Mayu Kanamori


Making of a Family Portrait

Ms Zhuang introduces herself to us,
               	Zhuang, like in Zhuang Zhou
                Zhuang Zhou,the famous Tao philosopher
               	sometimes called Zhuangzi
                Zhuangzi, Zhuang, like Zhuangzi, 
                the famous Tao philosopher 
Ms Zhuang is our guide with five sparkling stars.
               	The only Japanese speaking tour guide 
               	with five stars 
               	in all of Shandong Province,
               	five stars in all of Shandong Province.
Like many other tour guides around the world,
Ms Zhuang repeats herself often 
for the benefit of those not paying attention, 
half asleep, nearly deaf
or simply unaware. 
Maybe even too acutely aware 
like a wounded moth in a daydream.

Aboard our coach, large enough for forty, 
we sway in unison, 
black hair and yellow 
skin deep and shelled 
in unity.
All fourteen of us, my family, 
six from Tokyo, two 
from Nagoya, two 
from Shizuoka, and me, 
the only one 
from Sydney.
Plus, Ms Zhuang, short and stocky, local.
Young assistant Mr Li, tall and thin, from a neighbouring province.
And our driver, cool Ms Huang, muscular and slender, from the countryside.

Ms Zhuang, for the benefit of the ignorant, visually impaired
or simply naïve 
or perhaps unforgivably
naïve like a child who doodles during history class, 
briefs us on the differences between Japan and China
to spare us from being in danger, confused
or simply ashamed 
or complexly immodest
enough to blink in slow motion.
               	Between Japan and China 
               	there is a one-hour difference. 
               	One-hour difference.
               	We drive on the right. 
               	You drive on the left.
               	Look to your right, look to your left,
               	then look to your right again
               	before you cross the road.

I who crossed the border from Japan to Australia decades ago, 
see differences between Japan and China
through a chiselled kaleidoscope.

               	Don't drink the water. 
               	Instead drink mineral water.
               	Always drink mineral water.
               	Carry your passport.
               	Always have your passport with you.

Are these the only differences worth mentioning?
No, there are currencies.
Like magic, Ms Zhuang can even change 
money on the bus
yen for yuan 
for the benefit for those like me
with Aussie dollars, under 
prepared and not yet 
ready for travel like this
with time past to unravel.

Ms Zhuang is on her microphone
               	Mount Laoshan 
               	yes, Mount Laoshan.
We see to our left, through our eastern windows, 
cradle of Tao, and for the local people
               	Father we call
               	yes, father we call.
We see to our right, through our western windows
               	Jiaozhou Bay, our mother we call
               	yes, mother, we call.
Beyond the fog, we see a bridge across the bay
               	Twenty-seven kilometres long, 
                the world’s longest bridge over water,
               	yes, twenty-seven kilometres, 
                the longest bridge in the world.
	
Wasn’t there a film called The Longest Bridge 
about Japanese atrocities in Shanghai
with less than five known stars?
Was there another film about a bridge over the River Kwai
with at least five well-known stars
in a different country, but in the same shame?

My nephews are talking about the cast,
stars of Arakawa Under the Bridge, 
an anime series about a community of misfits.
My cousin videos our stream of consciousness passing
landscapes and seascapes from inside 
our coach through windows, reflecting
all of us on this swayingbus.

               	Do you have any questions?
               	any questions, anyone?

Ms Zhuang, what are the differences between 
a migrant and an emigrant?
Between a model minority and the black sheep?
How does the uncoloured become coloured
and what are questionably unquestionably Japanese?

Our coach speeds past a factory district
then through rows of high-rise apartments
into the city of Qingdao
               	Once spelled Tsing Tao 
                Tsing Tao with a T
               	Now spelled Qingdao 
                Qingdao with a Q and D
               	and once called Jiāo'ào
               	Jiāo'ào
Ms Zhuang, how does our renaming change 
how we hear the call of our belongings?
And do our new names alter our callings?

＊＊＊

The morning before 
I had misplaced my passport
after immigration, somewhere between 
security check point
and boarding gate for the flight out 
of Eora Country, 
once called Sydney 
and called Eora 
before it was called Sydney.

An Anglo-Australian woman in the sky-blue uniform 
of Korean Airlines, sighed and frowned.
She escorted me through long corridors, 
and asked me three times
if I was sure it wasn’t somewhere,
say, hidden in my handbag.
Was I sure?
Was I certain?
Was it not concealed in my pocket?
Or perhaps latent in memories past.

Finally, there it was, behind 
the security desk, 
my passport with a golden chrysanthemum flagging 
my place in life.
Someone had turned it in.
I dare not ask where 
they found it. Just in case.
Instead I thanked Ms Korean Airlines. 
She ignored me.
She may not have been listening, 
perhaps she didn’t hear me.
Perhaps she simply ignored me or perhaps 
complexly ignored me in the silence 
of a long march to the gates.
Voiced apologies never seem sincere enough, 
yet I said I’m sorry.
She ignored me still.

＊＊＊

Our coach drives past show rooms 
with names like Aston Martin and Mercedes Benz,
red roofs of Germanic mansions from Qingdao past, 
streets lined with cedar trees from Qingdao present, 
and a pine-lined boulevard along the seaside,
where aquariums and beaches invite.

Our four starred hotel stands proud and plain
across the street from a French owned market
not far away, it can be seen from the five starred 
Shangri-Las and the InterContinentals, 
but predictably just that little way inland and longer still to stroll
from the yacht marinas of Qingdao’s best.

I check my phone for messages
not all my apps are working.
My cousins are better prepared
with their own virtual network
bought before they left Japan
to stay in touch with their families.
I put my phone away,
I am with my family.
 
＊＊＊

Just the day before, my name was called,
Ms Kanamori, Ms Mayu Kanamori
on flight whatever it was,
please report immediately to the boarding gate. 
Huffing and puffing, almost running
in tandem with Ms Korean Airlines
who found my passport behind the security desk.
In a sheepish voice I joked
               	I’m about to become one of those passengers 
                stumbling through the aisle, 
               	late, delaying departure for us all.
Ms Korean Airlines was silent
rushing past duty-free shops,
fast food restaurants, 
cheap souvenir shops,
currency exchange counters. 
Perhaps she heard me. 
Perhaps she didn’t.
               	But next time someone else is late, 
               	I will be more empathetic.
Ms Korean Airlines must have liked that.
She broke her silence and displayed her wit
               	Just tell them, the drinks are on you.
Aren’t the drinks free on Korean Airlines?
Now hurry.

＊＊＊

Up the hill we ascend 
onto narrow and winding Fu Shan Road.
The coach stops, and our cool driver Ms Huang is stern
               	Hurry, our coach is blocking the traffic
               	We’ll get in trouble.
               	Hurry.
Stepmother, half-sister, aunty, uncle, cousins, nephews,
we clamber out upon instructions from Ms Zhuang
who is taking instructions from Ms Huang
               	Hurry our coach is blocking the traffic flow.
               	Hurry we need to be in the flow.
               	Just bring your cameras.
               	All is safe on the bus.
               	All is safe, just bring your cameras.

Mr Li is a quiet young fellow,
he studied Japanese at university 
to watch anime in its original language.
He lived in Tokyo for a time, 
and is going there again in a fortnight’s time 
to escort a tour party of Shandong people
take them shopping and to Mount Fuji.
Carrying the aqua blue flag with a turtle-like logo,
Mr Li minds my two young nephews 
and my elderly aunt and uncle 
as we cross the street to No 10 Fu Shan Road
with a looming concrete fence and a grim gate
with black and gold iron curls with moon cake flowers
and leaves that look like owls.

Here we are, a busload of Japanese with a camera each,
nodding, waving our long necks, squinting to have a closer look.
We are too shy to peek over the fence, but not Mr Li.
He is tall, and stands tiptoes against an opening just above the gate.
Ms Zhuang had made enquiries before we arrived
               	Now this house is occupied by important someone in the City Council.
               	A VIP in the City Council lives here now.
To finish the job, Ms Zhuang beckons
               	Everyone, let’s all take a photo in front of this house.
               	Everyone let’s all take a family photo.
Ms Zhuang collects our cameras, phones, and devices.
We gather in front of this stranger’s house,
some standing in a row, others 
squatting in front. Ready, 
smile, click, ready, smile, click, ready, smile click. 
We make our way 
for our poses
to become frozen in time.

Two people dressed in lycra with bodies to match
walk by and ask what we might be doing.
Ms Zhuang asks if they live in this house.
They don’t, and they don’t know who lives here,
but they have lived in this street since they were born. 
Ms Zhuang explains my aunt was born in Qingdao
and she used to live in this house:
No 10 Fu Shan Road.

My eighty-three-year-old aunt shows Mr and Mrs Lycra 
old photos she brought from Japan, taken 
behind this gate
of a three-storey mansion with 
a basement, 
an elevator 
a smaller house for servants.
In the photo is a pond with a fountain
lush water lily groves,
my aunt as a little girl, 
not smiling, 
a little boy next to her, 
my own father, now 
dead for forty years.
Then another stiff family 
photo from another era, 
younger days of my grandfather and my uncle in morning coats, 
my grandmother and aunts dressed in silk kimonos,
and my father in a double-breasted suit for boys
in a room with lace and piano.

Mr Lycra tells us his name is Mr Yuan.
He has visited Japan for a competition,
he coaches women’s football.
Mrs Yuan invites us to their home further down Fu Shan Road
to see sketches of famous houses in this district.
A stone monument across from the Yuan’s home tells us 
that Fu Shan Road of Qingdao XiaoYuShan Park
is a Cultural Celebrities Street.
Ms Zhuang translates the signage for us
               	Many famous novelists, writers, professors, and scholars
               	once lived on this street.
               	On this street, very famous novelists, writers, professors, scholars.

Has anyone explained to Ms Zhuang that granddad was just a banker?
Not a soldier, no, Ms Zhuang, 
not a killer, but a banker,
but then again, perhaps it is just a minor difference 
the way novelists are writers and professors, scholars
and bankers mastermind colonies and finance 
imperial wars.

To complete her assignment, Ms Zhuang calls out
               	Everyone let’s all take a photo in front of the home 
               	with Mr and Mrs Yuan.
               	Everyone let’s take a photo with Mr and Mrs Yuan.
We gather together
some standing in a row, others 
squatting in front. Ready, 
smile, click, ready, smile, click, ready, smile click. 
We make room 
to suspend time
with people of Qingdao.

My cousin brings out dharma dolls from his daypack
and instructs his two young sons to give 
thanks and dolls to Mr and Mrs Yuan.
We exchange emails, wave goodbye with many many thanks.

Back on the coach Ms Zhuang now 
probably with six sparkling stars
beams
               	Everyone, how lucky we were.
               	How so lucky we were.
               	We took photos in front of the house. 
               	Yes, we took photos.
               	And a chance to talk with locals.
               	Lucky to talk with locals.
	
Ms Huang drives us through the narrow streets, 
back down the hill to the boulevard by the beach
lined with tiny stalls for seaside visitors selling 
souvenir seashells, trinket bracelets and plastic toys.
We clamour out of the bus again.
We smell the sea,
grilling starfish and vermillion sausages.
Mr Li allows my younger nephew to carry 
our tour group flag.

＊＊＊


Making of a Family Portrait (cont'd)

 
 

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