KmUltra87

My neighbor carried mail for forty years. In his whole life, nobody ever wrote to him. Then he went to Nebraska. Mr. Sugawara is 71. Rain, snow, typhoons, forty years on the same route in our town. This summer, our town sent a small group to visit our sister city, a farm town of 1,800 people in Nebraska. He was chosen. It was the first time he had ever left Japan. His host was Ray, 74, a retired rural mail carrier. Thirty-six years on a gravel route. When Ray found out, he said, "Mailmen are a tribe. You're family." Mr. Sugawara came home and asked me to translate one letter into English. He said he wants every American to read it. Here it is. "To the people of Nebraska, I am a mailman. I am not good with words. I carried other people's words for forty years. Please forgive me. I want to tell you what I saw. I don't think you know. Every person I met asked where I was from. Then every person told me about a cousin who was stationed in Okinawa. I have now heard about 23 cousins in Okinawa. I think Okinawa must be very crowded. On the country roads, every truck lifted one finger off the steering wheel at us. Ray said it means, 'I see you, neighbor.' I counted 212 fingers in two weeks. I drove for forty years in Japan. Nobody ever lifted a finger. Ray taught me to look a man in the eye when I shake his hand. In Japan, we look down to be polite. I practiced on Ray for two days. He said I looked like I wanted to fight him. On the third day, he said, 'There it is.' I don't know what 'it' is. But I was very proud. Every morning, Ray took me to a diner. Eight old men sit at the same table and fix the whole country before 7 a.m. In fifty years, they have never agreed on anything. In fifty years, they have never stopped being friends. On my third morning, there was a coffee mug on the wall with my name on it. In Japan, a mug with your name on it takes twenty years. On the Fourth of July, there was a parade. Half the town was in the parade. The other half watched. Then they switched. When an old man in uniform rode by on a hay wagon, everyone stood up. The children too. Nobody told them to. I stood up too. I don't know his name. I will remember his face for the rest of my life. In Japan, we have a saying. The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. In Nebraska, I stuck out very much. Short. Bad English. I bowed to a cow. Nobody hammered me down. They handed me a hammer and asked me to help fix the church roof. I think I understand now what it means to be American. It is not a passport. It is a habit. You notice who is alone. And you fix it before lunch. Now, the reason for this letter. I delivered about three million letters in my life. I never received one. Not once. Who writes to the mailman? When I left, Ray asked for my address. I thought it was just politeness. Two weeks after I came home, there was a letter in my mailbox. From the diner. Eight signatures. It said my mug is still on the wall, and nobody is allowed to use it. Then a letter from the boy who taught me to throw a football. Then Ray. Then the pastor. Then a woman I talked to for five minutes at the gas station. She wanted me to know her tomatoes came in. Since August, I have received 31 letters. I keep them in a box. I read them on my front step, where I sat every morning for forty years, waiting to start my route. I carried everyone's words. You are the first people who ever wrote back. Thank you, America. Sugawara Kenzo, mailman" He answers every single one. Every Monday, he walks his letters to the post office himself. He says it's the best route he ever had. America, you write back. You have no idea how rare that is.