Leaving Japan

Convenience-store sushi, Hello Kitty chopsticks, sky-scraping mountains and funny-smelling grocery stores are just some of the peculiarities I will always recall when I think of Japan. But most importantly, I will remember the friends and family who helped me adjust and sought companionship in a foreigner as much as I did in them.

In all, they range from age 2 to 70-something. Among them are a musician, an aspiring writer and a man whose father died in the atomic bomb blast. Some are still trying to define themselves. All of them are childish in some way, the way that brings people from across the world together in a single moment.

I don't know when I'll be back, but when I am, I'll be looking these people up.




Kohei, one of the best friends I've ever had, who gets really excited about pants on sale.




Mika, the closest thing to a rebel I could find, and Hanae, a care-free spirit.




Jeannie, Jenni and Diane, three Wake Forest students who shared the joys and tribulations of living with a Japanese family just as I did.




Yuta, my humble translator for stories and a self-proclaimed master of baseball chants.




Ami, soft spoken and inquisitive, and Emi, not soft spoken at all.




Hisae, the 31-year-old student who looks as if she's 18.




Jina, the only half-Japanese, half-Iraqi person I'll ever meet, and Ayumi, a lover of procrastination.




Andrew and Korin, who had never tried takoyaki (fried octopus balls) until that day.




Nakamurasan, whom I only knew for a day in Hiroshima.


And, of course, all of the Hiraos, who cared for me, taught me and, most importantly, included me. They are my Japanese family.