Tsunami Years

Late Praise by Juliet S. Kono Japanese fathers give praise thin as toothpicks, limp as saimin noodles, rough as bone meal. My father couldn't say anything nice. He'd rather jump off Honoliʻi Pali. Just not his style. His style? Attack the head. He called me "stupid," "dumb," "bakatare." And best to do this in front of people, to make shame, break the proud daughter bone that straightened the back and hauled the immovable will of the mouth. And it's the mouth, after all, he just had to get to-- like mud wasps on the housewalls in summer. It was too smart for its own good, that ugly sphinctered mouth. It got his goat, cut his bait and hurled its turd like no Japanese girl should. He knuckled the head, connected to the angry face and the O ring of the mouth that was ready to snap-- mean with the teeth of disappointment. There was always the taste of something bitter, like melons and medicine, year after year. Now, my father's old. He cups his ears to hear, pees with bad aim and walks with a cane. In his wallet he keeps a yellowed newspaper clipping of me. Wrapped in Saran Wrap, it looks like an old Shinto talisman. He shows it to his friends. "Das my daughta," he says, rapping the picture with a knuckle.