Kiyoteru Tsutsui is a senior fellow at the Freeman Spogli Institute for International Studies, professor of sociology, Henri H. and Tomoye Takahashi Professor and Senior Fellow in Japanese Studies at the Shorenstein Asia-Pacific Research Center (APARC), the director of APARC and its Japan Program, and co-director of its Southeast Asia Program. This feature story appeared in Nikkei. You can also view a PDF version. The English translation provided here was created by DeepL and edited for clarity and accuracy.

I Longed to Be a Scholar

In my sixth-grade essay collection, my dream for the future was "university professor," with the reason being "because I can sleep in until noon." When I brought it home, my father, then an associate professor at a national university, gave me a puzzled look. It was understandable. It wouldn't be strange if people who knew my father's profession misunderstood. Of course, my father didn't sleep in every day; it was just that he often worked on manuscripts until dawn and woke up around noon.

But as a child, I was drawn to the freedom of the scholar's profession. Choosing a theme you love and pursuing it relentlessly. I intuitively felt it offered fascinating possibilities money couldn't buy.

Both my parents studied sociology at Kyoto University and married as students. I attended the nursery school behind the university's auditorium, and when I entered elementary school, the after-school program at Yoshidayama was my playground. I have two siblings, a sister four years younger and a brother eight years younger, and we lived crammed together in a small rented house piled high with books by Weber, Durkheim, and others. At dinner, my parents would watch the news and argue about the Liberal Democratic Party. They seemed lively and happy when talking about politics and society.

My parents were busy, but I don't remember ever feeling lonely. My doting father would tell me all kinds of stories every night at my bedside. From the human relationships of the warlords of the Warring States period, swirling with intrigue and scheming, to the inside story of the February 26 Incident, which was my father's specialty. I listened with excitement to his vivid storytelling. During the period when my father was passionate about rakugo, he'd say, "Hatsu-san..." and perform a newly learned bit. After a good laugh, we'd drift off to sleep.

When I entered middle school, lured by the reward of yakiniku, I helped gather reference materials and do rough translations for my father's English work. I remember getting scolded harshly for making bad copies: "You must do any job carefully." I also learned firsthand how research is a continuous series of mundane tasks. Though he never urged me toward the scholarly path, perhaps something akin to the scholar's way took root in me without my knowing it.

Around that time, my father went to France alone for about half a year to study. The letters he sent back were folded with the phrase "男子志四海" — "A man's ambition should cross the four seas" — written inside. Inspired, I began to want to be the best at something. How could I master a single path and run at the forefront? Gazing at the Napoleon keychain my father brought back from France, the future I dreamed of was still hazy.
 

Baseball Club

I had loved baseball since I was little. Hiroshima, where my father's family lived, boasted the golden age of the Hiroshima Carp, and I'd watch games endlessly at my grandparents' house during the summer. After school and on weekends, I played pickup games at the local park. When it rained, I'd draw imaginary high school baseball matchups in my notebook and play baseball board games. I loved anime like "Samurai Giants" and "Captain," my head filled with baseball. When I entered Nara Municipal Tomigaoka Kita Junior High School, I joined the baseball club without hesitation.

My position was second base. Though small and not a star player, I was quick on my feet and skilled at drawing walks. I knew I was barely making the regular lineup, and I constantly questioned myself, "Am I really good enough?" My stomach would ache the day before games. I had no batting talent, so I decided to make up for it by practicing relentlessly and never making errors in the field.

I'll never forget the summer of my third year of junior high school. It was the quarterfinals of the Nara City tournament, I think. Late in the game, a chance for a comeback came around, and I stepped up to the plate. I absolutely couldn't fail. My throat was dry, and unpleasant sweat beaded up. I was down two strikes, facing the final pitch. The moment I gripped the bat, a curveball I'd never seen before came flying at me. The ball dropped sharply, passing right by me. I couldn't do a thing.

"Strike! Batter out!" As I returned to the bench, nearly in tears, a teammate muttered under his breath, "Swing." We lost that game, and it was the club's last match.

If only I had swung... Regret washed over me, and I relived this moment countless times in my dreams. But dreams are slightly different from reality. In my dreams, I swung through the ball, and it sailed past the right fielder.

Taking this day as a lesson, I started swinging first. I always aimed for top academic journals with my papers. Even when offers came from prestigious Japanese universities during the grueling journey to securing tenure in the United States, I stayed put. The future was unclear, but whenever things got tough, my eighth-grade self always rallied my spirits.

First Overseas Experience

On March 1, 1995, during my second year of graduate school, a letter arrived at my family home in Nara. It was a restless time, just after the Great Hanshin Earthquake. Opening the envelope revealed an acceptance letter from Stanford University Graduate School. And it came with a scholarship – an offer better than I could have hoped for. Thinking I could finally study in the dreamland of America, I was so happy I wanted to scream.

My fascination with America began in childhood. My aunt, who had married and lived there, sent sparkling toys and sweets every Christmas, capturing my heart. From middle school onward, I became engrossed in Western music and immersed myself in Guns N' Roses' hits. As I followed the lyrics, I found myself becoming quite good at English.

I begged my parents repeatedly to let me study abroad starting in high school, but the response was less than encouraging. Caring for my grandmother was demanding, and supporting three children on a national university salary was tight. Plus, they probably sensed I wouldn't come back once I set foot in America.

I headed to the United States full of enthusiasm, but once I actually started living there, it was one hardship after another. The English I thought I could speak was completely useless. For example, the phone call to set up electricity and gas service. The password given to me verbally sounded like "Zero, One, Amazon Mary, B," but no matter how many times I entered it, it got rejected. It took repeated similar failures to realize that "Amazon Mary" was actually "M as in Mary."

I had no choice but to keep trying.

When I decided to study in the United States, I proposed to my long-time girlfriend, saying, "Once life settles down, I want you to come over here." A year later, I went to pick her up at her parents' house. Without time for a honeymoon, we started a modest new life in the university's family dormitory. Her constant support and smile lifted my spirits.

Both my studies and family life took an upward turn. In January 2002, as I entered the job hunt, we welcomed our first daughter. After accompanying my wife for the birth in Japan, I returned alone to the United States. The answering machine light was blinking. It was an offer for an assistant professorship from the State University of New York.

After several years at SUNY, I was invited to join the University of Michigan. Over the next decade or so, I wrote paper after paper, welcomed our second daughter, earned tenure, and published a book. I served as associate dean and director of the Japanese Studies Center, truly in my prime.

My fulfillment wasn't limited to research. Playing softball alongside graduate students, sweating it out together, remains one of my fondest memories. I was the only professor on the team, but in my thirties, my body was still in good shape. Playing lead-off and shortstop, I worked hard not to seem like I was getting a good spot in the lineup just because I was the professor, and my bat swung surprisingly well. With a batting average over .800, rumors spread that "Kiyo was apparently a pro prospect in Japan." We won the inter-faculty tournament and went out into town with the students to celebrate.

The team names were all cleverly thought out. The Sociology Department's "Social Forces" shared its name with one of the three major sociology academic journals. The Economics Department's "Invisible Gloves" was outstanding. It was a play on Adam Smith's "invisible hand," and I was impressed.

But we weren't lacking in wordplay either. We proposed "May the Social Forces be with you," based on the famous line from the movie "Star Wars," "May the Force be with you," for the department's promotional copy, and it was a huge hit. We printed it on T-shirts and notebooks. I heard it was still being used even after I moved to Stanford, so perhaps I left a legacy at the university beyond just research.

Sports break down barriers of age, race, and class. Michigan residents are huge fans of college football and basketball. In college towns, the relationship between "Town and Gown" – locals and university staff – often becomes an issue, but Michigan maintained a good relationship between the two groups thanks to college sports. In an increasingly divided America, I feel like sports might hold the key to bridging the gap between intellectuals and the working class.

Human Rights Focus
 

The reason I chose human rights as my research theme stems from a time when I lived in Kansai and a friend consulted with me about a discrimination issue close to home. The fact that ethnic discrimination and conflicts, which seem like problems unique to each country, are occurring worldwide is deeply connected to the rise in international human rights awareness. My research achievements, compiled in the book Human Rights and the State, connect seemingly local ethnic issues to the global expansion of human rights consciousness.

John Meyer was my mentor. He was the world authority on this research into the spread of norms within the international community. With his glasses and beard, he had the scholarly look, a bit detached from the world. He was hopeless at negotiating salaries. I often saw him walking around campus, deep in thought, moving his hands in the air with a serious expression. He was famous for returning papers students sent him within an hour, covered in precise, bullet-pointed comments, and his guidance was outstanding. He had no time to rest. I'd have to tackle the paper again, but I was grateful.

"Welcome to the club," he'd tell me when I was down because a journal rejected a paper of mine. "Getting rejected by top journals is normal. I've had papers accepted after carefully reading the peer review comments, rewriting, and resubmitting. Don't give up."

Encouraged by those words, even after rejections, if I felt revisions could meet the standards, I'd boldly resubmit and sometimes actually get published. He taught me the ABCs and mindset needed to survive as a researcher in the United States.

The cigar I received from John as a graduate school graduation gift is still carefully kept. It's a single cigar with "Made in the Caribbean" printed in gold on cellophane – a wonderful gift fitting for him, a heavy smoker.

Five years ago, I moved to Stanford and took over John's seminar. While I can't pull off the feat of instantly returning paper comments, in the seminar, I comment on student presentations while gesturing in midair, just like John did.