Angel of Okinawa; Chapter 1

 

Angel of Okinawa; Chapter 1

© 2024 by Amber Wright

As far as I can remember there has always been a thick humidity in the air here in Okinawa, a little island off of Japan, next to the deep blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.

Some days are not so bad.

Some days are worse.

But through all of its humidity and sunshine alike I have called this place my home.

I am Angel, the blonde Okinawan.

I need to add though—

Fifteen years before these pages start, I was born in 1930 from missionary parents on a very humid day my Okinawan mother says.

My real mother bled to death having me.

My father was killed by a snake seven days after my mother died.

So I have always lived with my Okinawan mother in her Japanese home near the beautiful sandy beach on the East China Sea.

Since my parents are dead, my Okinawan mother named me. Angel.

She said I looked so white when I was born that she called me Angel—like the bright, glowing angels in the pictures of my black Bible.

My parents were American missionaries. They had come here when my real mother was three months pregnant. They were only planning to stay here until I was born and my mother was well enough to travel. Consequently, I have been here for fifteen years now.

Yesterday was my birthday—February 16^th.

I’m quite tanned by the hot sun and can almost pass for a native. That is, if my hair wouldn’t bleach out so much. But I can’t help it, my hair stays very blond and my blue eyes won’t turn brown!

I won’t complain.

I like my blond hair and blue eyes just as well, but I can’t help wishing I had dark hair and dark eyes. (To keep being stared at, if nothing else!)

I am the only blonde here on this island and that is tough. It makes you feel like you’re a canary bird on display! No kidding either.

But I won't complain.

Well, today was once again humid and hot. I have just finished eating a plateful of brown rice with beans and a slice of pineapple along with a cup of milk.

We have one milk goat and I’m the lucky one who gets to milk her! Sigh. As long as she doesn’t kick me, I guess I can manage.

But honest, I don’t hurt her too bad. At least, I don’t mean to—but I do get impatient sometimes and try to pump her faster so I can do something else. Something else more exciting and less stinky. That’s when the goat kicks at me.

Poor me!

Horiya has just come in from our garden. She's thirteen and loves gardening. I think it’s because her name means garden. I looked it up so that’s how I know.

Anyway, she’s a really sweet sister to have even though we look really different. She looks very Okinawan, short, dark, petite.

Then there's me. Tall, blonde, bigger boned. You'd never dream I speak mostly Japanese.

But we’re both Christians. In fact, all six of us are—my Okinawan mother and my other sisters Ruri, Lei and Dai.

“Hello!” I looked up from my English book, and smiled cheerfully.

Even though most of the natives are poor on this island, my parents left me a whole lot of money behind so now I can keep up with my English textbooks.

“Hello,” Horiya smiled and waved a bright orange poppy in her hand. “For you, my sister.”

“Thanks!” I reached up to get the beautiful orange poppy.

Poppies are my favorite flowers, orange in particular.

“Nothing can cheer me up better than a poppy!” I smiled even bigger.

“I know, Angel.” Horiya sat down beside me on a mat, cross legged. “I love English books.”

I grinned over at Horiya and said teasingly to get a shocked face out of her. “I love English boys. Look here, there’s a whole nest full of them on this page from the last big war. See?”

Overly meek Horiya blushed as she leaned over to take a look at the English uniformed soldiers. “I see.”

“I like this one the best,” I pointed to a happy looking guy with a Navy uniform and paused with my index finger right under his smiling chin. “Which one do you?”

“Uhm,” Horiya stalled, studying the black and white photographs with a smile, blinking.

“Ah! Here’s a nice short one for you. See?” I pointed to a round faced but cute guy with dark curls. “Just the right size for you.”

Horiya blushed harder so I gave up the tease.

“I’ll quit.” I surrendered and handed her the history book. “Look what you like. I’m going to ride over to the airport to see if my books from America have arrived.”

I stood up as Horiya began flipping through the pages of my book. “Where’s Meema?”

I was only eight months old when I first called my Okinawan mother that, but it has stuck ever since. We all call her that now, from Ruri who is the oldest at seventeen to Dai who is three.

“Outside.” Horiya mumbled, intently delving into my English book.

I stretched high. I get stiff from sitting cross legged for that long. I love to read but sitting on the floor too long is another thing.

I thought back on the life of Meema, with a faint smile. She had been so strong.

You would call her a hard luck wife. All four of her husbands—a father for each of her blood daughters—have died. The last one died two years ago, and no man has come around since.

I think men now believe they’ll actually die if they marry her. Oh well. It’s more peaceful now anyways. Just us girls getting along.

Meema seemed to have bad luck with men. I doubt Meema will ever remarry again. Her last husband died with his boots on. She thought he was a Christian but didn’t realize that he drank. He died stone drunk on his back in the middle of a rice paddy one night. Meema found him the next morning yellowed gray and stiffer than chopsticks.

^{· · ·}

I found myself pedaling our orange painted bike towards the Imperial Japanese airport and thought how wonderful the day was despite its humidity. I could suffer that—if only my American books were in!

Please, I begged the air silently.

The ten miles seemed to pass quickly when my American books filled my mind. The golden sand, the waving palm trees in the breeze, the clear blue sky with fluffy white clouds, the scattered bright orange poppy fields—it passed in a happy warm blur.

At the Kita Airfield I was met with a smiling uniformed Japanese soldier who handed me my package of books with, “Miss, here is your arrival from Air Mail.”

“Thank you,” I smiled.

“Stay safe on the roads!” the soldier called out after me as I pedaled away.

How thoughtful!

I was so excited to open my new books that I pedaled home as fast as I could.

My elation was short lived when I saw him.

The man sitting on the porch who seemed to like Meema very much.

I groaned inside, Not another funeral, please! It’s only been two years since the last one.