My aunt and obaachan came to visit. On the way to the castle in Kumamoto, Obaachan told us the story about how Kato Kiyomasa had worked for the Tokugawa shogunate, and they had given him the land and made him a daimyo. She said she had seen the castle before. Really? Had she been to Kumamoto before? No. Read about it in history class? No. She had seen a cheesy samurai movie about it once. It soon became clear that all of her knowledge of Japanese history was based on these ridiculous melodramas.I think her favorite part of the trip was sitting in 
my apartment, watching channel 37, which shows nothing but Edo period samurai movies. It reminded me of being at her house when I was younger. We would watch bootleg copies of these movies that had been recorded off the TV by someone's relatives in Japan, and then widely circulated among the Japanese ladies of Fayetteville, North Carolina. These tapes were well worn, with white lines flickering across the screen in waves proving the love of a community that treasured and clung to them as a reminder of a place that, though now alien, would always be, in some way, home. "Emily, you no have VCR?" No. Why? "Maybe I can make some tapes and take back, you know?"
my apartment, watching channel 37, which shows nothing but Edo period samurai movies. It reminded me of being at her house when I was younger. We would watch bootleg copies of these movies that had been recorded off the TV by someone's relatives in Japan, and then widely circulated among the Japanese ladies of Fayetteville, North Carolina. These tapes were well worn, with white lines flickering across the screen in waves proving the love of a community that treasured and clung to them as a reminder of a place that, though now alien, would always be, in some way, home. "Emily, you no have VCR?" No. Why? "Maybe I can make some tapes and take back, you know?"
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