Chieko Hidaka: My mom was speaking to me in Japanese right now, and I understood exactly what she said. The food sizzled and hissed like a snake. I wanted to hiss right back.

"But I just went," I responded in English. Sometimes I did that when I got stressed and had to get the words out quickly. It was exactly the wrong thing to do in that moment.

"A couple years ago. Clearly, that wasn't enough time for your Japanese to stick."

The aroma of my mom's cooking made my stomach growl with hunger. But it was also growling at my mom. I mean, my Japanese was decent enough! I could hold my own in a conversation for about five minutes before anyone suspected I wasn't Japanese. After which they might cock their head to the side and wonder what part of Japan I was from because there was something about the way I said things that might be a little different from how they would say it. In another couple minutes, before they assumed I was slow or something, my mother would jump in and explain that I was actually born here, in the US.

This information usually resulted in an amazed Ohhhh that I knew as much Japanese as I did. Pretty darn good for an American like myself.

I groaned. "But I've been going to Japan since I was five."

"When you were five," corrected my mother. "And that was only for three weeks. Do you even remember anything from then?"

I did remember! Unfortunately, the first memory that popped into my mind was that of a squat toilet. That trip was the first time I had ever seen one. It's like a urinal, but one that's lying on the floor instead of upright. To use it, you squat down over it . . . and go! All the while making sure not to pee on your underpants in the process. But . . . that was probably not the best example to bring up.

"I remember going to the beach." I substituted a better memory to share with my mother.

"How about language? What Japanese do you remember?"

That first trip was when I learned the word "gehin," which I guess means "vulgar," but at the time I thought it meant "dirty like poo." I called my older brother "gehin" as much as possible. I couldn't let my mom know, though, that potty words were the only language I came back with from my first trip to Japan.

I frowned. "So the international school again."

My mom laughed as she moved the chicken around the wok with her long, cooking-style chopsticks. "That school was too expensive, and you know you just spoke English there with all your friends."

I was nine the second time we went to Japan. During that summer, my mom sent Aya, Hajime, and me to an international school that was about thirty minutes by train away from my grandmother's house. Boy, was I upset about having to go to school then! The international school was full of other not-quite-Japanese kids upset at losing their summer too. A lot of them had lived in the US like us -- their language skills not good enough to attend a regular school either.

One afternoon during that trip, my mom asked, "What did you learn in school today?" "Sumo wrestling!" I responded with glee. Even though I didn't like the international school, the sumo wrestling during PE class was definitely a highlight for that particular day.

My mom's brow furrowed. "The girls too?"

"Yep. I'm pretty good at it too."

"Girls don't sumo wrestle." My mom wasn't pleased. "How about Japanese? What Japanese did you learn?"

I shrugged and tried to sumo my brother in the living room.

This was probably when my mom decided to send us a third time.

Thinking back to that third trip, a chill ran through me. If I'm not going to the international school, then...

"You'll go to the local school." My mom confirmed my worst fears.

The summer after my fourth grade when I was ten, my parents made my brother and me go to the local school -- the one we would have attended if we were just normal Japanese kids. It was for two months ("Only two months!" My mom exclaimed when I complained then as well), but it was two long months. No one spoke English at the local school.

I barely understood anything there, but it's not like I was really expected to. Teachers and students treated me like a visitor, and I was more than happy to act like one. Not like a serious student. If only I had put in some effort, then maybe my mom wouldn't be thinking about sending me again. While my time at the local school wasn't awful, I got overwhelmed just thinking about it -- I mean, I was really behind, even then. Which I know is the point my mom has been trying to make, but . . . sending me to Japan again was not a good idea!

"You're going too, right? And Aya?" My mom stopped me.