Going Full Circle in Japan
I was born in Fort Collins Colorado and as an Air Force brat, was raised just about everywhere else. In 1971, my family moved to our first overseas station, Tokyo Japan, where my father alternated between Fuchu and Tachikawa Air Base. I was only seven then, but I remember many impressions: the nightmarish, submarine atmosphere of Green Park, where we stayed until suitable quarters opened up. Completely self-contained, the complex had dark walls, few windows, and pipes and conduits lining the ceilings. I remember hating the claustrophobic atmosphere and trying to sneak outside as much as I could.
Grant Heights is now a well-planned
bedroom community and park. |
We later moved into quarters in Grant Heights. My parents said that driving out of Tokyo's clutter and into the compound's wide open spaces and vast green lawns was like driving through the gates of Heaven. Home was a two-story apartment filled with drab rented furniture. Due to the strength of the US dollar, we could afford a housekeeper and a "sewgirl" who made a little kimono for my Barbie doll. Ginko-san, our middle-aged housekeeper, had infinite patience for a hellion whose favorite pastime was tormenting her little brother. I remember the first--and last--belt whipping I ever got, for getting lost in the compound at sunset on the first day there and scaring my parents half to death. I remember trips outside the housing area, and how Tokyo was bright, cluttered, noisy, lit by neon and harsh fluorescent tubes. I got gifts: pencil cases with secret compartments and sweet-smelling erasers and Western-style dolls with huge, twinkly eyes. We kids watched weird cartoons and monster shows that had my brother hiding behind pillows in front of the TV. His favorites were Ultraman and the first Kamen Rider. Mine were Tiger Mask, Lion Maru, Ge Ge Ge no Kitarou and something that featured the characters of Tensai Bakabon. I attended West School, with its quonset huts for classrooms, and I remember folding origami while a "Japanese culture teacher" attempted to teach us the kana alphabet. My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Tanaka, always made sure we had fresh flowers in tin cans of water on our group tables.
We stayed only eleven months before moving to Dad's next station, but Japan had left its mark on me. When I turned thirteen, I recognized a couple of Japanese cartoons on television, and in pursuing information on them, preceded the current anime craze by about fifteen years. I took Japanese in college and even lectured on some of the cartoons in a film and animation course. Then, after I graduated, a friend told me she was moving to Japan to become an English teacher and I was welcome to come along. Japan became home.
Hikarigaoka Park--still an oasis of
open, green space in crowded Tokyo. |
One of my goals in Japan was to find the place I'd lived as a child, but for years, nobody I asked had any idea what I was talking about--Grant Heights was long gone. When I visited friends stationed at Yokota Air Base, a lot of my memories of brat-life in Japan came flooding back: how the base was an island of Americana in the sea of strangeness that is Japan. The base housing had the same two hundred coats of paint on old walls and radiators. The same feel. The same smells. It was almost creepy that nothing had changed over so many years. But still, it wasn't where I'd lived.
In 1994, a friend at work finally gave me a clue: the area he lived in had old American ironwork and signs that mentioned Grant Heights. The area is now called Hikarigaoka, in Tokyo's Nerima Ward. There's even a new subway station serving the neighborhood. So one weekend, I grabbed a camera and a train map and set out to explore.
I'm pointing to the historical
mention of Grant Heights. |
I didn't expect to find any remnant of home, and I didn't see anything familiar. Hikarigaoka is a planned bedroom community with a shopping mall and spacious parks. I stopped at the city office to see if they had any old photos of the area, and found one on an old city pamphlet. The only indications the area had been a military base were the signs and maps that said, in Japanese, "Formerly Grant Heights," and the obvious boundaries of the grounds. Within what had been the base fence, all was still--by Japanese standards--orderly, clean and spacious. Outside the boundary, buildings were crammed together beside narrow streets in typical Tokyo clutter. You can see this in other areas that used to be bases, such as Hiratsuka. I took a roll of photos, including one of me pointing to where it said "Grant Heights" on the map, to send home to my folks. Although I was disappointed that I'd found nothing familiar here, I had the satisfaction of accomplishing one of the things I'd set out to do before I moved to Japan.
I got an additional bonus. In one of my family's photo albums is a picture of my parents standing in front of a temple and a beautiful white statue. Since I hadn't been along for that trip, I'd always assumed that the photo had been taken in Thailand or some other Asian locale my folks had visited. But on my last vacation trip back to the US, I flipped through that album again, and my startled shriek brought my mother running. I jabbed a finger at the photo with the statue. "That's the Ofuna Kannon! My apartment's a five-minute walk from there!" The area's more developed now, and the statue has been cleansed of the grunge that had coated it in 1971, but Kannon-sama hadn't changed. I saw her face every day on my commutes to and from work, and I visited her on New Year's Eve for Oshogatsu, the Japanese new year celebration.
If you once lived in Grant Heights or Washington Heights and want to find out more about the old housing areas or get in contact with other military brats, I highly recommend two sites: The Military Brats Registry and The Dragon's Roar. The latter has some hilarious stories of both thing Japanese and the way military brats had fun in Japan in years past.
All Japan stories (c) Wendy Dinsmore 2004.