Mayu Kanamori


Making of a Family Portrait (cont'd)

Just the night before, during my stopover in Korea,
outside the three starred Incheon Airport Hotel,
welcoming travellers in transit 
stood nine flagpoles with different flags:
R of K with red, white, blue, and black, ying and yang I-Ching lines. 
One big and yellow star, and four more littler ones on the revolutionary red of PR of C.
Canada with a maple leaf on red and white.
France with stripes of red and white with blue.
Red, black and gold bands of FR of G.
Fifty white stars on blue with thirteen red and white stripes of the US of A.
And much like the stars and stripes, 
familiar, and questionable without the other two Indigenous flags,
the Australian flag with a Union Jack 
and five stars of the southern cross.
And equally dubious and irresolute
as all national flags can be,
the red round rising sun on white:
the flag of Japan.

＊＊＊

Ignoring the vermilion sausages on sticks,
I buy mineral water and a starfish the colour of a mandarin
I’ve never seen a real starfish, dead or alive.
This one is grilled and dead.
The boys ask my cousin for miniature cars, balloons, plastic toy guns. 
Another cousin asks Mr Li to haggle for a trinket.
I turn my gaze towards the sea.
The longest bridge is not in view.

We drive past large ochre mansions with red roofs 
built by the Germans before 
the Japanese arrived.
Ms Zhuang is full of knowledge
               	They are now weekenders for high-ranking officials.
               	Second homes for the high-ranking officials.

Ms Huang slows down as we drive past a stone-built establishment 
with pointy windows and a red star on a golden anchor at its gate.
               	This was once the Second Japanese Primary School.
               	Yes, the Second Japanese Primary School.
The boys sitting in the front with Mr Li
begin to shuffle their belongings, ready 
to disembark, but they are stopped.
               	We cannot leave the bus.
               	No, we cannot get off the bus.
               	This is now a naval defence building.
               	Now a building for naval defence. 
               	We cannot take photos.
               	No photos. 
               	But you can take photos from the bus.
               	Take your photos from the bus.

My father’s old primary school is framed
through my window through 
my view finder through 
my eyes from the safety of our coach 
driven by Ms Huang, 
guided by Ms Zhuang 
and cared for by Mr Li.
Quickly, click, quickly, click.

I never learned how it unfolded 
that when my father grew up
he befriended revolutionaries
and became an artist.
I ask my aunt who fails to answer, 
but tells me instead
he was twelve years old 
when he fled 
Qingdao. 
My aunt was nine.
They waited some years in Beijing 
before boarding
the last repatriation boat 
bound for bombed, burned 
fire flattened Japan.

We keep moving on.
               	Here is where the Japanese lived.
               	Yes, where the Japanese once lived.
               	Trees here are acacia.
               	Japanese planted acacia.
               	Let’s get off the bus and walk through the former Japanese quarters.
               	Everyone let’s get off the bus and walk.

Ms Huang hurries us all on.
Our stops disturb the traffic flow 
stepping aside to watch the current,
and may change the river flow
or perhaps the course of history.

We walk by groups of men playing mah-jong
others playing cards at leisure
into a spacious concrete square 
where single men sit on benches in the heat.
An unduly wide staircase with a hundred or more steps leads 
up a hill to green shrubbery where there are taller trees behind.
I can see in the distance, 
what may have been 
a church steeple.
               	There was a Japanese shrine on the top of this hill.
               	Yes there was Shinto shrine on this hill.
               	Fortunately, it was made of wood.
               	Yes, it was made of wood,
               	so, it was easy to destroy after the war.
               	Easily destroyed after the war.
               	We can climb up the hill and take a photo.
               	Let’s all climb up the hill and take a photo.

No one climbs up the hill.
It is August, just after the 74th anniversary of VJ Day, 
and it is hot in Qingdao.
               	We can climb up the hill and take a photo.
               	Let’s all climb up the hill and take a photo.
Ms Zhuang repeats herself for the benefit of those
slightly shy, perhaps confused, or simply tired
of remembering what has happened 
imagining what may have happened
or praying for what could happen.

My aunt reminds us that my stepmother has a cane,
and she can’t climb.
She suggests instead we take a photo 
by the foot of the stairs leading up the hill.
Thank god, we are spared
by the wisdom of Tao from Mount Laoshan
or the Christian God in the distance 
or the Shinto gods who were once on the top of the hill.
We gather together 
some standing in a row,
others squatting in front,
Ms Zhuang takes our photos.
Ready, smile, click, ready, smile, click, ready, smile click. 
We allow space
for our cameras to immortalise
our mortals within.

＊＊＊

After three eventful days visiting 
guidebook places mentioned and unmentioned,
I pack my suitcase quickly and clamber on the bus.
On the highway back to the airport
Ms Zhuang helps us to fill out forms 
and gives tips
for the benefit of travellers in need 
of a safe passage back home.

                No firearms 
                Don’t carry firearms.
                No forgeries, no drugs, endangered plants, and animals.
                Don’t carry forgeries, drugs, endangered plants nor animals.
                No liquid in your hand luggage. 
                Don’t carry liquid in your hand luggage. 
                No batteries in checked in luggage.
                Don’t check in your batteries.

Ms Zhuang repeats herself for the benefit of those
not paying attention, not fully listening or
simply too deep in the rut of travel or too shallow
in the end to respect her probity.
Stepmother offers her a tip
Ms Zhuang waves her hand in thanks,
no thanks, she 
doesn’t accept.
I turn my gaze towards the eastern window.
Mount Laotian is no longer in view.

We each take the microphone in turn to thank 
Ms Zhuang, Mr Li, and Ms Huang
and reflect on our memories of our family tour.
My young nephew says when he grows up, 
he wants to become a bus driver like cool Ms Huang.
Older nephew says he saw some girls,
cute young Qingdao girls, he hopes to befriend, 
and return to Qingdao on their honeymoon.
I turn my gaze out the western window.
The longest bridge over water is now at my left
but Jiaozhou Bay is still 
out towards the west.

Next time, Ms Huang says, let’s go to Mount Laoshan.
Ms Zhuang tells us that her team often guides 
 Japanese honeymooners and travellers to find their roots.
 Yes, and newlyweds and travellers, searching
 family roots we guide
 Yes, family roots we find
She repeats her five-star phrases she must have repeated 
a thousand times before
               	Life is a journey, journey is life.
               	Everyday it flows like a river.
               	Like a river it flows, out to sea.
               	A river flows out to sea.
               	Together we found your old family home.
               	Yes, together we found your once family home.
                I felt I was part of your family.
               	Yes, I felt like part of your family.
Mr Li sings a Japanese lover’s parting song on karaoke.
There’s not a dry eye, not even Ms Zhuang’s.

Ms Zhuang takes our final family portrait at the check-in counter.
We ask her to join in our photo.
My nephews insist Mr Li and Ms Huang join us too.
I thank Ms Zhuang for the family photos to treasure
and remember my aunt whom I had not seen 
since my father’s funeral, 
and my cousins even before, since 
my parents’ divorce, since
my mother remarried, and since
my surname changed.

We say our goodbyes with big smiles, 
exchange emails, and many many thanks,
then go through immigration and security.
At the boarding gate is a grey-suited woman 
carrying a white board with my name written in texta, 
along with my cousin’s name.
She commands us sternly in language I don’t understand.
Ms Zhuang is no longer with us 
to bridge the gap
between the ignorant, nearly deaf and half asleep
or simply unaware
and the officials, powerful, alert,
and like many others at border controls
all over the world, doing their duty well.

I do not speak her language. 
I apologise for my lack of Mandarin
in my near perfect Australian English
and in near perfect American English she instructs
               	Come this way.   
               	Now.
               	You have contraband.

She escorts us through long corridors,
out of the boarding gate area
through the security check point
and commands us three times
to hand over our passports,
then we go into a dark room where a woman in a chair
stares at us, then points to our checked-in luggage 
thrown on the floor.
I dare not ask what it was she thought 
might be hidden in my baggage or my thoughts 
or memories of cases past.

We kneel to open them, 
then I hear another woman in a loud voice.
There is a woman in a dark blue uniform 
sitting by an x-ray machine.
I see a yellow 
line on the floor
with writing I cannot read.
Are we on the wrong side?
Of this line?
We move to the x-ray side of the yellow line
and no one is yelling anymore.
I open my suitcase and toss around
my belongings.
Between my cotton pyjamas and a notebook for writing, 
I find a battery for my camera.

Is this it? 
The escort takes the battery and hands it to the woman in blue.
She nods.
I hear Ms Zhuang’s voice in my mind’s ear.
                No batteries in checked in luggage.
                Don’t check in your batteries.
In my mind, I apologise to Ms Zhuang for not hearing her.
In my mind’s ear, repeat, 
                Its ok, don’t worry.
                Don’t worry, its ok.
Ms Zhuang, how come unvoiced apologies can come
to be understood as sincere?

My cousin is still rummaging through his suitcase. 
He does not know what is wrong, but he knows
something is very wrong
when the woman in blue announces
in the deep voice of a sheriff in a cowboy movie
               	You’ve got a gun.
A gun?
What gun?
His luggage is now in disarray,
with T shirts, trousers, and socks all over the floor.
Finally, at the bottom of the case
he finds two plastic toy guns he bought for his sons
from a souvenir stall on the seaside boulevard.
He pulls them out and hands them to the escort.
The escort hands them to the woman in blue.
The woman in blue examines the bigger gun
then pulls the trigger.
Click.
               	Not allowed.
They are only toys, I say.
               	Not allowed.
I apologise to her.
She ignores me.
I want my cousin to apologise too. 
He doesn’t.
I thank her.
I am sure she hears me, 
but she ignores me still.

＊＊＊

In Incheon Airport, I say goodbye to my family 
some on their way to Tokyo, others on their way to Osaka.
I take too long to promise to keep 
in touch. 
They hug lightly, 
if at all, in a way
unquestionably Japanese,
maintaining eye contact, tight,
a gesture often lost where and when
too many huggy kisses 
are blown in the West.
I am again too slow for the flow, 
going through long corridors, past 
security check points, past 
duty-free shops, 
fast food restaurants,
currency exchange counters, 
and this time 
they do not wait for me.
I miss my connecting flight.

A most probably Korean woman in sky blue 
at the Korean Airlines counter tells me 
there are no more flights back to Sydney tonight.
She means Eora Country for those in the know,
but the old new old name 
is still not known in airline counters around the world.

She tells me I can stay overnight, alone 
in Airport City, and my checked-in baggage, 
can be left behind.
With only my handbag and my camera,
feeling light like a butterfly circling in a dream,
I search the net to find 
a place to rest my wings.
All my apps are working now. 
I am outside the Great Firewall of China.

The shuttle bus takes me back 
to Incheon Airport City, to another hotel, 
this one without any flags.
I check the stars in the hotel guidebook, 
in the sky, and my own lucky ones.
I open my notebook for writing to transfer my notes.
My phone makes a sound.
Ding.
There is a friend request from Ms Zhuang.
I thought there was a firewall in Qingdao.
But then again, nothing is ever what it seems,
and the past and future never seem certain.
I accept Ms Zhuang’s friend request 
and send her a message to visit me in Australia.
I sit on my bed to write
my thoughts in my notebook.
About Qingdao. About 
my family. About 
my father. About 
being Japanese. About 
Ms Zhuang.  
Then I take a selfie.
Click. I am
alone. I don’t need to smile.
Now before my sleep and before
I wake to forget,
there are some thoughts on paper
and a photo of me in my cotton pyjamas 
in a flagless, starless hotel room 
at Airport City.

Mayu Kanamori is a Tokyo-born artist living in Sydney. She takes photographs, films and edits art documentaries, writes plays, performances, and poems. https://mayu.com.au/

 
 

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