*October 5th - 7:00 PM Japan Time / 6:00 AM Central Time*
Haruki sat in his Northwestern apartment at dawn, laptop balanced on his knees as he waited for his parents to connect to the video call. The thirteen-hour time difference meant these conversations always happened at awkward hours—either very early morning for him or very late night, depending on who was accommodating whom. Today, he'd chosen to wake up early rather than ask his parents to stay up past midnight.
The familiar chime of the video call connecting brought his parents' faces onto the screen, his mother adjusting her reading glasses while his father leaned into frame from their kitchen table in Kyoto. Behind them, Haruki could see the familiar details of home—the ceramic tea set his grandmother had given them, the small potted plants his mother tended on the windowsill, the morning light that meant they were starting their day while he was beginning his.
"Haruki," his mother said, her voice carrying the particular mixture of warmth and concern that had become familiar over the past few months of international calls. "You look tired. Are you eating properly?"
"I'm fine, Okasan," he replied in Japanese, feeling the comfort of his native language after days of navigating American academic English. "I wanted to talk to you both about something important."
His father set down his coffee cup—a Western habit he'd adopted years ago—and gave Haruki his full attention. "Is everything alright with your studies?"
"More than alright, actually. Noa and I have made a significant discovery in our research. It's... it's going to be published in an important American journal, and there might be media attention."
His parents exchanged glances, the kind of wordless communication that came from decades of marriage.
"Media attention?" his mother asked carefully. "What kind of media attention?"
Haruki had been dreading this part of the conversation. How do you explain to Japanese parents, raised in a culture that valued privacy and discretion, that their son was about to make his romantic relationship part of public academic discourse in America?
"Our research is about relationship development," he began slowly. "And it turns out that our own relationship provides important evidence for our findings. We're going to include our personal experience as a case study in the publication."
The silence that followed was heavy with cultural implications Haruki could feel even across the Pacific Ocean.
"You're going to write about your private relationship?" his father asked, his tone carefully neutral in the way that meant he was processing something he didn't quite understand.
"About the parts of our relationship that relate to our research findings," Haruki clarified. "About how we learned to communicate better, how we developed more secure attachment patterns. It's not... it's not intimate details. It's academic analysis."
"But it's still your private life," his mother said gently. "In America, is this... normal?"
Haruki felt the weight of cultural translation, the challenge of explaining American academic culture to parents who had never left Japan.
"American academic culture is different from Japanese culture," he said carefully. "There's more openness about personal experience, especially when it relates to research that could help other people."
"And Noa's family?" his father asked. "What do they think about this?"
"I don't know yet. She's having a similar conversation with her parents today."
His mother leaned forward slightly, her expression thoughtful. "Haruki, we're proud of your academic success. But we want to make sure you're not sacrificing your privacy or your dignity for career advancement."
"It's not about career advancement," Haruki said, though even as he spoke, he wondered if that was entirely true. "It's about sharing research that could genuinely help other couples develop healthier relationships."
"But why does it have to be your relationship?" his father asked. "Couldn't you study other couples?"
"We did study other couples. But our own experience provides the most detailed, real-time documentation of the phenomenon we discovered. And American academic culture values that kind of participatory research."
Another silence, this one filled with the particular weight of parents trying to understand their child's choices in a cultural context they'd never experienced.
"Will people in Japan read about this?" his mother asked quietly.
"Probably not directly. It's being published in an American psychology journal. But if it gets media attention in America, it might be picked up by international outlets."
"So our neighbors might read about your love life in the newspaper?" his father's tone carried a hint of the horror that prospect inspired.
"It's not about our love life," Haruki said, feeling frustrated by the cultural gap he was trying to bridge. "It's about psychological research. About attachment theory and relationship development."
"But it's still personal," his mother insisted gently. "In Japan, we don't share such things publicly, even for good reasons."
Haruki looked at his parents' faces on the screen, seeing the love and concern there, but also the fundamental disconnect between their cultural values and the choice he was making.
"I know it's different from what you would choose," he said finally. "But I'm not in Japan anymore. I'm building a career in American academia, and this research could make a real difference in people's lives."
"We just want you to be careful," his mother said. "Once you make something public, you can't take it back."
"I know. Noa and I have talked about this extensively. We're being very thoughtful about what we share and what we keep private."
His father was quiet for a long moment, then asked, "Do you trust the Americans you're working with? Do you believe they have your best interests in mind?"
The question hit deeper than Haruki had expected. Did he trust Dr. Martinez, Dr. Patel, the American academic system that was so different from everything he'd grown up understanding about professional relationships?
"I think so," he said honestly. "Professor Akizuki has been helping us navigate the cultural differences. She understands what it's like to be Japanese in American academia."
"Ah," his mother said, her expression brightening slightly. "Professor Akizuki is Japanese?"
"Yes. She's been in America for many years, but she understands both cultures. She's been advising us about how to handle the media attention."
"That's good," his father said, looking relieved. "It's important to have someone who understands."
They talked for another twenty minutes about practical things—his classes, his apartment, whether he was staying warm as Chicago moved into autumn. But underneath the ordinary conversation, Haruki could feel the weight of cultural distance, the reality that his choices were taking him further from the world his parents understood.
"We love you," his mother said as they prepared to end the call. "And we're proud of you, even when we don't understand everything you're doing."
"We just want you to remember who you are," his father added. "Success in America is wonderful, but not if it costs you your identity."
After the call ended, Haruki sat in his apartment as Chicago woke up around him, processing the conversation and its implications. His parents weren't wrong to be concerned. He was about to do something that would be almost unthinkable in Japanese culture, and he was doing it in a country where he'd lived for only a few months.
---
That evening, he called Noa to compare notes on their respective family conversations.
"How did it go with your parents?" he asked.
"About as well as expected," she replied, and he could hear the exhaustion in her voice. "They're proud of the research but horrified by the idea of making our relationship public. My mother asked if American graduate students always share their private lives for academic purposes."
"What did you tell her?"
"That we're not typical American graduate students, and this isn't typical research. But I'm not sure she understood the distinction."
"My parents are worried that I'm losing my Japanese identity by adopting American academic practices."
"Are you?" Noa asked quietly. "Losing your identity?"
Haruki considered the question seriously. "I don't think so. But I am changing. Living in America, working in American academia—it's changing how I think about privacy, about what's appropriate to share publicly."
"Is that necessarily bad?"
"I don't know. My parents would say yes. Professor Akizuki might say it's just adaptation. American academics would probably say it's growth."
"What do you say?"
"I say I'm trying to figure out how to be authentically myself while succeeding in a culture that has different values than the one I grew up with."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But it's also... liberating, sometimes. The American directness, the willingness to share personal experience for academic purposes—there's something refreshing about it after growing up in a culture where everything is so carefully hidden."
"Even when it means our parents think we're making terrible choices?"
"Even then. Though I hope they'll understand eventually."
"My mother asked if we're doing this because we want to be famous in America," Noa said. "I told her fame was the last thing we wanted, but I'm not sure she believed me."
"Are we sure that's true?" Haruki asked. "That we don't want the recognition?"
"I think we want the impact more than the recognition. But I'd be lying if I said the attention wasn't exciting sometimes."
"Even when it comes with cultural complications?"
"Especially then. It feels like we're proving that Japanese students can succeed in American academia on our own terms."
"Or that we can adapt American terms to our own values."
"Maybe both."
They were quiet for a moment, both processing the weight of representing not just themselves but their cultural background in American academic discourse.
"Noa?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think we're making the right choice? Publishing our relationship data despite our families' concerns?"
"I think we're making the choice that feels right for who we're becoming, even if it's not the choice our parents would make."
"And if that means disappointing them?"
"Then we deal with that consequence. But we don't sacrifice research that could help people just to maintain cultural expectations that don't fit our current reality."
"That sounds very American of you."
"Maybe. Or maybe it sounds like someone who's learning to integrate two cultures instead of choosing between them."
After they hung up, Haruki sat in his apartment thinking about identity, adaptation, and the cost of success in a foreign culture. Outside his window, Chicago hummed with the energy of millions of people navigating their own cultural complexities, their own choices between tradition and change.
Tomorrow would bring more interview preparation, more decisions about how much of themselves to share with American media, more navigation of the space between Japanese privacy values and American academic openness.
But tonight, he had this—the knowledge that he and Noa were facing these challenges together, that their relationship was strong enough to withstand both public scrutiny and family concern, and that sometimes growth required disappointing the people you loved most.
It was a very American lesson, he realized. And maybe that was okay.
---
*End of Chapter 3*