the elements in his relentless, hopeless struggle. Sometimes he would heft a huge log onto his shoulders, or cradle it in his arms like a baby, and perform hundreds of squats. Once I watched him lifting heavy rice sacks with his teeth to strengthen his neck. Each time I made a note of his training and added it to my own program the next day. The stones and logs I lifted were small in comparison to Miyagi’s, little more than pebbles and sticks, but my stones grew bigger and my logs thicker over the weeks, months, and years that I trained in preparation for my first lesson with Sensei Miyagi.
My schoolteacher, Mr. Kojima, was from Kagoshima on the Japanese mainland. He spoke with a strange accent—although he claimed it was we who spoke strangely and never tired of reminding us. I can still hear his high-pitched voice ringing out, his words accompanied by the cracking of his ruler, which he carried under his arm like an army officer’s swagger stick.
Mr. Kojima was especially concerned with the education of Kumemura children—children of Chinese descent. We added an extra layer of complexity to the already formidable task of teaching the native Okinawans. There were only two other Kumemura children in my class, both of whom were girls and far too quiet to warrant his attention, so Mr. Kojima ignored them completely and I bore the full force of his displeasure.
On this occasion, I’d failed to bow correctly before the emperor’s portrait that hung at the front of our classroom and Mr. Kojima had decided to make an example of me. “Emperor Hirohito is a living god!” he shouted, smacking his ruler on my desk. “The father of all Japanese subjects, and despite what you might think, that includes you, Ota!”
He nodded, as if to say he knew what I was thinking, but he didn’t. I was staring at the portrait of the fresh-faced young man in uniform, his chest covered with medals, and wondering why he wore spectacles. If he was a god, surely he didn’t need them. And if he was my father, then who was the man at home whom I called father? And how could one man be the father of eighty million people? No, Mr. Kojima didn’t know what I was thinking, but I thought it best not to correct him. Instead, I went and knelt before the emperor, holding my forehead on the floor for a long time until I was sure Mr. Kojima would be satisfied.
I hadn’t intended to be disrespectful. In fact, Mr. Kojima would have been surprised to know that I wanted nothing more than to be a good Japanese citizen. Our empire was the greatest in the world. We’d beaten the Russians, the Koreans, and the Manchurians, and we were destined to rule all of Asia. I dreamed of one day taking my place in this great ruling class.
When I’d returned to my seat, Mr. Kojima proceeded to tell us about the Japanese soldiers in Manchuria. Three young heroes had hit the news for throwing themselves across barbed wire so their comrades could get to grips with the enemy. They were called “soldier-gods” for their sacrifice and Mr. Kojima ordered us to write a poem in praise of their devotion. “Their sacrifice wasn’t in vain,” he assured us. “Japanese civilization will soon spread throughout all of China.” He looked at me as he said this, though I pretended not to notice and kept my eyes downcast at the paper in front of me. “Soon we will free all Asia from the yoke of Western imperialism,” he promised, “and one day, the whole world will thank us for showing it a better way.”
During our lunch break, we gathered in the yard and made a ring from old rope to play our favorite game, sumo wrestling. I was skinny for my age and rarely won a bout. After two quick defeats, I spent the rest of the break trying to get the dust off my uniform to avoid another dressing down from Mr. Kojima. The winner, as always, was an older student called Jinan Shinzato who, as well as being very skilful, was a powerful athlete. Occasionally he would perform gymnastics on the bars, swinging and dismounting with a beautiful somersault like a professional circus-man. Shinzato took no notice of me, he didn’t even know I existed, but I knew about him. He was from a noble family, like Miyagi, and I knew he also studied to-te with Miyagi. I longed to talk to him about it, but could never summon the courage to approach him—Shinzato was as distant to me as those heroes in Manchuria that we heard about.
In the afternoon, we did English. Mr. Kojima had spent a year in Boston, which, he was at pains to explain, was not in England but in Massachusetts in the United States. I was talented in English, even Mr. Kojima had to acknowledge this, but it wasn’t such a good thing. During every lesson, Mr. Kojima lectured us long and hard about the moral destitution of the Anglo-Saxon race. America was a land of untold luxury and wealth, but this had been achieved through unabated greed. American people claimed to worship God, but in truth, they worshipped money. They had no emperor. They didn’t honor their parents or their ancestors. They acted like spoiled children, and perhaps most important of all, they were not brave—not like our people. Their soldiers were big in size but small in heart. They lacked the samurai spirit of the Japanese. Mr. Kojima assured us that one Japanese soldier was worth ten Americans. Only one country could compare with Japan, albeit dimly, and that was Germany. Germany’s new leader was strong and determined. In just a few years, he had achieved an economic miracle comparable to Japan’s own, and created a military machine of impressive power. Our country had struck an alliance with his, and together we were set to lead the world in industry, arms, and technology. Germany would be a valuable ally for the time being, though, as the original Anglo-Saxons, they could never share in Japan’s long-term plans. Our nation was born of the gods, with a living god as our ruler. We were destined to rule, first Asia and then the four corners of the world.
I wondered whether Germans spoke English, but dared not ask. It was close to home time, and I didn’t want to incur Mr. Kojima’s wrath and stay behind after class.
My fourteenth birthday was a special day. Mother cooked imokuzu—potato pancakes—for breakfast, and father presented me with a new penknife like the one he used on his boat. I was thrilled and ran to fetch his sharpening stone. He gave me advice, and though I’d sharpened knives many times before, I listened attentively and did as he instructed. I didn’t wish to anger him, especially not today. When it was time to go to school, I stood before him and waited to be invited to speak. My father raised his eyebrows at my sudden formality—we didn’t stand on ceremony in our household. I think he could guess what I was about to ask.
“Father, I am fourteen now,” I began, then waited a moment to gauge his reaction. He nodded once, as if to say there was no doubting it was true. “Do you remember Master Miyagi, who we met a few years ago?” I continued.
“Miyagi? Miyagi?” he said, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall where he’d heard the name before, “there is a noble family in Naha by that name…”
“The to-te man!” I said, frustrated by his forgetfulness.
“Yes, I do believe Chojun Miyagi is a to-te teacher,” he said slowly, as if dredging up some long-forgotten memory from the past.
“The typhoon-man!” I exclaimed, fit to burst with impatience.
“That was Chojun Miyagi?” he asked, wide-eyed.
I stared at him in disbelief until I noticed the twinkle in his eye. “You know it is!” I shouted, all formality forgotten.
“Yes, I know all about Master Miyagi,” he said. “Now what about him?”
“He told me I could begin training in to-te when I was fourteen,” I said breathlessly, “and I am fourteen now, and there is a to-te class tonight.”
“You know where his dojo is?”
“Yes, in the elementary school in Naha.”
