Clumsily translated, it means wistful, or bittersweet, but it also means more than that.
切ない or setsunai is often listed among Japanese words that lack an English counterpart. In Japanese, this array of feeling is known as 切ない. I felt jealous and in awe, lonely and yet filled with a kind of borrowed warmth. I knew I would be one of those people again. I had been one of those people once, going home to a warm home and a raucous family. I watched people go home to someone, or be at home with someone. I might catch the tiny drama of someone reaching across the back of a sofa to drape their arm around another, or the tense postures of an argument unfolding.Īs I watched these split-second tableaus unfold, I would feel a soft ache spreading in my chest-a brief squeezing of the esophageal tract, a swirl of emotions rising. I’d see people backlit by the soft glow of old lamps, standing at stoves or gathering in living rooms. When the train emerged at Queensboro Plaza, I would peer into the windows of other people’s apartments for a half-second before the train blazed by.
For those of you who have never been on the Astoria-bound N train, it runs underground in Manhattan-but once it clears the East River, heading into Queens, it pulls itself up and out of the tunnels, rumbling above rooftops and streets below. By Sunday afternoon, I always longed for Monday and its bustling sense of purpose.Īfter these long Sundays alone in Manhattan, I usually rode the N train home to my apartment. I felt eternally grateful to the New York custom of eating while walking, as I hated sitting in a restaurant alone. I became a connoisseur of the solo matinee. I took myself out, posting up in Washington Square Park with a book, weaving through the throngs of tourists in SoHo, window-shopping at Dean and Deluca. I made a lot of phone calls to friends in different states. I went on blind friend-dates, awkwardly navigating brunches and spin classes. In New York, I was completely and totally alone. Moving from Chicago to New York was the first time I’d ever been separated from my parents, my sister, my partner, the posse of fierce and loving friends who lived in my neighborhood. I also threw myself into my work because I was deeply lonely. I was exhausted all the time, but I loved my job so much I usually stayed past the end of my shift, watching the minutes pass and hoping more news would break. I felt well-balanced, speaking Japanese from nine to five and then recounting the day’s events in English during my nightly phone call to my boyfriend. I became attached to my work phone, mumbling to myself about primaries and candidates. I adored the mad dash to cover a breaking story. I found interviewing people thrilling, even when it meant jabbing a microphone into the face of an unsuspecting New Yorker to see if they might tell me what they thought of exploding cell phones. My duties included working with a team of reporters, producers, and photographers to cover news in the Western hemisphere for Japanese audiences. This is Mistranslate, a monthly column by Nina Li Coomes about language, self-expression, and what it means to exist between cultures.Īfter a brutal year of continuous job rejections following graduation, I finally secured a position working as a news producer for a Japanese news network in their New York bureau.
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