Anywhere But Here

Tomoa was just shy of 20 years old when his mom suggested he travel somewhere exotic. So, from a Tokyo suburb, he set his sights on Texas. It was 2013, and mutual friends connected him with my husband, Luke, and me. We enthusiastically offered to host Tomoa in Dallas for two weeks, and I couldn’t help but wonder: Why does he want to come here?

A few years earlier, Luke and I had almost moved to Japan. We were native Texans, newly married and eager to go abroad. We had both previously lived in foreign countries and had recently visited Japan as a potential new home. Luke even studied Japanese after reading the life-changing book Silence by Shūsaku Endō. We went so far as to quit our jobs and give away our piano. But life interrupted our plans. Every door we knocked on for work and accommodations in Japan was closed.

Still, we didn’t lose hope; we were young! We would move to Japan later, or somewhere else. “Anywhere but here,” we said at the time. Imagine us in our fi­rst apartment with incense burning, Eastern flute music playing, and a stack of coffee table books like Wanderlust. It wasn’t that we had a problem with Texas. It was that our home state was just so ours. The allure of somewhere different was strong. 

By the time we were preparing to welcome Tomoa, we had a 2-year-old daughter, a 5-month-old son, and a mortgage. We were several years out from our earlier hopes of leaving Dallas. We deep cleaned the guest room and taught our toddler to say konnichiwa—hello. Then we started dreaming up where to take a young man from across the world whose only request was to have an authentic Texas experience. I had never put much thought into what might be worth celebrating about my home state. I wasn’t particularly “Texas proud”—my boots were collecting dust in the back of my closet—but with an outsider on his way to Texas, I felt a foreign desire to show it off.

Did Tomoa imagine he would step off the plane to fi­nd horses and guns? I considered how we might take him beyond surface-level conceptions of Texas, or at least how we might explore the origins and limits of its stereotypes. In my excitement to be a tour guide, I didn’t realize that I too was about to see new things. 

Tomoa emerged from the airport with designer jeans, jet black hair, an eager expression, and a translation gadget tucked into his palm. He spoke little English. Exchanging smiles, we said konnichiwa and howdy.

Once he settled in at our house, we gathered around the table for dinner, communicating by pointing at things. With halting language, we compared meal customs—how to set a table, favorite foods, typical sauces and condiments. It was August, and the sun was still high outside the window as we passed around a bottle of barbecue sauce for our brisket.

Suddenly, Tomoa gasped and pointed outside at a squirrel scampering across the grass, the fi­rst he had ever seen. We explained that those furry little guys were such common garden pests that we usually didn’t notice them. But Tomoa was mesmerized. He worked to pronounce the word squirrel.

With jet lag setting in, it was time to say goodnight. We had a big day planned at the Fort Worth Stockyards.

I had lived in Fort Worth as a kid, ambling down those dusty brick roads as a preschooler in cowgirl boots, but it had been a long time since I’d returned to this mecca of Western life. In our quest for a parking spot, we passed Billy Bob’s, touted as the world’s largest honky-tonk. I rolled down my window, letting the car flood with ­fiddle music, summer heat, and the scent of fresh leather.

There’s good reason Fort Worth is known as Cowtown. The cattle drive, where skilled horsemen wrangle a parade of longhorns, happens twice daily. It wasn’t the right hour for the cattle drive when we stepped onto that old main road with Tomoa, yet he clicked photo after photo, ­finding plenty he wanted to show his family. Kenny Chesney blasted from a speaker, trail riders mounted horses, the aroma of smoked meat drifted on the breeze, crowds poured in and out of Western wear shops, and children clamored for turns in the cattle pen maze or atop the ever-patient, saddled longhorn. Once or twice, a squirrel graced us, chittering from one of the oaks that provided much-needed shade. I doused my children in sunscreen and mosquito repellent, offering some to Tomoa, who gratefully accepted.

We eventually arrived at Will Rogers, the memorial center where the rodeo is held—and, incidentally, where my childhood dance recitals were held, a historical location for livestock and ballerinas alike. With a grin, Tomoa looked around, taking in the oddly inviting animal smell. We found seats alongside thousands of others who had come to watch rodeo riders—or escape the heat. We did our best to explain the rodeo to Tomoa, but he blinked and asked if we were meant to cheer for the cow.

Anticipation buzzed in the air as competitors made their grand entrances amid music and pyrotechnics. Then the rodeo began.

As we applauded the ropers, barrel racers, and steer wrestlers, I wondered how Tomoa might recount this overstimulating experience of acrobatic cowboys to his friends back home. The energy in the arena was unmatched, and when Tomoa saw a bull buck a rider off, he said, “Oh!” He now understood why we don’t cheer for the cow.

We laughed together, and I thought back to experiences I had overseas when locals would wait for me to catch on—like when I arrived for dinner at a friend’s home in India only to find a fl­ock of still-live chickens. Every time I glanced at Tomoa throughout his first rodeo, he was clicking photos and smiling.

Back home that night, we debriefed over homemade chicken-fried steak and gravy. We leaned heavily on hand gestures, facial expressions, vocal intonation, and Tomoa’s trusty translation gadget. Through fumbling attempts at each other’s languages, we communicated effectively, even if it took time. Tomoa opened up about his family and life at home. He explained how important his upcoming 20th birthday was. In Japan, this is the milestone when a boy becomes a man.

Chatting quietly in subdued lamplight, I noticed something: Tomoa kept glancing at our son, Eliot, while our daughter, Naomi, was prattling on about horses and cows. Tomoa had a gentle disposition toward both children, but he was noticeably focused on Eliot, who was trying his darnedest to crawl. Shyly, Tomoa revealed that he had never touched a baby. There were fewer babies in Japan, and parents tended to be more privacy minded.

“Would you like to hold him?” I asked.

Tomoa bit his lip and nodded.

I lifted Eliot from the ground and set him on Tomoa’s lap. He received our son with great care, as though he were porcelain. Eliot looked up and gave our new friend a gummy smile, and Tomoa held him closer. He told us this meant a great deal to him, so we let the moment linger—one boy in his babyhood and the other almost a man. I marveled over Tomoa’s tender joy to experience the vastness of our world. We told him we were glad to have him. “Arigatō,” he said with happy sincerity. Thank you.

At Tomoa’s request, we visited my alma mater. A school visit wasn’t something we would have thought to do, but it made sense that a college-age guy would enjoy this. Despite the University of North Texas being a mere half-hour away, I hadn’t been back in several years, and it was surreal to return with a husband, two babies, and Tomoa.

Here, too, there were squirrels. In fact, UNT has a famous albino squirrel named Lucky. Although Lucky didn’t make an appearance for Tomoa, we saw plenty of his rodentia friends as we strolled through the courtyard and past the soaring library, pausing on a bench beside the central fountain. Summer school was in session, and students walked by carrying book bags or trombone cases on their backs.

We showed Tomoa the technology building, art building, and student union, which houses The Syndicate, a live jazz venue. UNT has the largest music program at a public university in the U.S., and although music hadn’t been my area of focus, I could almost hear the choir concerts, senior showcases, and smoky clubs full of eager musicians that punctuated my four years there. As we walked, a flood of nostalgia washed over me. Some of my deepest friendships and fondest memories came from this place. A longing that was unfamiliar took hold: I wanted to savor my home state and experience more of it. 

By the time we drove home, we had pushed Eliot well past nap time. He cried, and I felt embarrassed. I was a 26-year-old mom wondering what this 19-year-old guy who had never been around babies might make of being trapped in the car with a screaming child. From the driver’s seat, Luke started to sing one of our go-to bedtime songs—which, as it turns out, is a classic Japanese lullaby. “Zousan, zousan,” the song starts. Elephant, elephant. Tomoa’s head snapped to the side in pleasant surprise. “You know ‘Zousan’?” he asked. 

So, packed into our Honda driving south on Interstate 35, we all sang together in Japanese about an elephant who loves his mother. Tomoa smiled at the familiar melody, and Eliot’s eyes grew heavier until he drifted to sleep.

The next day, we returned to Cowtown but to a different end of the cultural spectrum. We visited the Kimbell Art Museum, giving Tomoa a chance to see pieces by artists like Monet and Picasso. We also found a Japanese collection of intricate jars and bowls. I loved the kintsugi, where broken poetry is repaired with gold. Tomoa took photos, nodding respectfully when he was ready to move on. I recalled a museum we visited in Tokyo, where children with little backpacks stood on tiptoes to see the exhibits. I had been pregnant with Naomi at the time, curious which museums in which countries she might one day explore.

We went to the Fort Worth Botanic Garden from there. This was another place I had come when I was young. My memories were mostly of the giant cactus strung with holiday lights in December, or of loitering amid foliage with high school friends as we tried to conquer adolescent boredom. I don’t think we appreciated the 120 acres of serenity back then, so I inhaled the beauty as if for the first time. The picturesque Japanese Garden, with its cherry trees, had always been my favorite, and it made Tomoa happy to see the familiar flora. There seemed to be connection points between our countries at every turn.

What happened next couldn’t have been more quintessentially Texan if we had planned it: We came upon a quinceañera photo shoot. Tomoa stared at the girl in her full-skirted gown, surrounded by an entourage as if she were royalty. Because he had told us about the milestone of a man’s 20th birthday in Japan, we were able to explain that this was similar: a young woman of Latin American descent turning 15, the mark of a girl becoming a woman. I’m not sure whether Tomoa or Naomi stared harder, but I knew the quinceañera girl wouldn’t mind onlookers. This was a time of life she had dreamed about for years, having once been the 2-year-old girl looking on in admiration. Backed by vibrant hydrangeas, she gave us a gracious wave, and we said, “Felicidades!”

I hoped Tomoa was picking up on something central to the heart of Texas. Having once been part of Mexico, Texas is indelibly tied to Mexican culture, with many residents speaking both languages and associating with both places.

The birthday girl’s abuela reminded me of my own abuela as she smiled proudly, a thin crucifix dangling from her necklace. We nodded and left the garden through a sea of succulents. Tradition, history, art, vegetation: I felt a new sense of rootedness. A place is its people, and I was glimpsing the beauty of mine.

The following day, our outing included a familiar face for Tomoa. It was Japanese pitcher Yu Darvish’s second season playing in the major leagues. Attending a Rangers game was at the top of Tomoa’s desired excursions, as he was studying sports business. We texted some friends: We have a visitor from Japan who wants to go see the Rangers—who’s in?

Many came. Tomoa donned a baseball cap he had brought from home for the occasion. I smiled as he situated it atop his dark hair, and I tried to explain the word y’all, how it’s the collective you, meaning everyone, but in a Texan way. Attempting to explain it made me giggle. But Tomoa demonstrated his understanding by asking us, “Y’all excited for the game?”

Darvish pitched beautifully—a heroic 11 strikeouts!—but the Minnesota Twins won 3-2. Nevertheless, it was a great night at the ballpark. Our friends loved Tomoa, and we snapped a photo of our group in a row of stadium seats, Tomoa sitting happily in the middle. I imagined his mother seeing that photo of her son in a swath of reds and blues and friends, with a hot dog on his lap. I was only seven years older than Tomoa, yet I felt a pang of maternal pride. I’d love to see one of my own kids on an adventure like this someday. As I looked at my young children watching the ball whiz back and forth, the world both shrunk and expanded around me.

After the rodeo and baseball, we realized we couldn’t leave high school football off a Texas itinerary. I don’t remember who the away team was because Carroll creamed them, causing the cheerleaders and marching band to go wild in celebration under the Friday night lights in Southlake. Somehow, I got myself into the tangle of trying to describe a homecoming mum to Tomoa. This proved as hilariously impossible as explaining a rodeo. Why the mums are so huge was a question I honestly didn’t know the answer to. There must have been some logical origin to this tradition of wearing decorated chrysanthemums that are bigger than my head, but I didn’t know it.

Some of our final excursions included the Sixth Floor Museum, the somber yet frequented site where President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and then the Dallas Zoo, just down the road. The most memorable moment at the zoo was when we stopped to admire the lemurs, only to find Tomoa turned the other direction, taking a picture of a squirrel. We laughed together. Maybe this was how he felt when we went on and on about the wonder of a high-tech Japanese toilet, something that’s commonplace over there. He slid his phone into his pocket, safe with its abundance of squirrel photos. I felt an endeared warmth, like when I was in Japan and a restaurant manager insisted on giving me a lap blanket as I ate because he couldn’t allow a pregnant woman to get cold. We’re all just moving through this world, brushing shoulders with neighbors and nations, trying our best to see and honor each other.

As Tomoa’s time stateside drew to a close, profuse gratitude owed in both directions. When he left, our guest room felt empty. We missed our thoughtful and good-natured friend. There have now been many years and visitors since he stayed with us, but we still fondly call it Tomoa’s room.

There’s something magical about hospitality in that it gives as much as it takes. Through this brief but impactful collision of lives, my affection for Texas grew alongside my affection for Japan, like two sister streams. Tomoa’s curiosity about what makes Texas Texas caused me to ask myself the same question. My former sentiment of anywhere but here subtly shifted to why not here? Texas had seemed ordinary because it was mine, just as Tokyo seemed ordinary to Tomoa. There’s a farsightedness to the human condition: More effort is required to see that which is closest to us. But home might mean more than we realized.

In learning about someone else’s home, I learned about mine. By embracing a newcomer, my own identity strengthened. This was the enduring gift given to me by a new friend. Friendliness is considered a Texan virtue, the very meaning of our name. And what is friendliness if not welcoming a stranger? And what does a stranger do if not provide us with the chance to see our world afresh, with new context and clarity?

Three months after his visit was Tomoa’s 20th birthday. We put it on our calendar.

When the big day approached, we sat on our couch and turned on our camera. We pressed record and offered a Japanese greeting before finding our starting note. Then we sang the birthday song, our children on our laps. As we sang to him from across the planet, I wondered if Tomoa might think about the girl in her quinceañera dress, the unending horns of a Texas steer, or his experience holding a baby for the ­first time. After we sang, we added a clip of a backyard squirrel nibbling an acorn. Then I pressed send, our birthday video whooshing from Texas to Japan, and I looked at my family. It was dinnertime in Dallas, and we had a Japanese cookbook. I pulled it out and smiled. “Itadakimasu, y’all.” Let’s eat.