In Japanese, Touchan is a childlike endearment that means “dad.” I called him that name while I lived with him and his wife on the eastern coast of Japan. Touchan would introduce me as his daughter everywhere we went. He probably got a kick out of catching people off guard or seeing their confused faces. I am not their daughter, at least not by blood, but if you asked the gas station attendants, shop owners, and restaurant workers everywhere we frequented around town, they might say otherwise. Even my level of Japanese could explain how we were related: we weren't. I was sixteen when I lived with them for a year. We were complete strangers. They ran a Buddhist temple, and Touchan was the head monk. I melded into their lifestyle as if I was in my sixties like they were. We went to karaoke often, dancing and singing until we were crippled over with laughter. We spent our Sundays chatting over fishing lines, hot corn soup from the vending machine warming our hands. The stories I told my mom back home portrayed me like I was nearing retirement. Within months, we went from complete strangers to an unlikely family. Six years later I returned to Japan. We kept in touch over the years, but life got busy and my language skills declined. The locals still thought I was adopted, and I wasn’t about to break a six-year-long running joke. I missed the days of pretending to be someone else’s daughter. I took this photograph of him with a film camera his father had passed down to him. It is now my camera.
