My father-in-law Harry was 15 when his native England won the World Cup. He watched the 1966 final against West Germany on a tiny black-and-white TV propped up in the concrete hearth of his family’s cramped living room. His siblings—two brothers and two sisters—weren’t as interested in the match. Nor was his boilermaker father, who was always either working or at the pub, or his mother, who was too busy managing the household to indulge in such a pastime. Harry, meanwhile, found soccer to be a bright spot in his otherwise gritty and hardscrabble neighborhood of the Isle of Dogs. At age 15, after watching England win the World Cup, Harry began to dream that maybe he could one day be a professional soccer player.

The Isle of Dogs, nestled between the curves of the River Thames, is in the East End of London, and was known at the time for shipbuilding, organized gang violence (of which the notorious Kray twins became the face), and being the cultural cradle of soccer hooliganism. The typical path of an East Ender was to get a manual labor job, preferably one that did not expose them to asbestos, at age 15. Eventually, they might get married and start a family in a two-bedroom apartment, like the one Harry’s family of seven lived in. If they were lucky, they might even upgrade to a coveted upstairs three-bedroom. “People didn’t aspire to own a house where I’m from,” Harry explains in his cockney accent. “I never, ever thought I would own a house.”

He would, though. In his mid-twenties, he would tag along with fellow Englishman Teddy Thake to the United States. They would catch odd jobs along the coast of California, wait tables in Albuquerque, narrowly escape drunken bar fights in Florida, before ending up in Northern Virginia, where Harry would meet his future wife. Teddy would eventually return to England for good, but Harry stayed. He and his wife would eventually have three children and raise them in a 3,000+ square foot home in the well-to-do suburbs of Washington, D.C. It was a life he could have never dreamed for himself, made possible, he once told me, because “America is the best country in the world. That is my opinion.” And yet, every four years when the World Cup returns, it’s always England he roots for.

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Before Harry’s world expanded beyond the Isle of Dogs, his focus was soccer. A talented athlete, Harry was nominated by his high school, along with classmate Mickey Champion, to try out for a coveted spot on the West Ham United youth team. West Ham United was a shiny beacon in the otherwise grim, post-war East End. The club skyrocketed to fame because, as people often say, “West Ham won the ‘66 World Cup.” Three star players of the English national team—Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, and Martin Peters—all played club for West Ham, making the two teams virtually synonymous. West Ham was, in other words, the pride and joy of the East End, and Harry had a shot to train with them.

He and Mickey were invited to the training grounds at Chadwell Heath, where the youth team still trains today. They were tested against the area’s very best male athletes on foot skills and sprints, and played in an 11v11 scrimmage. It became immediately apparent that he and Mickey were in the middle of the pack. “The best ones had it all: athleticism, ball control, jumping,” he recalls with his arms crossed over his chest. “I knew I wasn’t that good. They wasn’t that impressed with us.”

The failed tryout didn’t discourage him, though. Soccer had started out for Harry as a casual playground game, and then evolved into a loosely organized afterschool activity. To receive insight from a top institution with resources like West Ham was a gift: It showed him what his level was and where he needed to be, because there was never a question about whether he would continue playing. He went on to play for local club teams and would continue that way, even after relocating to the United States, until age 48 when his knee gave out. For Harry, a job has always been a way to pay the bills. Soccer is what he lives for.

Neither did the failed tryout diminish his loyalty to West Ham and the English national team. To this day, his license plate reads “WESTHAM,” which occasionally garners friendly honks from fellow English Premier League fans. Most of his t-shirts and hats proudly sport the West Ham or English national team logos. His devotion is even reflected in his children and grandchildren, who support West Ham with a cult-like ferocity. Every weekend, the family schedule revolves around when the EPL is broadcast on NBC. Before it was available on American cable, they watched on pay-per-view. And before that, dating all the way back to the early ‘80s, Harry listened to EPL scores on his neighbor’s shortwave radio.

But being an English soccer fan in the intervening years since ‘66 has not been easy. The nation’s hope for another World Cup has waned with each successive tournament, as misfortune after misfortune seemed to befall them. Perhaps the most famous endured trauma was the 1986 quarterfinal against Argentina at Azteca Stadium in Mexico City. Football superstar Diego Maradona notoriously punched the soccer ball into the net with his fist. The referee, unsighted, allowed the goal to stand. The moment, now referred to as “The Hand of God,” helped Argentina to win the game 2-1. They went on to win the whole tournament.

West Ham, too, has let down its fans over the years. Most recently, the team performed so poorly that they were relegated out of the EPL and into the lower division. Yet fan loyalty remains steadfast. Out of all 20 teams in the EPL, West Ham home game attendance was second only to Manchester United last season. Similarly, Harry can’t stop supporting his team, no matter how many times they lose, no matter how high his blood pressure climbs while watching them play. After their recent relegation, he announced to the family that he will not be following the team next season, to which we all rolled our eyes. Sure enough, he let it slip a week later that West Ham’s first match of the season will be against Burnley F.C.

The longing for England to finally win another World Cup and for West Ham’s return to glory has played out like an unrequited love. Which explains why, when my husband announced that he had secured tickets for us to watch England play Panama at the 2026 World Cup, Harry responded, half-serious, that he would offer his ticket up to someone else. Of course, he didn’t. It rained hard the day of the match and Harry, now 75, had no problem standing in the rain for two hours to watch his beloved team play. And just as bickering lovers might do, he chided, “I know they can be better.” He downed his beer before adding, “People paid money and come all the way from England to watch this nonsense.” My husband and I withheld laughter, knowing very well the pain he’s endured all these decades in hopes that his team would deliver.

After the scoreless first half, England came out in the second half with renewed intensity. We stood behind the goal as superstar Jude Bellingham redirected a corner kick into the back of the net. And then, five minutes later, the net rippled again when captain Kane headed the ball off a cross. All of Harry’s halftime frustrations and worries evaporated. “That was special,” he said of watching England’s two star players score right before us. After the game finished, the England squad walked to our end of the field and stood before us as tens of thousands of England fans serenaded them with “Wonderwall” by Oasis.

The long walk out of the stadium was equally festive with singing, banging drums, and conviviality. In the men’s bathroom at the urinals, my husband told me, the drunk England fans on either side of him sang in unison about how head coach Tuchel will lead them to victory: “Football's coming Home again, with Thomas Tuchel, one, two, three, four…” And descending the stadium stairwell, the songs seemed only to grow louder. As we turned the final corner, England fans stood there welcoming us with their hands in the air, singing, “Don’t take me home / Please don’t take me home / I just don’t want to go to work / I want to stay here, / And drink all your beer / Please don’t, please don’t take me home!”

I thought watching England play at the World Cup in person—something Harry had never done until now—would be the highlight of this tournament. It wasn’t. A week later, England was to play host country Mexico at the Azteca Stadium, the very place the English say the Cup was stolen from them by the Hand of God in 1986. Mexico would have home team advantage with 73,000 fans behind them to England’s estimated 15,000. Furthermore, the Mexican team, unlike the English team, was well adapted to the 7,200 foot altitude of the stadium, where there is 23% less oxygen in the air than at sea level.

Harry, my mother-in-law, my husband, and I gathered in the living room to watch the match. Thunderstorms bookended the continent that evening: one fading over our house with the sunset, the other delaying kickoff at the Azteca by an hour. We watched the English bus slowly make its way through a crowd of booing Mexican fans, who spray painted and threw eggs at the team bus. We were nervous. The match started at an incredible pace. Both teams were running hard and muscling each other off the ball. One of us wondered aloud how long this intensity would last; it couldn’t, for long, could it? Not at this altitude.

The din of boos that rang out every time England had possession made our TV vibrate. Early on, Mexican forward Raul Jimenez rocketed a diving header that surely would have gone in, had English goalkeeper Jordan Pickford not fully extended his body and fingertips to save it. I turned around to Harry and asked if he was alive. We took a deep breath together. Mexico was using the altitude to their advantage, dominating possession 63% to England’s 37%. But in the 36th minute, Jude Bellingham dove across the pitch to head a cross into the back of the net. Two minutes later, a Mexico turnover led to yet another Bellingham goal, silencing the whole stadium. The two-goal lead took the edge off, but only momentarily, because Mexico earned a goal back four minutes later. Thanks to another clutch save by Pickford, England headed into halftime with a 2-1 lead.

If the first half was nerve-wracking, the second half was a white-knuckle ride. Somehow, both teams were maintaining the fierce energy output of the first half. When suddenly, English player Jarell Quansah took the physicality too far, earning him a red card. England would have to finish the remaining 36 minutes plus stoppage time a player down. Despite this, England went up 3-1. Things were looking positive, until the tide seemed to shift yet again in Mexico’s favor. They were awarded a penalty kick. 3-2. England was starting to slow down. Players were tired. Even the heroic Jude Bellingham stopped chasing down balls, exhausted as he was. The whole stadium was behind Mexico, cheering them on to tie it up. The referee generously awarded over twelve minutes of stoppage time. Two yellow cards were handed out, one apiece to Mexico and England. Mexico bombarded England with five nail biting shots, but none of them went in. The sweet whistle blew.

England had won 3-2. Players on both sides dropped to their knees, utterly spent. Shots of Mexican fans with tear-streaked face paint played across our screen. I turned back to look at Harry. He had his chin in his hand. At first I thought the TV was reflecting funny off his glasses. Then I realized: “Are you crying?” He didn’t answer, just wiped his glasses clean. A few minutes later he said, “Now I can die.”

The England team walked over to the fan section and, as we did at the Panama game, the fans serenaded them with “Wonderwall.” Except this time, the players stood in a line, hands wrapped around each other’s shoulders, and serenaded the crowd back. It was an unbelievable moment of unity. This team, against the odds of altitude and a historic curse, had won at the Azteca Stadium at the World Cup.

As I write this, England still have three more matches to survive if they are to finally hoist the Cup. And as any soccer fan knows, each of those matches will be its own Everest of a challenge. With the US and Japan eliminated, I have no one left to cheer for but England. But truth be told, having married into this soccer-manic family, and having learned Harry’s life story of love and soccer, I secretly would have been rooting for them anyway, for England to finally Bring it Home.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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In the summer of 2018 I was invited to a meeting in Los Angeles with nine other people. We squeezed into a Koreatown apartment where there was no parking, minimal air circulation, and hardly any windows. I “knew” three other people: the organizer, Chris, a former college classmate I reconnected with on Instagram; Julia, whom I had randomly taken an improv class with several years back; and Lauren, whom I had cyber-stalked once on Facebook when she dated a friend, so really it was a stretch to say I knew her.

The point of the meeting was for everyone to pitch short film ideas, discuss them, and vote on which ones we liked best. Eventually, Chris announced, his company called Rude Horse was going to produce two of our ideas. The prospect of producing short films—and having the financing to do so—was tantalizing, but I was cautiously optimistic. I had just earned my Master’s in Entertainment Management a month prior. Going into the program, I thought my cohort and I would eventually ride off into the Hollywood sunset together, best friends for life, bonded by our love of watching and producing films together. But the environment ultimately proved to be competitive and hostile, and I kept in touch with maybe two of my former classmates.

I did make new friends when I snagged a coveted internship at a leading talent agency. We would meet in the coffee break room, assemble for lunch at Westfield Century City across the street, and get together for weekend game nights in the Valley. I began to notice a pattern in our conversations, in which we primarily discussed the latest abuses we had endured and how much longer we had to suffer at the agency before we had done “sufficient time.”

One coworker, John, was repeatedly verbally humiliated in front of the entire floor for having bought the agent he worked for Poland Spring instead of Arrowhead water. The diatribes only intensified when he tried to explain that the grocery store was out of Arrowhead. “There, there, John,” we’d console him in the break room. “That wasn’t right. It’ll be worth it, though, when you one day fulfill your dream of being the head of Disney. You’ll show him.” Doing time at an agency is a form of entertainment industry hazing and considered a rite of passage, which meant, in a sense, that I had something quite profound in common with my peers: we were willing to endure barely paid, borderline abusive work in order to one day realize our dreams. But I discovered in time that trauma-bonding isn’t fertile ground for lasting friendship.

So, newly married and graduated, I found myself in the big, glittering city I had always dreamed of, with my husband as my only meaningful friend. I thought that Rude Horse would introduce me to new people and teach me something about independent filmmaking, but I tried not to hope for more. True to his word, Chris organized two short film productions. I learned how securing a permit to shoot outdoors in LA is its own genre of nightmare as well as what it feels like to see my name at the top of the call sheet (thrilling and terrifying). What surprised me most about the experience was how, for the first time since moving to LA, these friendships didn’t come with an asterisk.

I remember meeting up with a former classmate for coffee who told me how a producer on their project had stolen money and refused to pay the crew. The culture on their set reminded me of graduate school and I felt lucky to have stumbled upon Rude Horse where everything was above board; people were friendly, hard-working, and—as many people had a background in comedy— remarkably funny. Sure, we didn’t really know what we were doing, but it felt like everyone had something to offer, whether it be their background in performance or writing, education in entertainment law, experience in production, or simple emotional support.

Organically, the Rude Horse crew began to assemble in other ways, too. We met for writers’ support groups, made comedy sketches, and gathered for July 4th fireworks-viewings, Christmas carol sing-alongs, and just because we wanted to. My husband Harry and I would have everyone over at our apartment’s rooftop pool, from which we could see the Hollywood sign and the skyline of Downtown LA. We’d eat snacks and have contests on who could swim the full length of the pool and back in one breath. We’d jump between the cold pool and the hot tub and hang out and laugh until all twenty fingers and toes shriveled to prunes. It became known as Pool Club.

Two guys in the group had an attic in their spacious West Hollywood abode and any get-together there was deemed an Attic Party. Several of us started a side group-chat, dubbed Moon Club, where we exchanged fun facts and pictures about the moon. Anything and everything became a “club” or a “party” and anyone who wanted to join was always invited. We attended each other’s shows, acted in each other’s table reads and invited each other to the movies. We went on hikes and explored areas surrounding LA, like Joshua Tree and Big Bear Lake and Sequoia National Park. It was like college, minus the exams and homework and with the added element of us all chasing our lifelong dreams together.

When the pandemic struck in 2020, our friend group, which by then had expanded beyond the original ten people, simply moved online. We met virtually for Zoom trivia nights and text-organized games of Survivor and mafia. Some of us broke off into our own pandemic pods, and Julia, Harry and I decided to escape the claustrophobia of the city one weekend with a trip to Lake Arrowhead. Except our getaway turned apocalyptic when, during a midday hike, a shadow seemed to pass over the sun like an eclipse. From a clearing overlooking a valley, we saw a giant plume of smoke drifting our way; the horrifying aftermath, we later learned, of a gender reveal party gone wrong. We went into town, anticipating an evacuation announcement. Instead, we found ash falling from the sky like snow as people milled about as normal, eating ice cream cones and pushing strollers, enjoying life to its bitter, ashy end.

As the pandemic dragged on, several people in our friend group moved away from LA and some pivoted from the entertainment industry altogether. At some point—I’m not sure when—I realized that the Rude Horse Era had passed. Just as the pandemic never had an official end-date, neither did the Rude Horse Era. Which, of course, isn’t to say that those friendships haven’t lasted. We just don’t assemble with the same bright eagerness and frequency anymore.

Eventually, Harry and I even left LA, something I never thought we would do. I had waited so long and worked so hard to get there that I assumed nothing could take me away. But when Harry was laid off and my acting union went on strike, we decided to temporarily put our belongings in storage, embark on a cross-country roadtrip, and spend some time with our folks in Virginia. It’s been three years and our stuff is still waiting for us in East Los Angeles. We’re not ready to fully leave, nor does it feel right to return, either.

In 2025 I visited LA for the first time knowing I wouldn’t be moving back. I cried 80% of the trip. Every coffee shop, familiar neighborhood, and old hiking spot I drove by brought back memories. Pool Club had officially disbanded (there was no pool anymore!) and every single one of my friends had moved—across town if they’d stayed in LA at all—with new jobs and several with new partners. Everything had completely changed.

There’s a scene in Inside Out 2 where the character “Nostalgia” emerges from a back room. She’s an old lady holding a teacup, and reminisces about the good old days. The other characters shepherd her back into her room; nostalgia is for later, they tell her, when we’re older. I thought to tell my Nostalgia the same. Then I realized that time really had passed and she was right on time.

There’s something magical about an epoch of life so full of energy and joy that you don’t realize it’s happening until it’s over. Except it isn’t exactly over. Each of us was chasing a dream—a writers’ room, a major acting role, the director’s chair. And some of us are continuing on the paths we were on the day we met in that Koreatown apartment, even if they don’t look quite how we imagined. A few have done the astonishing work of actually arriving. Others have veered somewhere new entirely. Regardless, we were never meant to stay frozen in time together; that would defeat the whole purpose of finding community in the first place. We wanted to help each other grow, and growing means changing.

My Master’s capstone was titled “Women Directors and Sustainable Careers.” While many studies examine why women are barred from the film and TV industry, we interviewed women who had built long-term careers in it, and tried to understand how. One answer recurred, emphatically, in every interview: the communities of friends they came up with—the people who read their screenplay drafts, gathered for weekend dinners, listened to them complain when a project fell through—were stated as critical in their success. I remember thinking, “How are we going to present this as scientific research? What are we going to say, if you want to succeed in Hollywood, make good friends?”

I get it now. It’s not necessarily that making good friends makes you successful in Hollywood. It’s that they make life infinitely more bearable, especially in an industry where volatility, rejection, and shallow relationships are commonplace. The people who last in this industry aren’t the ones who suffer best, but the ones who found a way to enjoy it. And you can’t enjoy it alone.

This past weekend I flew to Austin to meet up with Julia and Lauren, along with some other friends. The woman I randomly had an improv class with many years ago and the other woman I had cyber-stalked on the internet have become two of my dearest friends. And now, both of them are getting married! To different people, I might add. Lauren, in fact, is marrying Jordan, an OG member of the Rude Horse aka Pool Club aka Attic Party crew. To me, their union represents the lasting magic of that time, that it didn’t end so much as evolve.

Experienced screenwriters and producers will say that what the protagonist wants is never what she really needs. The stated goal—the role, the writers’ room, the executive producer title—drives the plot forward, but the true narrative runs deeper. I think back to that day in Lake Arrowhead when the ash was falling and everyone continued eating their ice cream cones. Julia, Harry, and I looked at each other and burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. We returned to our cabin and played Pandemic, a cooperative boardgame in which you either all win or lose together. We didn’t know if the world was ending. It certainly felt like it was. I feel proud of the work I’ve done in my filmmaking and acting career, though I don’t know if I’ll ever work on the kinds of feature films I’ve always dreamed of. I hope I do. But what matters is, I have my people.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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My mom and I were on an airplane somewhere over Alaska this February when I turned to her and asked what, exactly, the plan was. We’ve visited Japan together annually since I was a child, and this time we were headed to Kansai, the region famous for Osaka and Kyoto. We make an effort to explore different parts of Japan, but her primary motivation this trip was to see an old friend named Mariko. They were classmates until my mom, Yuki, immigrated to the US in 1969 at age 14.

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My mom smiled sheepishly and confessed that she wasn’t sure what the plan was. Mariko was so self-admittedly offline that Yuki had to snail mail her a letter reminder to check her email. It had been over a month and there still was no word on the official plan. I gawked at the revelation. In that moment I felt deeply skeptical the meet-up would happen. Wouldn’t she have checked her email unprompted if she actually wanted to meet up with us? Regardless, my mom and I would have a good time. We’ve managed many-a-trip to Japan, just the two of us.

This wasn’t the first time they had trouble linking up. Yuki and Mariko’s communication over the years was spasmodic. For several years in their 40s, for instance, they both lived on the East Coast—Yuki in the Washington, D.C. area and Mariko in New Jersey—and they never once met up. They were penpals throughout high school and had recently reconnected online, but beyond that I didn’t quite understand the connection. Since we were going out of our way to meet Mariko under such uncertain circumstances, I asked my mom what the motivation was.

A Kindness Remembered

Over the years, I’ve heard stories about my mom’s experience assimilating in the U.S.: How overwhelming it was to study for the SATs at the same time she was learning English, the inspiring view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the library in her new neighborhood, tricks for pronouncing the word “milk” (by replacing the “l” sound with a soft “w”), how being both a twin and the only Asian students at their high school brought my introverted mother a lot of unwanted attention. What I knew less about was what she had left behind.

Yuki and Mariko were not so much attached at the hip as they were two misfits in a cliquish middle school. But out of a curiosity for what was happening at her old school and, perhaps, a longing for home, Yuki started writing letters to Mariko from San Francisco. At age 18, my mom and her twin enrolled in different colleges and they were separated for the first time in their lives. Throughout the loneliness and confusion of immigrating, Yuki had always had her twin by her side. Facing the cold and unfamiliar SUNY Binghamton by herself left her feeling particularly isolated and depressed. My grandparents grew concerned and suggested she visit home.

Mariko caught word of my mother’s return to Japan and planned a grand homecoming. She first arranged a trip to Kyoto, where they visited the famed Kinkaku-ji, a gold-plated pavilion situated on Kyoko-chi (“Mirror Pond”), and Koke-dera (literally, “moss temple”), which features over eight acres of garden carpeted in 120 varieties of moss. Less flashy was their visit to Ryoan-Ji, a minimalist Zen garden in which a courtyard of meticulously raked white gravel features 15 ancient stones that emerge like islands. The stones are arranged such that, no matter from which angle you view, only 14 are ever in sight. The garden was designed to embody the Buddhist principle that true understanding requires acknowledging our limited perspective. My mother was raised Catholic and recalls less the profundity of such Buddhist notions and more the overwhelming peacefulness of each location. “The moss,” she told me, “gave me a warm feeling, like a carpet.”

Mariko and Yuki then headed north to the remote countryside of Aomori Prefecture. 39 years later, I would get a job teaching English in Japan and be asked which prefecture I preferred. I randomly chose Aomori after googling “Japanese prefecture with pretty nature.” Little did I know that my mother and Mariko had visited several decades prior, and that the prefecture is likely the origin of my lineage. Our family name, “Tomabechi,” is highly uncommon everywhere in Japan except Aomori, where even a small village bears the name.

Mariko brought another friend along for the Aomori leg of the trip and my mother remembers relishing the role of third wheel; Emotionally exhausted at that point of her life and an introvert through and through, she remembers how relaxing it felt to not have to carry the conversation, to simply listen to their light banter while gazing out the train window or observing whatever monument they visited that day.

When she returned to New York, she received a package in the mail from Mariko. Inside were photos and clippings from tourist brochures so that Yuki could easily assemble a commemorative album. My mom came across that album 50 years later. Flipping through the pages, my mother says she can see through her smiles in the photographs, the pain from that time still visceral today. It moved her, remembering the lengths to which Mariko had gone to welcome Yuki back to Japan during that challenging time in life.

After that trip, the flow of communication petered out until it stopped altogether. Life got in the way as they embarked on their own life journeys, which took Mariko to Australia, England, New Jersey, and back to Japan with her husband and two daughters. Yuki, meanwhile, went to graduate schools in Connecticut and North Carolina before settling down in Virginia with my dad, save for a yearlong fellowship in Tokyo in 2003, with my brothers and me in tow.

Looking back on my early 20s, I remember feeling unmoored—What should I study? Who will I become? Where will I land? My mother navigated those same questions with the added complexity of no longer fully identifying with her home country and not yet entirely fitting into her new one. She remembers having clarity by the time she graduated SUNY Binghamton: Despite her parents’ wishes, and despite the challenges of her college years, she was determined to stay in the US.

I take the liberty of imagining that in 1975, returning to Japan for the first time to Mariko’s warm hospitality helped cultivate a sense of security in my mother. She learned that she could always go back, that Japan would always welcome her no matter how many years she spent away. My theory is that her trip with Mariko wasn’t just a friendly pick-me-up, which in itself is a profound gift; It might also have been a turning point that helped solidify my mother’s commitment for returning to and remaining in the US.

Regardless of its subliminal effect, the discovery of the album 50 years later reconnected them. Yuki scavenged through school directories to track down Mariko’s contact information. She sent an email reminiscing about their trip and thanked Mariko for her kindness all those years ago. Mariko responded warmly. She was happy to hear from Yuki and wrote that she, too, had been reminiscing about the past. Yuki was visiting Japan soon, would Mariko be interested in meeting up? Thus reinitiated their spasmodic exchanges.

A Sweet Reunion

Mariko informed Yuki that she now lives in a mountain town 30 minutes by train from Osaka, and that their former middle school teacher, a nun named Sister Kameoka, also lives in the area. She invited Yuki to visit Sister together, and my mom invited me.

I couldn’t believe my luck—that I would get to meet people who knew the “before” version of my mother: Before she moved to the US and learned English. Before she received four years of college and another six years of post-graduate education, worked for the US Census Bureau for 35 years, and raised three children, all done exclusively in her second language. Before she learned about the MLB or the PGA or UNC basketball and became super-fans of all three. Before she knew that there was an alternative to match-making or being a stay-at-home mother, both respectable practices, but a path she knew she was not meant to walk.

But then, radio silence. There we were, somewhere over Alaska, unsure if this meeting would happen at all. When we finally received word from Mariko, we were about to board the Shinkansen from Tokyo to Osaka. She was inflexible in her plan—only certain days and times would work—and I had an engagement, so I would unfortunately miss the moment she and my mother reunited. But to be honest, even after learning the plan I felt unsure it would come to fruition.

I was wrong. Mariko showed up as planned and spent all day with my mother. When I eventually linked up with them, there was no awkwardness, but rather a palpable rapport. They recounted their day in overlapping fragments, chatting with the easy rhythm of good friends. When I mentioned their trip across Japan 50 years ago, they burst out laughing. Mariko had no recollection of the event! Apologetic, she said she remembers a lot else about their relationship, just not their cross country tour. She humbly added that she was glad to have had such a positive impact on Yuki during that time.

I found it strange that she forgot such an elaborate trip. But then again, I haven’t lived 70+ years during which so much can happen, nor seen my country evolve from post-war disarray to post-digital age normalcy, nor raised my children in various, foreign locations across the globe. In fact, her forgetfulness of the event in contrast to the potency of it in my mom’s memory may just be an indicator of how precious that time was in the trajectory of my mom’s personal journey.

Sisters

Jetlag was sneaking up on me as our taxi wound its way through the narrow streets of Takarazuka, a scenic mountain town. The weather was mercurial that day, shifting between bright sunlight and dark clouds. The taxi deposited us at the wrought iron gate of the convent and we climbed a steep driveway along a manicured garden. I remember the wind whisking fallen petals off a dazzling camellia bush and I pulled my jacket tighter around me.

Sister Kameoka received us with such warm liveliness that I felt certain she wasn’t the one we were meeting. If she taught my mother in middle school, wouldn’t she be approaching 100? Hard of hearing? More…decrepit? Far from it, her tiny frame moved nimbly and her still-jet black hair had dashes of silver in it. We sat down in a modest living room with teacups and a snack of dates and looked out at the garden. It shone stunningly in the golden, late afternoon light. I had an urge to pull out my camera to photograph it and take candid photos of Yuki, Mariko, and Sister Kameoka, but I didn’t want to be intrusive.

Instead, I staved off the jet lag by tuning my antenna to better understand their rapid Japanese. It was difficult to follow the nuances of their conversation and I noticed both Mariko and Sister Kameoka slow their speech and turn to me to make sure I felt included. Sister Kameoka described joining the convent shortly after graduating from college in the 1960s. At that time in Japan, and especially in a Christian setting, English was highly regarded and all Sisters in the convent were expected to be fluent. Sister Kameoka was chastised by her elders for her ineptitude at the language. Even now, she remarked in Japanese, she struggles with English. I could feel that she sensed my embarrassment for not being fluent in Japanese and I greatly appreciated her relating to me in that moment. I felt touched more generally by her engagement with myself, Yuki, and Mariko; Retired from teaching (though still a guidance counselor for troubled students), she still possessed energy, genuine curiosity, and enthusiasm for her former students.

The conversation as a whole was remarkable to me. To hear them draw connections between their wide-ranging experiences was a type of conversation I have never had, nor could I if I wanted to—I’m only 34 and they’ve lived over twice my age! For example, Sister Kameoka was diagnosed with cancer at age 32, and again with a different type of cancer in her 50s. She listed her diagnoses as a matter-of-fact, as though they were simply bullet points in her life. Those years battling cancer must have been grueling, uncertain, and impactful to her worldviews and relationship with life. But there were so many other things to discuss besides her now-decades old cancer diagnoses!

Instead, she elaborated on the evolution of her students’ behavior patterns over the years and explained how nuns, who rotate convent locations every few years, must re-learn how to coexist with a new cohort of roommates every time they relocate. Mariko related in having moved to three foreign countries, and how her daughters, similar to Sister Kameoka, had to re-adjust to their new circumstances each time. Mariko elaborated on her responsibilities as a shufu (literally, “master woman”) in which she tirelessly managed their household, the development of her children, supported her husband in his business endeavors, and beyond. My mom, for her part, could relate in having two sisters who also took on the demanding role of shufu, as well as in the contrasting shape her own life took, in which she became an American office worker.

I felt like I was witnessing some kind of historic conversation that would be later transcribed in textbooks. Actually, this was the stuff historical films and school textbooks are missing: the profound, lived experiences of remarkable women.

It was all so fascinating, watching their complex, winding lives play out in front of me over the course of three hours. They were once three, young women living in a tenuous, post-war order. They had dreams and they had uncertainties about the future. It was like they blinked and—in that brief moment when their eyes shut—years passed, children were born, lives were lived. And when they opened, here they were, old women, telling me how it all plays out.

Towards the end of the conversation Sister Kameoka positioned her body to face me. She held my hands in hers and asked, “What are your interests? What dreams do you have for your life?”

Counting the Stones

My dream in life has shifted and morphed in my short life thus far. At one point it was to be a world-famous actor. At another point, a filmmaker more generally. At the moment, I’m keen on finding Home, on cultivating creativity, on nurturing relationships important to me. Nothing is for certain and I acknowledge my limited perspective. I think I’ll find myself lucky, though, to reach an age where I’m able to look back on my life with more clarity. Where I can see how it plays out, all the ups and downs, dashed dreams and unexpected wins, and say—with a perspective I don’t have now—how many stones there are in my garden.

Hi ☺ I’m Emi, a writer / filmmaker / artist who takes special delight in observing uniqueness in people, nature, and food. I write stories about daily life as a nomad, meditations on heritage, and my annual visits to Japan. 📍 Currently bouncing up and down the East Coast.

At the moment, my work consists of bringing a feature film to life with a treasured group of collaborators, auditioning for and occasionally booking tv/films/commercials, and sharing about my life on Substack and TikTok.

I love connecting through shared creativity + curiosity, and I am averse to advising people on what to do or making art for the sole purpose of clicks. Thanks for joining me at My Temporary Address.

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