The palimpsestic model of memory, commonly attributed to Max Silverman, challenges linear ideas of time, offering a more fluid way of thinking about memory, place, society, and human life. For Silverman:

[Memory] takes the form of interaction of different temporal traces to constitute a sort of composite structure. The composite structure is a combination of not simply two moments in time (past and present) but a number of different moments and places, [drawing] together disparate spaces and times.

While he employed this framework to explore the interconnections between the Holocaust, colonialism, and other major injustices, recent scholars have applied the palimpsest more broadly to cultural memory and urban geographies. We, too, might adopt a similar approach to examine our own memories. 

This means that when recounting my days as a fifteen-year-old girl living, studying, and growing up in Tokyo, I cannot help but imbue my memories with traces of the girls who came before me, those who are still there, and some part of myself now—twice as old and 6,000 miles away.

Although these lived moments are precious, there is no clear separation between this well of delicate memories and the life I live now—so formative and foundational was my time in a quiet suburb of Japan, with a family I still call my own.

We lived near Tamagawa Gakuen-mae (玉川学園前) Station, which sits along the Odakyū Line, stretching from Shinjuku to the southwestern suburbs of Odawara. I must have spent days sitting or standing in Odakyū carriages on my way to and from central Tokyo, leaving parts of myself behind—from the sprawling expanses of western Tokyo to the neighbourhood cafés, game centres, and shops of Shimokitazawa and Seijō.

Other parts of myself were left in the heart of the city, where we perfected our makeup in pink powder rooms above Takeshita Dori in Harajuku, before heading underground to arcades filled with purikura (プリクラ) photobooth machines. The moments we captured followed us into smoky karaoke bars in Shibuya, away from the hot lights of shops and restaurants—traces of 2000s J-Pop drifting from our melon soda mouths.

Every day, I would return from this colossal metropolis to the safety and warmth of a two-storey house, which remains a second home to me to this day. When I walk up the steep roads from the station now, I imagine a younger version of myself in school uniform, treading her brown loafers and navy knee-high socks into the ground beside me, both of us looking at the same sky.

The house is only twenty minutes on foot from the kōkō (高校), the high school I attended as a member of Kirishima Home Room. In this dedicated classroom, daily attendance was taken, and post-lesson cleaning tasks were shared among roughly thirty students—a mutual responsibility that fostered a sense of community and made clear that the space was ours.

The high school itself is part of a larger academic institution, with some students attending from yōchien (幼稚園), kindergarten, all the way to daigaku (大学), university. More campus than school, it comprises multiple buildings, its own museum, and a vast athletic pitch. The melody of the school song—something most schools in Japan have—still comes to me easily, even if the words have faded from memory.

The walk to and from this vast campus takes me past a 7-Eleven, which still offers the same familiar comfort of hot drinks and sweet breads as it did in 2011. Thanks to a lovingly prepared breakfast and lunchtime bento box, I mostly stopped in on my way home—a small treat before dinner, when we sat down as a family. Maybe the TV is on, playing reruns of a variety show, or maybe the claws of one of two little schnauzers taps against the wooden floor.

Outside of home, I became somewhat accustomed to the feeling of being looked at and standing out in daily life. As a young white girl in a Japanese school uniform, most eyes that met mine were curious and cautiously optimistic. It is important to distinguish this feeling—a gentle unfamiliarity and intrigue—from any form of discriminatory othering, which I was, and continue to be, spared.

However, at times, it was unsettling. To be non-Japanese was to possess a certain value without even speaking. Initially, as an insecure teenager, I tried to use this difference as a crutch. I became so recognisable at school that people would shout “hello” to me in the hallways, saying my name, waving, and often befriending me with ease before I even realised what had happened.

Once, while walking in Shin-Ōkubo—more than an hour from Tamagawa Gakuen-mae—a kōhai (後輩), a junior from school whom I didn’t recognise, stopped me to introduce herself and tell me where to best have lunch. Another time, on a train platform in Seijō, a girl approached me and handed me her email address. She later wrote to me when I left, a message teeming with hearts and well wishes.

Whilst the overwhelming kindness I experienced in Japan has been foundational to my life, there was often a solitude to my daily endeavours. I had to project an inordinate amount of confidence simply to communicate. I struggled to follow the detailed information outlined in many classes, as kanji and kana sprawled across papers and whiteboards all too quickly. Translation aids were not as advanced as today, and I often had to search painstakingly for meaning in dictionaries. In these giant books, each kanji was organised by radical—a smaller component of the whole character—and the number of strokes.

But if I could cut through palimpsestic layers and step back in time to replace the dictionary with a device for effortless, instant translation, I wouldn’t. Ultimately, I didn’t need it—I could write and speak freely to friends about feelings, love, weekend plans, and loose dreams of the future. At fifteen, and even now, for anyone, that might be enough.

If, as Silverman puts it, memory is “composed of interconnecting traces of different voices, sites, and times,” then to me, Tokyo is home. It is my family's voice welcoming me back with a “taidaima!” after a long school day—or even after years apart. It is the bag of purikura photos and letters from my friends that I was given when I left Tokyo. It is all the other letters and messages we might ever write, filled with kindness and appreciation.

My Tokyo exists in every one of these moments, even if it could never be enough.

Tabitha

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Tabitha’s Instagram
An Ode to the Ultimate Liminal Space: The Toilet Cubicle
Palimpsestic Memory