The motorcade begins to slow as we approach the security gates of the White House. The playful light in Rei’s eyes shifts, replaced by the focus we’ll need for the cameras. I reach up, smoothing a stray hair near her temple, and then check my own reflection.
The glasses are gone, replaced by contacts. I’m in a heavy layer of makeup and my hair is swept up into a functional yet elegant French twist. The only trace of Kaori Minami is the dainty diamond “K” necklace hidden under the juban of my kimono.
“Ready?” I ask.
Rei nods, her chin lifting. “Ready.”
The guests seatedat the many round tables in the East Room of the White House stand. All conversation turns into a dull hush and eyes turn our direction as my father, my mother, the president, the first lady, Rei, and I enter the room.
I stand as tall as possible despite the heavy weight of the kimono and make eye contact with as many people as I can, offering them a practiced smile and a slight, measured bob of my head. It’s low enough to show respect, but high enough to maintain the dignity of my station.
Papa and the president find their seats at the head table. We sit after they do, following the etiquette that’s been etched into our bones since childhood. Chairs glide back in near unison. Napkins are lifted. Glasses are adjusted. Conversation resumes like a theater performance.
Rei and I are lucky tonight. We’re seated with the Japanese ambassador, his wife, the head curator of Japanese Art at the National Institute of Art, and the two senior senators from Hawaii and Washington. Almost everyone at this table speaks some Japanese. I won’t have to translate for Rei.
As the evening progresses, I fall into the familiar, exhausting rhythm.Smile. Nod. Listen. Respond with something open-ended.Ask questions that invite rather than challenge. Keep everything light enough to float.
“I’ve been to Kyoto several times,” the Hawaiian senator says, leaning in. “I enjoy it every time.”
“Kyoto is a wonderful place,” I reply smoothly. “There are so many things to see and experience, just likeHonolulu. My sister and I were just talking about how we’d like to visit this summer. What are some of the must see and do things we should have on our list?”
“Hmm... that depends on how long we have.” The senator laughs.
“All night.” I smile, giving the appropriate “princess” answer.
He brightens immediately and launches into a story about hidden spots like the Ho’omaluhia Botanical Garden. I listen attentively, nodding at the right moments, and slide a quick glance toward Rei. She’s finally relaxed. Her shoulders are down, and her chopsticks move steadily.Good.
A little later, the senator from Washington turns to me, his gaze more scrutinizing. “I hear you’re a student at MIT, Your Highness?”
“Yes,” I say with a small, modest nod.
“That’s impressive. What are you studying?”
“Engineering.” I don’t add that I just graduated this past week.
His eyebrows rise. “Mm-hmm. My grandson is studying at the University of Washington. He’s majoring in aeronautical engineering.”
“He must be very smart,” I say warmly, falling back on the safe, supportive script. “That’s not an easy field by any means.”
“He is!” the senator says, delighted to have found an opening. “He gets it from me, obviously. Let me tell you all about him. Oh, and I’ll show you some pictures my daughter sent me...”
I listen, encourage, and gently steer the conversation back to safe ground whenever it drifts too close to anything that would require an actual opinion, or I risk breaking theillusion. Tonight, I’m a princess, not an engineer. The goal is to be seen, not heard.
By the time dessert is cleared, I’m mentally exhausted. My facial muscles ache from maintaining the mask. I find a moment of respite as Papa and the president rise to give their speeches about “openness and mutual friendship,” while my brain drifts off to the Atlantic coast, wondering how many fish Papa and I will catch once the world stops watching us.
When the applause fades and guests begin to stand, we make our exit.
In the car, Mama speaks in quiet tones to Rei, who is half asleep, resting her head against the window.
“You did well tonight,” my father says to me.
“It wasn’t easy,” I admit with a tired laugh. “I’m out of practice.”
Up close, the lines around his eyes are deeper than they were four years ago, etched in places no formal portrait ever shows.
“You could’ve fooled me,” he says, a small, genuine smile breaking through his own mask. Then it fades, leaving behind the exhaustion he’s been hiding all night. State visits are a whirlwind of event after event crammed together with little downtime or room to breathe. By the end of it all, you need a vacation.
“I don’t know how you do it, Papa,” I say. “Beingonall the time.”
