Starting
Point Mr.
Catos kamikaze kindness
By SUE DIAZ
Theyre an interesting couple
-- upright, solid and very quiet. The man has a pointed, black beard that falls
just above the two hands he folds in front of him. The woman wears a familiar
smile.
Ive known this pair for nearly 35 years. Ive found a
place for them in every home Ive ever known since high school.
Theyre here today -- with my husband, son and daughter in our one-story,
four-bedroom house.
And I dont even know their names.
Call them Stan and Gladys Hokkaido after the island in
northern Japan where they originated. An artist carved them from a piece of
wood stained a dark mahogany. Two black dots mark the spots where their
unblinking eyes peer out beneath heavy brows. Their oversized heads take up
about three inches of their total 12, and each wears a hat and a kimono
decorated with flourishes etched deeply into the wood. Stan has always been the
more serious of the two. Try as she might with that goofy grin of hers, Gladys
has never been able to get him to crack a smile.
The unforgettable way they came into my life has compelled me to
keep Mr. and Mrs. Hokkaido close these many years.
In August 1967, it is another hot and humid night in Seto, Japan.
For the three weeks, Ive lived in the home of the Mizuno family as part
of a summer high school exchange program.
My Japanese sister, Noriko and I had just come home
from our evening class in Japanese dance. Noriko, 15, has studied this stylized
art form since she was 3. Poised and accomplished, she and the teacher move
through the studio with dainty grace. With my previous dance experience limited
to doing the Watusi at sock hops and the polka at weddings, I provide an
interesting study in contrasts.
An old man Ive never seen before is visiting Norikos
father tonight. Norikos father motions us over to them and introduces me
to his friend.
Sue-san. Mr. Cato. Mr. Cato. Sue-san.
I bow. Dozo yoroshiku, I say. The phrase means,
I am very pleased to meet you. My knowledge of Japanese is limited.
Ive been muddling through with a book called Conversational Japanese
in Six Weeks, a gift from my host family. Its first chapters have been
largely devoted to the topic of the whereabouts of assorted dogs. There
is the dog. Here comes the dog. See the dog.
Idealistically hoping to foster international good will through communication,
Ive found myself wishing that a creature with a wet nose and wagging tail
would happen by. In the meantime, I make do with Dozo
yoroshiku.
Mr. Catos eyes open wide, then disappear into a crinkly
grin. He seems enormously pleased at this Americans attempt to speak his
language. I cant help but wonder how he might have responded if only the
Mizunos had had a puppy or two underfoot.
Noriko and I politely take our leave. We pass through the entry
hall just off the living room. There on a low shelf stand two wooden statues of
a man and a woman. Ive been intrigued since I noticed them the first day
I arrived. Im drawn to the sure and simple craftsmanship that created
them. They are as sturdy and real as they are exotic.
Using a system of pantomimes and a Japanese/English pocket
dictionary, I ask my Japanese sister about these artifacts. Using the same
system, she tells me they came from the island of Hokkaido, a place well-known
for this kind of carving. The wooden couple has been here in their home as long
as she can remember.
I catch a glimpse of Mr. Catos face in the next room. He has
the shy look of an eavesdropper. Oyasumi nasai, he calls
over to us both.
In Japanese, I echo his good night.
The morning of my last day in Japan, I lug my suitcase down the
stairs. Its heavier than when I arrived, crammed with souvenirs --
ceramic tea sets, paper fans, kimonos, wooden sandals, lacquer chopsticks. I
set it down under the shelf where my favorite wooden figures preside.
Theres a good deal of farewell commotion. Deep bows to my
host-family father and mother, to my sister Noriko and brother Yukio. There are
more than a few tears, and sayonaras that sound too final to a 17-year-old on
her way back to Wisconsin.
I turn toward the door and notice, just off to the side, a large
box. A box with my name on it -- Sue-san. My Japanese father picks
it up and hands it to me. I lift the cover and inside find two wooden statues,
a man and a woman, each carved from a piece of wood stained a dark mahogany.
From Mr. Cato, my Japanese father says.
Mr. Cato? I dont recognize the name. Mr. Cato? Then I
remember. The gentleman I met once for all of five seconds three weeks
earlier.
It was a radical concept in gift giving -- in a realm beyond
birthday and Christmas presents, beyond any expectations or sense of
obligation. A present of the purest kind, Mr. Catos gift asked nothing in
return. The giver didnt even stick around to see a grateful smile or hear
an arigato mangled with a Midwestern accent. Call it stealth giving.
Hit-and-run generosity. Kamikaze kindness. Or just a foot-tall reminder of how
lovely this world and the people in it can sometimes be. That is a souvenir
worth keeping.
Sue Diaz lives in San Diego.
National Catholic Reporter, June 29,
2001
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