Genesis

When I was three-and-a-half years old, my parents and I lived in Japan and I had an amma (nanny) named Shizouko San. Shizouko San was a dear little lady, maybe four and a half feet tall, probably around 50 years old, who took care of me. She wore dark, spotlessly clean kimonos and obis, tabi socks and clackety shoes. I loved her with all my heart. She was so kind to me. As was typical of Japanese people in those days, she would cover her mouth with her hand when she smiled, and she hardly laughed, but her twinkly eyes and loving countenance were everpresent.

I remember going to Shizouko San's house in Yokusoka one day for a very special visit. Her husband was a real estate salesman. They lived in a traditional shoji screened house, as tiny as they were, and each of the squares in the translucent ricepaper walls had a hand-calligraphed notice about a property for sale. We sat on the tatami-matted floor around a very low table, a low-watt bare bulb glowing overhead, and Shizouko-san brought in a steaming plate of delicious noodles. One noodle was colored red, and another was green. It is good luck and a sign of respect to be served one of the colored noodles. I was served both noodles. I sat on that floor with Shizouko San and her quiet husband, and I felt like a prince. There was esteem and respect for me, a five-year-old boy, and love, too, from dear Shikouko San.

Why did I have an amma? My mother didn't work. We lived in the former summer home of a high-ranking member of the Japanese royal family (it was the crown jewel on the property seized by the US for use as a Navy base) and we had a cook, maid, and gardener to tend the house. As the ranking officer's wife on the base, my mother had certain social responsibilities, but she eshewed them as much as possible - in fact, her lack of interest in such matters was duly reflected in my Dad's fitness reports (yes, for a Naval officer in those days, the wife's level of social support was graded and factored into the husband's yearly ratings). I was a well-behaved, cheerful child, friendly and outgoing, an only child who worshipped my Mom. Was it just because hired help was dirt cheap? Or did my mother have a sense that she was unprepared for parenting?

We lived in Japan for two years. I suppose every child at that age thinks of his parents as heroic. My dad, extremely handsome and tall, would put on his impressive uniform every day and be whisked to the office by a chauffeured car. My mother, plump and pretty, sailed through the house in patterned silk dresses made to order by a seamstress who came to the house once a week. Adorned in pearls and sparkly gowns, she went to functions at the Officer's Club with her dashing husband and taught the finer points of speaking native English to bright Japanese grad students. She loved her life and I found favor in her glances.

I had a fundamental understanding, even at that age, that I was responsible for her happiness and that a continual stream of good behavior and accomplishment was expected of me, or else love would be withdrawn. No problem: I had a talent for music and had a good ear for picking up melodies, which I would pound out on a little electric Yamaha keyboard. I was a standout in pre-school and brought home colorful drawings liberally sprinkled with silver and gold stars. People stared in awe at me wherever we went because I was blond, had light blue eyes like my father, and looked a great deal like the much-admired American president - townspeople would call out, "Kennedy San, Kennedy San!"and bow when we passed by. Having learned Japanese quickly, I'd translate for Mother in the dusty antique shops and haggle on her behalf with amused storekeepers. She was pleased with me, I was a positive reflection on her, and her approval radiated like sunshine upon my upturned, eager face. And I knew: so long as I kept up the good work, she would love me.

It was different with Shizouko San. I knew that she loved unconditionally. I felt no pressure to perform or achieve for her. Yes, she was paid to love me, basically, but her affection was real. She delighted in who I was, not what I did, and I felt loved. That was not the case with my mother.

My mother's moods could change lightning quick. From euphoric highs to sputtering anger, she ping-ponged through life, an intelligent woman whose opportunities to expand beyond the roles of wife and mother were limited by the times, her husband's career and a lack of higher education. I learned to spot the warning signs and modify my behavior to avoid her wrath. She never hit me, but her words - and her eyes - stung like darts. So long as Shizouko San was there to shuffle me back to my room or take my hand and go outside, it was okay. In Japan, I had an ally, and besides, I was the golden boy. But I understood deep inside myself that my mother's love was conditional, and I became aware of a hollow feeling inside me. At five years of age, way before I understood it, I started to rely on food to quell a continuous feeling of anxiety. I frequently sat in the kitchen, eating bowlsful of rice dripping with butter and soy sauce, while the ladies who worked for us chattered away in Japanese. When I was full, really full, the emptiness and anxiety went away, and I felt better.

My mother, who was just under five feet tall, became quite plump in Japan. She had a tendency for plumpness all her life, and both her parents were plump, but through rigorous dieting, she had kept her weight in check. By the time we returned to the States, she was about 50 pounds overweight, and I was proportionately just as plump.

The next three years were hard for all of us. My dad was stationed at the Pentagon and we lived in a boring brick apartment in a huge treeless complex on the outskirts of DC. Needless to say, there was no maid, cook, gardener, chauffeur, or nanny. There was no seamstress paying weekly visits to the house. There was no prestige (my father was one of thousands at his rank at the Pentagon). And as my mother sunk into depression, I found that my ability to please her deserted me. My every action received her criticism, scorn, and dismissal. At seven years of age, I struggled to make her happy but as I grew fatter and more obviously effeminate, there was a chasm of disappointment that I couldn't get to the other side of. A report card full of A's would please her for ten minutes; a good performance at a piano recital gave her a few moments of pride, but by the time we drove home, it had dissipated. Dad, for his part, tried to mediate on my behalf, but he was as wary of her moods as I was, so to make it easier for everyone, I spent most of the time alone, making lego buildings in my room. At dinner, all three of us polished off hearty portions of greasy food, unless my mom was trying one of her ladies' magazine diets. My father exercised daily at the Pentagon and kept his body trim, but mom and I grew fatter. When we moved to Seattle for Dad's last tour of duty before retirement, we all hoped things would be different.

For awhile that first summer in Seattle, Mom's mood lifted and so did mine. I taught myself how to swim and dive in our apartment's pool and became a dolphin, spending hours in the pool. I skipped meals, lost weight, and began to find pleasure in things other than food. I entered the third grade full of high expectations and was thrilled with my teacher and the other kids. I kept up piano lessons and taught myself how to ride a bicycle.

My parents had spent many weeks looking at model homes and were on the verge of making a decision: should they buy a house which was located just a block from a great indoor public pool? Boy, was I excited about that! Just before they agreed to purchase it, the realtor showed them a view lot in a new development, where the same house could be built. Problem: no pool. My mother decided to put the choice in my hands. This is how she put it: "Stevie, darling, you get to choose: should we get the house that's older and not as nice, but is close to a pool you could swim in everyday, or should we build a really nice new house that doesn't have a pool nearby but has a much better view we could all enjoy?"

I was eight years old. Everybody knew how much I loved to swim, and everyone saw the transformation I made that Summer. But I knew that my mother preferred the other house, and with a horribly sick feeling, a feeling of utter helplessness, with tears in my eyes, I said, "I think we should pick the nice new house." There wasn't any question, really. I was trained to put her happiness first. I never had learned to look out for myself. It had been a trap; just an exercise in manipulation and power, and a way to have it be "my" decision so that I wouldn't complain about not having access to a pool.

My mother exchanged a look of smug satisfaction with Dad, and I ran to my room to sob in private. After that, I stopped swimming.