Musuta Kusaka's Everyday Journey with Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion in Japan

This month, my daughter turned 8, and it made me realize something. My father also disappeared when I was 8 years old.

I didn’t expect to see him again after I learned that he, who everyone believed had passed away, was still alive. By then, I was already working a full-time job.

I got an email from Mom on my phone. It said,

“Your dad has reappeared. I can’t believe it.”

I replied right away from work,

“I’m shocked.”

My father was conned by his old buddies into a huge debt of tens of millions of yen, and then he vanished without a trace. After 16 years of being missing, he was legally presumed dead. Out of the blue, he contacted me through the court to request that his name be reinstated on the family register.

I found my mother in a state of agitation when I got home.

“He’s probably off with some woman, isn’t he? I’m too scared to face him. You go instead.”

She was ranting and raving, as usual. From cleaning the mold in the bathroom to sending illegal packages, I’ve always been the one to clean up her messes. So I expected nothing less this time. Actually, I hoped she wouldn’t go. I didn’t want to see her get into a physical altercation in a courtroom.

We were stunned to find out that our father was still alive, but what really threw us for a loop was that the notice came from the family court right here in town. How could he have been so close? A few days later, my younger brother and I went to the Saitama Family Court, leaving Mom at home.

I remember wearing a down coat when I went to meet him. The entrance was bitterly cold, and the corridors were shadowy. The windows rattled in the north wind.

The meeting room we were shown to after checking in was cold and impersonal. It was a small, white room that could seat about six people, with nothing but chairs, a desk, and a clock. A few of the blinds were bent. It must have been used for office work or mediation. I wonder if anyone ever leaves here feeling happy.

I waited for my brother to sit down and then purposely sat right across from him. It’s something I’ve always done to keep my sanity.

“Come on, stop it,” my brother said, avoiding my gaze.

“Yeah, you’re right,”

I said, moving over to sit next to him. And then it was time to go.

However, it took a long time from there.

We waited, but no one came. My brother and I stared at the door, which the secretary had asked us to keep open. Every time someone walked past, we jumped, but they didn’t even glance at us.

A cold draft crept in from the hallway. My body, stiff with anticipation, started to feel numb. My fingertips were numb with tension, but my toes were aching with cold. I could hear a phone ringing in the distance. Office chatter filled the air. I strained my ears, listening for any sign of my father.

The only thing I remember about my father is that he was a kind man. I don’t have many other memories of him.The only time I can recall him scolding me was when I’d wet the bed and tried to hide it.

“It’s not good to tell lies,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed in a playful way.

I remember one time we wrote a secret letter to Mom on Mother’s Day when I was just learning hiragana. My brother, on the other hand, says he can’t remember anything about him.

I didn’t have any strong feelings of resentment or love towards my father. In fact, I was kind of amazed he’d managed to stay with my mother for eight years. She was absolutely chaotic. Our house was a revolving door of hosts, prostitutes, ex-yakuza, and fashion store managers. None of them seemed to leave a lasting impression. Even my grandmother said,

“I can see why your father left,” implying that my mother was difficult to live with.

As a teenager, I realized that my father had left to escape my mother, not his debts.

Knock knock.

I looked up to meet the gaze of the man who had knocked. It was a male staff member. He sat down and gave me a polite bow, then flashed a practiced smile.

“You must be Mr. Kusaka. I know this is a difficult situation, but this is about your human rights. Once we’ve verified your identity, could you please agree to restore your family register?”

The way he said “for a moment” made me realize this was probably a routine part of his job.

I watched the staff member quickly leave. The door paused halfway as if to hesitate.

My father came in. He must have been waiting in the hallway all this time. He bowed deeply.

I noticed his lips moving slightly, and my brow furrowed. ‘Is something bothering you?’ I asked, my voice gentle but firm.

His shaved head was wrinkled and saggy, almost like a prune.

I guess my question gave him the opening he needed. My father took a step forward and sat down lightly.

“I’m really sorry about what I’ve done to you. I don’t know how to apologize…”

His voice trailed off, barely audible.

“So what’s with the hair?”

“Long time no see,” or “I didn’t think you were still alive.” More than anything, I was curious about his head. No, I clung to it. I couldn’t think of anything else to say to a relative who had abandoned us.

“I got an abscess on my head. It was swollen and full of pus. Once the pus drained, I was left with excess skin.”

He had a tendency to break out when He’s stressed or tired. Apparently, his whole head became one big abscess.

My father used to be a street racer. He was really into his ducktail pompadour, greased up with a ton of pomade. To think he’s spent the last 16 years with his head so deformed… I wouldn’t have recognized him if I passed him on the street.

I couldn’t hear him very well. His voice was weaker than a whisper, like foggy glass, barely audible.

“What? What’s wrong with your voice?”

“I got tuberculosis at the factory where I worked. I couldn’t go to the hospital.”

He’d lost a lung. I thought tuberculosis was a disease of the past.

He didn’t have a family register. How did he find a place to live or a job? How did he endure a hospital stay without health insurance? How did he survive when he couldn’t work, or even when he could? I realized then that my brother and I would never hear our father’s voice again.

The fingers that stroked my hair were bandaged. The MA-1 jacket that covered his hunched back was probably a fake. Even though he zipped it all the way up, I bet he was only wearing a T-shirt or underwear underneath. His sweatpants were stained, and he was wearing flip-flops on bare feet. His toes were cracked and white. My lips went numb.

But my younger brother reacted differently.

“Why are you only doing this now?” he demanded, angry.

He was standing up for the family, taking the place of the cowardly older brother. Having no memory of our father, he’d seen firsthand the struggles of our mother and me. His profile was resolute, a stark contrast to my own.

“I know I have no right to say this, and I’m so sorry to put you both through this, but I want to get married.”

I had a feeling. Someone who would endure so much pain couldn’t possibly be unloved. No one could love no one else. To have loved someone enough to run away and risk death, and yet still be capable of love, that was hope. Perhaps the only thing we inherited from our father.

“Ah, about the family register. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

I told my younger brother without confirming with him. I decided to exercise my authority as the elder. I could feel him nodding slightly.

“I have a daughter,” Dad said.

“Want to meet her?”

“No way!” My brother and I replied in unison, unable to help ourselves. Dad cracked a smile.

His eyebrows furrowed. Ah, it’s Dad.

Perhaps he never forgot us.

The meeting was over. As expected, a staff member came in and quickly obtained our consent before we dispersed. I think I signed something. It’s like my father died and came back to life.

The three of us left the room. Dad looked up at us, saying nothing. Realizing we were going to live as strangers from now on, I felt a chill run down my spine. Far down the hallway, I saw Dad approaching a woman who was rocking a baby. Her silhouette was nothing like our mother’s. As I thought.

Twenty years have passed since then. I’ve been blessed with a daughter. She’s eight years old now, the same age I was when I lost my father. She’s never once asked to meet her grandfather. I think she understands. I’m so grateful. Perhaps she’s inherited more of my father’s kindness than I have.

Shall I tell you a story about your grandpa?

“My dad, your great-grandpa, well, he kind of died once, you see. And when he came back to life, his head was all wrinkly and squishy, and he had this tiny little voice. But he loved his only daughter very much.”

Your daughter loves Disney stories, doesn’t she? I’m sure he’d be smiling if he knew you were happy.

Fin.