In 1987, a few months after Megan was born, I went on one of my occasional forays into the world of good movies (“all we ever see is junk,” I would say, or something like that. These were not my most popular moments) and rented Ran, directed by Kurusawa, one of the truly great movies.
We took our places in the living room in the house on Pitman, and started the movie. Landscapes, swordsmen, and all, of course, in Japanese.
We watched. We focused. We read subtitles. Twenty minutes went by.
Cristin, who was five years old, not quite in Kindergarten, cried out with a voice full of frustration. We realized, with a shock, that she’d been staring intently at the Japanese movie, all in Japanese, with English subtitles, for at least 20 minutes. She’d been patient, trying very hard, but finally she burst out:
“I can’t understand a word they’re saying.”
We all laughed, then explained, and hugged her.
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