Keiko Okabe Character Analysis

“I. Don’t. Speak. Japanese.” Keiko burst out laughing. “They don’t even teach it anymore at the Japanese school. They stopped last fall. My mom and dad speak it, but they wanted me to learn only English. About the only Japanese I know is wakarimasen […] It means ‘I don’t understand’—understand?”

“Why do you like jazz so much?” Keiko asked.

“I don’t know,” Henry said. […] “Maybe because it’s so different, but people everywhere still like it, they just accept musicians, no matter what color they are. Plus, my father hates it.”

“Why does he hate it?”

“Because it’s too different, I guess.”

Henry had been given dirty looks before but he’d never experienced something like this. He’d heard about things like this in the South. Places like Arkansas or Alabama, but not Seattle. Not the Pacific Northwest.

“I can be Chinese too,” she teased him, pointing at Henry’s button. “Hou noi mou gin.” It meant “How are you today, beautiful?” in Cantonese.

“Where did you learn that?”

[…] “I looked it up at the library.”

“Oai deki te ureshii desu,” Henry returned.

For an awkward moment, they just looked at each other, beaming, not knowing what to say, or in which language to say it.

“What if they send them back to Japan? Keiko doesn’t even speak Japanese. What’ll happen to her? She’s more of an enemy there than she is here.”

It made Keiko’s situation, while bleak, seem so much more appealing. Henry caught himself feeling a twinge of jealousy. At least she was with her family. For now anyway. At least they understood. At least they wouldn’t send her away.

“[My father]’s disowned me. My parents stopped speaking to me this week. But my mother still sort of acts like I’m around.” The words came out so casually, even Henry was surprised at how normal it felt. But communication in his home had been far from ordinary for almost a year; this was just a new, final wrinkle.

Through the slosh of the rain, Henry heard music from the camp. The song grew louder and louder, straining the limits of the speakers it came from. It was the record. Their record. Oscar Holden’s “Alley Cat Strut.” Henry could almost pick out Sheldon’s part. It shouted at the night. Louder than the storm.

Standing in front of him was a woman in her fifties, her hair shorter than he remembered […] Her chestnut brown eyes, despite the lifetime she wore in the lovely lines of her face, shone as clear and fluid as ever.

The same eyes that had looked inside him all those years ago. Hopeful eyes.

“I. Don’t. Speak. Japanese.” Keiko burst out laughing. “They don’t even teach it anymore at the Japanese school. They stopped last fall. My mom and dad speak it, but they wanted me to learn only English. About the only Japanese I know is wakarimasen […] It means ‘I don’t understand’—understand?”

“Why do you like jazz so much?” Keiko asked.

“I don’t know,” Henry said. […] “Maybe because it’s so different, but people everywhere still like it, they just accept musicians, no matter what color they are. Plus, my father hates it.”

“Why does he hate it?”

“Because it’s too different, I guess.”

Henry had been given dirty looks before but he’d never experienced something like this. He’d heard about things like this in the South. Places like Arkansas or Alabama, but not Seattle. Not the Pacific Northwest.

“I can be Chinese too,” she teased him, pointing at Henry’s button. “Hou noi mou gin.” It meant “How are you today, beautiful?” in Cantonese.

“Where did you learn that?”

[…] “I looked it up at the library.”

“Oai deki te ureshii desu,” Henry returned.

For an awkward moment, they just looked at each other, beaming, not knowing what to say, or in which language to say it.

“What if they send them back to Japan? Keiko doesn’t even speak Japanese. What’ll happen to her? She’s more of an enemy there than she is here.”

It made Keiko’s situation, while bleak, seem so much more appealing. Henry caught himself feeling a twinge of jealousy. At least she was with her family. For now anyway. At least they understood. At least they wouldn’t send her away.

“[My father]’s disowned me. My parents stopped speaking to me this week. But my mother still sort of acts like I’m around.” The words came out so casually, even Henry was surprised at how normal it felt. But communication in his home had been far from ordinary for almost a year; this was just a new, final wrinkle.

Through the slosh of the rain, Henry heard music from the camp. The song grew louder and louder, straining the limits of the speakers it came from. It was the record. Their record. Oscar Holden’s “Alley Cat Strut.” Henry could almost pick out Sheldon’s part. It shouted at the night. Louder than the storm.

Standing in front of him was a woman in her fifties, her hair shorter than he remembered […] Her chestnut brown eyes, despite the lifetime she wore in the lovely lines of her face, shone as clear and fluid as ever.

The same eyes that had looked inside him all those years ago. Hopeful eyes.