“Ya, uchi no oyomesan, neh…”

I sigh, my 90-year-old grandma or “Baa-chan,” as we called her, was at it again. Her dementia-fogged mind confused me with my mother; the one she called oyomesan (daughter-in-law) because my mom had married Baa-chan’s first son.

It is the first son’s duty to care for his mother. That is how Baa-chan had come to live with my parents. And after she outlived both of them, it was my duty as their only child to take over caring for Baa-chan. Not that I minded. My parents left me the house where they and Baa-chan had raised me, where Baa-chan had lived since the ’60s.

My parents also left me their business in Little Tokyo, the Saitama Dry Goods store, which is where we are now. There is no one I can leave Baa-chan with while I work, so I have no choice but to bring her with me.

The Little Tokyo Seniors’ Walking Group, which is 90 percent ladies, walk every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and drop in for ocha (green tea) and gossip. And my Baa-chan delights in telling the old ladies how the oyomesan (me), doesn’t feed her.

Again.

It doesn’t matter that I provide Baa-chan with three nutritious, heart-healthy meals and two snacks every day. She forgets almost immediately after eating. It doesn’t matter that I tell the walking group ladies this fact every time. Someone always gives me a resentful look and slips a Mandarin orange, a Manju (Japanese sweet) or a Senbei (rice cracker) into Baa-chan’s pocket. I feel like I need to make Baa-chan wear a sign around her neck. A sign in both Japanese and English that says “Do Not Feed.”

Baa-chan is hard-headed and stubborn; more flattering souls would call her strong and determined. She had to be, having raised three kids under the age of five by herself in the camps.

Growing up, I remember she never took any nonsense from us grandkids. Her favorite word was (and still is) Kora! which translated means “hey” or “hey you” but in reality, meant one thing: you’re in trouble. Her Kora! rang out almost daily whenever my cousins and I got together after school at home in Altadena. She was the neighborhood’s free daycare while all our parents were out earning a living. My youngest cousin Mack (Makoto), got yelled at the most, Baa-chan used to chase him around the house brandishing a rolled-up newspaper. Now, I feel like I’m the one running the daycare and Baa-chan is the one to whom I want to yell Kora!

Baa-chan has a mouthful of gold and silver fillings that reminds me of a Bond villain. Her thinning white hair is tucked in a neat bun at the back of her head and she invariably wears shapeless black-grey dresses that show off her stout calves and her tabi-socks. I can always tell when she is near because she wears Eau de Salonpas, the menthol-reeking, medicated plasters I buy in bulk at Costco for her.

When the senior walkers are gone, I successfully fish out a paper-wrapped, red bean pastry from Baa-chan’s pocket as my cousins, Mack and Ken, arrive. They’re old men now, and Baa-chan has trouble recognizing the somber professorial Mack with the skinny imp she used to chase around the house with her Rafu newspaper.

We’re all going to help distribute boxes of food for the Altadena Fire victims. Mack and Ken were lucky, their houses were undamaged. I suppose I’m somewhat lucky, if that makes any sense. I’m unlucky because my home is gone. But I’m also fortunate that I still have the tiny apartment above the store to live in. We don’t need to stay at a shelter or crowd a relative’s home, and I still have the means to earn money and buy food. So, I’m luckier than some, unluckier than others. I lock up the storefront while Ken and Mack help Baa-chan with her walker. She tells my cousins her tale of woe, that I’m not feeding her, but they are on to her. The cousins wink at me and cough to cover their laughter.

We walk across the busy street to the Temple. We’re headed to the basement but Baa-chan speeds her walker into the main hall before we can stop her. She goes to the front platform where she says her namu amida butsu prayers. I sigh and drag Mack and Ken to her side. We mimick Baa-chan’s prayers and put some small bills into the collection box.

After, we make it to the basement where the volunteers are already at work. I situate Baa-chan and her walker into a chair along the side of the room, admonishing Ken and Mack to keep an eye on her. The men are assigned to distribute the heavier cases of water and canned goods. I get assigned to distribute instant ramen packets.

After the war, Altadena was one of the few neighborhoods that allowed minorities like Japanese Americans to settle. We, along with our mainly immigrant neighbors, grew up and went to school there. My parents enrolled me in Japanese Language classes at the local temple. I wasn’t a good student. But between her broken English and my third grade-level Japanese comprehension, Baa-chan and I can mostly understand each other. And I can converse with the Japanese tourists looking for Ohtani merchandise, quote them the special, inflated-for-tourist pricing.

Thank goodness for Ohtani. He is the reason the store is still in the black. Saitama Dry Goods started out selling cheap Japanese tchotchkes, taking advantage of favorable exchange rates and catering to American tourists. In the ’70s my mom added a small Ramen counter. And with the rising popularity of Ramen soup, the small counter expanded to take over most of the space. People used to line up outside waiting for our famous Tonkotsu Ramen. But since mom’s passing and Covid, I’ve been struggling to keep the business afloat.

If I had to sell the space, I’d be fine. I’m confident I would be able to get a job in retail or maybe finally make use of my degree in finance. But it would mean Baa-chan would have to go to adult day care at minimum, a senior living facility at worst. Baa-chan would hate it and I was certain I’d earn myself a bachi—a retribution from God for such an act.  

Still, my neighbor, Mrs. Phan, found Baa-chan wandering down the street one morning in her jinbei, the old fashioned, cotton kimono top and short pants that she wore as pajamas. I didn’t even know she’d left the house. Kenny came over right away and installed a motion detector and baby monitor in her bedroom. But I worried that Baa-chan would get to the point where I wasn’t able to care for her alone anymore.

I finish putting a couple of packets of instant ramen into a young woman’s box, when I look up and see that Baa-chan is no longer sitting where I left her. “Kenny, where’s Baa-chan?” He flips his head around and eyes the vacant chair. Mack does the same. “I ask one thing. Just one…” I mutter at them and then go in search of my errant grandmother.

I find her in line, empty cardboard box in hand. She is chatting with a young man who must be a Reverend, conspicuous in his timeless saffron robes, shaved head, and tabi socks. I hurry towards her, hoping against hope that she is not telling him how I forget to feed her.

“Suimasen,” I apologize, bowing, trying desperately to remember the word for Reverend in Japanese… “Uchi no…Uh…” I have no idea how to tell him Baa-chan has dementia.

“I speak Engrish,” he pronounces the ‘L’ like an ‘R’ deliberately. I like him immediately.

“Oh thank G—uh, Buddha.”

He laughs.

“My Baa-chan, she has Alzheimer’s. I don’t know what she told you but, I feed her five times a day.” My words are rushed but I have to get them out before he thinks the worst of me. He’s a reverend after all, has a direct line to Buddha. I’m pretty sure he’ll order another bachi on me if he thinks I mistreat my Baa-chan.

“Ah. That explains things,” he nods. “She is in the middle of explaining how she is grateful we provide shelter for her and her children.” Baa-chan nods and continues to talk in rapid fire Japanese that I have no hope of understanding.

The Reverend lowers his voice to me. “We have not provided shelter since the war. I believe she thinks we’re back in the 1940s.”

“I’m so sorry,” I bow and apologize. “C’mon Baa-chan.” I tug her sleeve.

“No,” the reverend says gently. “I would like to hear what she has to say. It’s like a history lesson. Fascinating.”

Fascinating is not a word I associate with Baa-chan. Exasperating pain-in-the— is more like it. I feel a sense of shame that I do not value my Baa-chan like the Reverend seems to. We find a quiet corner and the three of us sit.

Baa-chan continues to talk, the Reverend provides translation. For the first time, I’m able to see the woman she was. How they were held at the Santa Anita race track, lived in a horse stall for a week. How her husband was sent to the Santa Fe camp while she and the kids went to Manzanar. How she never saw her husband again. How she returned from the camps to find her Little Tokyo home in ruins.

“Nana korobi, ya oki,” she says.

I’d heard that phrase before. Baa-chan chants it at funerals, and sometimes shouts it for no reason that I can tell. It was probably some kind of prayer to Buddha.

“What does that mean? Na no ko—whatever.”

“Nana korobi, ya oki,” the Reverend repeats the syllables slowly. “It is an old Samurai proverb. Fall seven times, stand up eight.”

I decide to put Baa-chan to work, between Ken and myself, doling out oranges. She’s good at it, offering her nana korobi proverb to all who understand her. And I watch as some walk away with a nod and tears in their eyes. I think about the words, understand them now. We are resilient, we will endure.

And later that day, I take Baa-chan with me back to Altadena, to get a first look at the smoldering pile of ashes that used to be our home. We stand side by side, looking at the rubble. “Nana korobi, ya oki. Fall seven times, stand up eight,” I tell her.

Baa-chan smiles, flashing her gold and silver teeth. She pats my arm. “Oyomesan, you forget feed me.”

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Actor Ji-Young Yoo reads “Fall Seven Times” by Satsuki Yamashita. From the 12th Annual Imagine Little Tokyo Short Story Contest Awards Ceremony on June 7, 2025. Organized by the Little Tokyo Historical Society in partnership with JANM’s Discover Nikkei project.

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*This is the winning story in the Adult category of the Little Tokyo Historical Society’s 12th Imagine Little Tokyo Short Story Contest.

© 2025 Satsuki Yamashita