barely able to reach the worn armrests on either side, I lift myself, swinging back and forth to the rhythm of the moving train. The air is hot and musty. My brother Kiyoshi is curled asleep, his head across my mother’s lap. The man beside her is a stranger to me. My mother has told me to call him Otō-chan, Daddy. When I cry, he says to me softly, “Shikkari shina-sai. Nakanai de.” Be strong. Don’t cry. I was born...
