It had been nearly a century since the spaceport at LAX first opened.

The regular shuttle between Earth and Mars, which took two days and ten hours, ran twice a week. I was about to enjoy a one-week stay on Earth—my first in several years.

California, in the United States, was a popular tourist destination among interplanetary travelers. It was known as a resort where visitors could admire Earth’s iconic geological features and experience its diverse cultures. To make the most of my short vacation, I’d put together a detailed itinerary with my buddy, who came along with me.

To start off, we were mesmerized by the mystical marine creatures at an aquarium in Long Beach and enjoyed the feeling of waves breaking on the shore beneath our bare feet. We went snowboarding on Big Bear Mountain and later spotted Mars in the starry sky from a forest lodge. By the time we began climbing the sand dunes in the Mojave Desert, we were starting to feel a bit homesick.

On the morning of our last day, we returned to the suburbs of Los Angeles. Our return shuttle was scheduled to depart at 5 p.m. We kept half a day free just in case anything unexpected came up.

My buddy and I parted ways for a little while as he headed off to Hollywood. Despite being born and raised on Mars, he was a big fan of Earth's sci-fi from the dawn of space exploration. He wanted to visit the Walk of Fame plaques that honored screenwriter Gene Roddenberry and actor Leonard Nimoy before meeting up with me to go to the sushi place together. He said he wanted to try the wasabi—the same kind George Takei once used to make his fellow actors cry.

I hopped on a bus alone and gazed up at the sky through the window. Southern California’s vast sky and bright sun reminded me of my planet, Mars. The only difference was the palm leaves swaying high in the ocean breeze, as if beckoning us from above. Though the bus was heading toward the city center, flowers and greenery still stood out at street corners, nestled among the tall buildings.

"Little Tokyo," said the announcement, in a voice as sweet as a rose. To me, it sounded like Welcome back home. Why? It was obvious—this was my birthplace.

I didn’t remember much. Back when people still identified by nationality, my parents—of Japanese and American descent—had taken me, just a child, and moved to Mars, which was still in the early stages of colonization. Back then, spacecraft weren’t very advanced—a direct flight to Mars took almost three weeks.

Aboard the one-way shuttle, sitting in the passenger seat, I kept asking them, Why we were leaving for a place so unfamiliar. I forgot what my father said. Maybe it was for a better environment, a job or economic reasons. Or… could it have been for adventure?

Seeing me sulk as I told her things wouldn’t work out so well, my mother reassured me: “There are lots of Earthlings there, trying to figure out their lives in a foreign place. They all support each other.”

My parents firmly believed they would find success there. No matter the hardships they faced, they never doubted that. I still didn’t know what made them so sure of their convictions. Figuring out the reason was one of the things that pushed me to take on this journey.

It was my second time coming to Earth since moving to Mars. Five years earlier, my family and I had visited the same place to see the memorable shop where my parents first met. “Where did all the Nikkei go?” was my mother’s first comment when we walked into Little Tokyo.

Apparently, tens of thousands of Nikkei used to live in Los Angeles. In the streets that had changed dramatically over time, there were few traces of the past. In fact, my parents were among those who had left. With these changes in society, who could blame them.

I headed to Village Plaza, using the fire tower—the town’s symbol—as my landmark. The last time we visited this place, my parents shared a touching reunion with my grandparents. I was surprised to find that my grandmother barely spoke any English. “Things were really difficult back then,” she told me, laughing as she spoke through a translating device. She shared stories of the struggles they faced, and added, “A smile is the only universal language.”

Thanks to technological advances, the so-called language barrier became a thing of the past. I couldn’t even imagine living under circumstances where there were foreign languages. And just as I was thinking this, I had a terrible experience in an alien town on Mars. They might have been prejudiced against Earthlings. I was suspected of theft in an alien-managed store.

My fear of causing a misunderstanding was stronger than my frustration of being unable to communicate, and I felt an urge to leave the situation behind and return to the Earthling district. Perhaps it was because I remembered my grandmother’s smile that I somehow managed to get myself out of it. Did she bring the spirit of patience and perseverance from Japan? I was deeply inspired to be more like her.

Speaking of language, one memory always stayed with me. I was in school, talking with my peers. Some were temporarily staying on Mars because of their parents, others were immigrants like myself, and there were those like my buddy who had never been to Earth. I noticed that the verbs they used to talk about going to Earth were different—whether they were aware of it or not. They either said they were “going” to Earth or “returning” to Earth.

And I realized I’d come to consider Mars my home. Home is where you make it—maybe that was true, especially since I had no connection to the place whatsoever before the move.

Lost in these thoughts, I began strolling around the quiet Village Plaza on a weekday morning. There were few customers in the shops and restaurants that had just opened for the day. Employees greeted each other with a bow in front of their shops.

As I looked at the Japanese and English signboards displayed on the storefront, I kept walking. I wouldn’t have been born if my parents hadn’t met in this town. Because of that, I felt a certain solemnity in each paving stone, lined so orderly beneath my feet.

An alien town that had assimilated into a country’s culture was proof of successful exchange between people with different customs and values. Such harmony wouldn’t have been possible without mutual understanding and acceptance. I, too, had experienced the conflicts and challenges that arise between locals and immigrants. It was exactly for that reason that I felt deeply grateful whenever people helped me, no matter our cultural differences.

There was someone who had taken great care of my family since we moved to Mars. My mother, always feeling a sense of obligation to repay kindness, repeatedly promised she would make it up one day. But each time, the person shook their head and said, “Everyone goes through tough times in a new place. Instead of returning the favor to me, I’d like you to help others who need support when they come to this place in the future.”

That makes sense, I thought. A newcomer’s best effort doesn’t guarantee they’ll become successful enough to offer something to the pioneers. Rather, it’d be much more constructive and promising to spread the spirit of mutual support.

After making a loop around the shopping street, I looked around for a place to pass the time until the afternoon. Reluctant to enter a shop alone, I decided to make a note of one to visit later with my buddy and returned to the intersection on the main street.

This place was my origin. But I didn’t come here expecting any great discoveries or revelations. A carefree solo trip during free time is probably as good as it gets. With that thought in mind, I made my way across the crosswalk. Ahead of me stood a large building.

My parents had told me it was a Nikkei history museum. But since I had no interest in the past, I passed through the open area and kept walking, dazed, glancing at the exhibit building bathed in warm sunlight. I eventually found myself standing near a stone monument hoisting the Stars and Stripes.

I stood in front of the monument and read its inscriptions. It seemed to be a war memorial, honoring the Nikkei unit that had fought during WWII. The stone monument was polished black, a fitting tribute to those who came before us.

War—just the thought of it made me shiver. There were 13 colonies of Earthlings established on Mars, each one in conflict with the Earth government over tariffs and trade regulations. The situation was worsening with each year.

One day, after reading an editorial advocating for the establishment of a Mars government and independence from Earth, a friend of mine asked me a question:

“If Earth and Mars went to war, which side would you be on?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. He probably asked out of curiosity, but I felt uneasy—am I an Earthling born on Earth or a Martian raised on Mars?

“This is my home,” he said. “I want to protect this planet if a crisis comes.”

Honestly, I found myself leaning toward my friend. But with parents who had never lost their love for their home, Earth, I kept quiet. That question stayed with me, still painfully and desperately relevant, testing my sanity.

I gazed at the monument. There had once been those who faced the same question—those who had to choose what to protect and what to believe in. Some must have been lost, others probably regretted their choices. Suddenly, I felt a connection to those soldiers I’d never even met.

I had always thought of history as someone else’s affair, something we just learned about in the classroom. But I might have been wrong. Just like life had no right answer, history probably didn’t either. But there must have been something we could learn from the past.

I quickly walked back to the crosswalk, taking in the townscape that had once boasted prosperity, overwhelmed by a somewhat fresh emotion.

So they say “history” is “his story”? No, that’s not right. History isn’t just a record of someone who lived long ago—it’s this vivid reality, breathing right in front of me, passed down to this day.

Perhaps for many Japanese and Nikkei, this town wasn’t their destination. It was their starting point, a relay point, and a place they could always come back to. Even today, this town remains close to the hearts and memories of those who left it.

This Tokyo built on foreign land relaxed, comforted, and cheered up those who came by fate. It became a bridge to each of their American dreams and guided them toward new endeavors. I wondered what kind of people had left this place to continue their journey. What drove them to travel across this vast land stretching over the continent?

My parents, too, who met on this land and looked up at the space, must have shared the same resolve. They must have known the path their ancestors had walked, the traces of their challenges and successes. That was the reason they were able to keep moving forward with such certainty, even on an unfamiliar land so far from their home.

And I realized—I didn’t know anything about their Nikkei identity, the very thing that had consolidated their beliefs.

I didn’t think ignorance was shameful, but pretending to know something I didn’t? That wasn’t cool.

I checked the time on the device in my hand, turned around and started walking toward the museum, sitting serenely at the top of the stairs. I still have some time to unravel the past—the story of this little town, the history of the Nikkei—and carve out my future.

Actor Toshiji Takeshima reads “To the Frontier via Little Tokyo” by Ushio Aoi. From 12th Annual Imagine Little Tokyo Short Story Contest Awards Ceremony on June 7, 2025. Organized by the Little Tokyo Historical Society in partnership with JANM’s Discover Nikkei project.

* * * * *

*This is the winning story in the Japanese category of the Little Tokyo Historical Society’s 12th Imagine Little Tokyo Short Story Contest.

© 2025 Ushio Aoi