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

I often hear about mother-in-law and daughter-in-law problems. Are there problems between mother-in-law and son-in-law?

When I talk to my mother-in-law, I feel at a loss. I wonder if we really can’t understand each other. I often find myself pondering the word “diversity.” If she found out about this, she would probably say, “I throw those exact words right back at you.”

Of course, she is my wife’s mother, so we are all different in age, gender, place of residence, values, etc. However, we have a common destiny: “I love my wife = her daughter.” From there, we should be able to move forward to a better understanding of each other, but it’s already been 15 years since we got married, and it feels like we’re going backwards, not forwards.

Even when I had to take a leave of absence for mental health reasons. “Oh, how pathetic. You’re still a man, aren’t you? My dad was a Kyushu-man, so he didn’t end up in such a horrible situation.” “You have two ears, so it’s no big deal if you can’t hear in one. Hearing loss is just a shame.” “You just don’t have enough willpower. Just be patient. That will fix most things,” she said, scolding me in her thick Oita dialect. Seriously? She didn’t seem to know that for a mentally ill person, that’s a lethal weapon.

To top it off, she even cut my wife down, saying, “It’s because you weren’t dependable that Musuta ended up like this. A wife has to be strong and dependable. I never should have let you marry into Tokyo.” No false accusations. My wife gently placed the smartphone, which was distorting due to the mother-in-law’s yelling, on the table. It’s been like this every time something happens ever since we got married. Ah, I just can’t understand her.

My mother-in-law found out that I had started knitting.

One night, while I was knitting on the sofa, I heard my daughter talking in the dining room. “Daddy is knitting now.” When I looked over, my daughter pointed the tablet camera at me. It was a video call with my grandmother. She had run out of things to talk about, and decided to broadcast my situation. Of course, a father who started knitting at 46 years old would be a good subject.

I wanted to praise her for her 8-year-old spirit of service, but more than anything, I wanted to hide. My mother-in-law comes into people’s defenseless places with her shoes on, and even with spikes on. That’s her. I knew she would start her usual nagging, calling me a sissy. I got up from the sofa.

Then, that loud voice came from the tablet. “Mu-chan, are you knitting? That’s a circular needle.” How do you know? A circular needle is a knitting needle connected to another needle by a cord, the nunchucks of the knitting world. “What kind of knitting are you knitting?” I took the tablet from my daughter’s hand and sat back down in the dining room. In the screen, my mother-in-law’s cheeks were red from a can of beer. “I used to knit a lot, too.”

She began to speak as if picking at small dishes. The World War II ended soon after she was born. The shortage of goods was terrible in the mountain villages of Oita. By the time my daughter was her age, she had already started helping her parents, knitting clothes for her father and older brother. Even after she got married, she couldn’t get rid of the habit, and knitted socks, belly warmers, scarves and sweaters for her husband and three children every night. ” I remember the pain of the cracks,” she said, rubbing her fingertips and laughing.

Come to think of it, the day my wife, her youngest daughter, came to Tokyo. There were a lot of hand-knitted socks in the moving boxes. The colorful socks made of wool, not a single pair of the same color, were stuffed into the gaps between the items. It was as if they were protecting my wife’s memories from shock. I wanted to skewer the me of those days, who was eager to put them on and rejoiced, “Wow, they’re so warm!” with my knitting needles.

“Knitting helps you forget about everything, doesn’t it? It’s good,”
my mother-in-law said, leaning her chin on her hand and drinking her beer. I nodded toward the screen, saying, “Yes, I agree.” Yeah. I understand that very well.

What was it that she wanted to forget? What thoughts had she had as she knitted all this time? What did she feel when her husband died, her children left home, and she no longer had to knit for anyone? She put the can on the table. I heard a clang, an empty sound. “I’ll have one too. Join me for another one.”

I opened a non-alcoholic beer and confessed that I had actually started knitting. The first scarf I knitted was too big for my daughter. Now I’m knitting a knitted hat. I’m planning to knit leg warmers for my wife by winter. And so on. A child reporting to their parents what happened at school that day. I may have been like that. She listened to me, never getting bored, while constantly interrupting. Before I knew it, the empty cans were lined up in a row, and my daughter had retreated to her bedroom.

My mother-in-law once knew the happiness of knitting for her family, and I have only just discovered it. It took 15 years for us to start a conversation. I don’t know how long she will live. However, I know many people whose thread of life was suddenly torn off while they still had many balls of yarn left. I felt a slight sense of impatience. And even a sense of loneliness. These were unexpected emotional turmoil for me, who has been without parents for a long time.

“I’m off work right now. Is there anything I can knit for you in the meantime?” My mouth moved on its own. All I can do is fill the long-standing delay and gap while I still can. Like the socks that day.

She leaned closer to the screen and answered. “I prefer cash.”

I thought so. That’s right. That’s the kind of person she was.
Ignoring my expression, which must have disappeared in an instant, she said, “Well, Bye” and the monitor went dark. The call ended without any lingering feeling. I drank the rest of my beer, feeling foolish for thinking I had connected with her, even for just a moment .

Although she said that, she wouldn’t even let me treat her to a family restaurant, let alone pocket money. I don’t think retirement is such a big deal. I’ll send her a belly warmer sometime soon. A tacky one with her initials on it.

The mother-in-law and son-in-law problem continues.

The author knitting a hat. She failed twice and had to redo it. On the third try, she finally saw the completion.