Emi Sasagawa has made the 2024 CBC Nonfiction Prize shortlist for Dad's the Word.

She will receive $1,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts and her essay has been published on CBC Books.

The winner of the 2024 CBC Nonfiction Prize will be announced Sept. 26. They will receive $6,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts, have their work published on CBC Books and attend a two-week writing residency at Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity.

If you're interested in the CBC Literary Prizes, the 2025 CBC Short Story Prize is open for submissions until Nov 1. The 2025 CBC Nonfiction Prize will open in January 2025 and the CBC Poetry Prize will open in April 2025.

This year's CBC Nonfiction Prize jury is composed of Michelle Good, Dan Werb and Christina Sharpe. The jury selects the shortlist and the eventual winner from the readers' longlisted selections.

The 2024 longlist was selected from more than 1,400 submissions. Submissions are processed by a two-tiered system: the initial texts are screened by a reading committee chosen for each category from a group of qualified editors and writers across the country. Each text is read by two readers.

The readers come up with a preliminary list of approximately 100 texts that are then forwarded to a second reading committee. It is this committee who will decide upon the 30 entries that comprise the longlist that was forwarded to the jury. Works are judged anonymously on the basis of the participant's use of language, originality of subject and writing style.

Emi Sasagawa is a settler, immigrant and queer woman of colour, living and writing on the traditional, ancestral and stolen territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm, Sḵwx̱wú7mesh and Selilwitulh Nations.

Sasagawa's debut novel Atomweight was selected by CBC Books as one of the works of Canadian fiction to read in the first half of 2023 and dubbed by The Tyee as "a propulsive exploration of growth and becoming." The novel is an invitation for readers to reflect on their intersectional identity, through privilege and power, and reimagine how we may take up space and hold space for others.

Sasagawa was a reader for the 2024 CBC Short Story Prize.

Sasagawa told CBC Books about the inspiration behind Dad's the Word: "When I was six years old, I stopped calling my father Otousan, after a classmate pointed out all the other kids called their fathers 'Dad.' The abrupt shift was both a desperate attempt to integrate, and an intentional effort to elicit an emotional response from a parent that struggled to communicate how he felt. In this story, I wanted to explore the tension we feel as mixed children inhabiting seemingly monolithic cultures, where who we want to be is often in conflict with where we come from.

"I recently had the opportunity to read this piece to my father. Afterwards, we both got to articulate our memories of that period in our lives. I wanted to honour that experience, and the connection I feel towards him by sharing the story more broadly."

After weeks of trying to befriend Olivia, she is finally at my house for the first time, likely enticed by the rumours at school that my bedroom is something out of a fairy tale. Ever since my parents invited Anna's family for dinner, everyone is a lot nicer to me. I know what they really want is an invitation for a playdate, not a friendship, but that's better than nothing. Growing up, my parents never had their own space, and I imagine designing my bedroom has been a way for them to relive their childhoods. Nestled inside a pink castle, a set of stairs lead to my kid-sized bed. Underneath it, a full-fledged fake kitchen and a small, plastic dining room table with two chairs. Against the back wall of the castle, there are two chests filled with dolls that I hardly ever bring out. It's every girl's dream, or so I've been told.

After hours of Olivia pretending to be a princess, while I play the role of the knight in shining armour — an unusual part for a girl my age, but one I have willingly volunteered for even though we could just as easily have been two princesses — we decide to take the game to the backyard. I don't really care what we play, so long as I get to be in Olivia's presence. Since show-and-tell day at school, I've had a crush on her. I took my brand-new black roller blades and Olivia took a live chinchilla with a small pink bow she'd glued to its left ear.

"You know, it would be nice if we could play in the castle again after dinner." Olivia kicks at some dirt on the ground by the wooden slide my dad put up last spring. Her parents are supposed to pick her up just after five. "I mean, if I'm able to stay."

My mom hates it when I put her on the spot, so I know better than to ask her. My father, on the other hand, is clueless. "Otousan, Otousan," I call from the backyard. "Can Olivia stay for dinner?"

"Why do you call your dad by his first name?" Her face contorts in puzzlement.

I feel mildly unsettled. "That's not his name," I say playing with the hem of my shirt. Olivia stares at me expectantly, forcing the answer I'm not sure I want to share. "It's Japanese for father."

"Well, that's weird." Her words pierce through my knight's armour.

I open my mouth. I want to explain further, but a suitable explanation doesn't come. I stand for a while, letting the discomfort sink in. Olivia smiles at me as she climbs to the top of the slide in my backyard. My heart folds in on itself, crumpling to the size of a small paper ball. I make my way to the swing set on the far corner. I take a few steps back, extend my knees and take my feet off the ground, allowing gravity and the weight of my body to do the rest of the work. The words turn in my mind. Up, Otousan, down, dad. I should really decide.

"Let me push you!" Olivia stands behind the moving swing, arms stretched out. She grabs the metal chains on both sides of the seat. She pulls them closer and then pushes me away. He is Japanese. Yes, that's why I call him Otousan. I reach the top and my mind flip-flops. Then again, we don't speak Japanese at home. Dad makes more sense, right?

#

At dinner, I try to get Olivia's attention across the table, but she is concerned about the food on her plate. "Is the rice supposed to look like this? It's all sticky!"

"Great. Another one of these…" my mom says under her breath. She gives Olivia a tight-lipped smile, before turning to my sister and me. "Emi, no elbows on the table please. Yumi, chew with your mouth closed! This is what happens when we don't have dinner together. They forget how to behave." She looks at her husband in exasperation.

My father takes a silent deep breath — the kind that looks but doesn't sound like a sigh. He reaches for his daily glass of whiskey, but he hasn't poured himself one yet.

"Dad," I pause for effect. "Will you tell me a story before bed?" I enunciate each word, trying to catch Olivia's eyes, but she is looking at her plate. My father hesitates. I have never referred to him this way. He picks up a forkful of sticky rice soaked in Brazilian-style beef stroganoff and holds it in mid-air. A smile flashes across Olivia's face, but she doesn't raise her head.

In the time I have known my father, I have seldom seen him express feelings, large or small. Even when he manages to, his voice operates in monotone. Much like the Japanese language, his speech lacks inflection. Words shed emotional weight as they travel up his vocal cords. By the time they roll out of his tongue, they are nothing more than letters strung together in a seemingly logical sequence.

"Okay…" he answers eventually. A vestige of emotion hangs tightly to his reply, and I do my best to catch it. But making sense of someone else's feelings is like trying to trap fireflies in a jar. You're constantly alternating between light and darkness, knowing and not knowing, never quite certain of anything.

"Thank you, dad," I insist. My eyes meet his. My dad looks down. He doesn't move. I wait for another response, but he's gone back to silence. I look at Olivia across the table eating one grain of rice at a time. She meticulously singles each grain out from the bunch with the tip of her fork, examines it thoroughly and lays it on her tongue. At each swallow, she scrunches her eyebrows and pushes her chin towards her neck. Disgust.

I think back to an hour ago, when we were out in the backyard. Can I unfold my crumpled heart? Can I smooth out the wrinkles? I look at my father, then Olivia, then my father again. His silence creeps into the corners of my mind, filling the empty spaces with doubt.

Otousan. This word is not my own. Frustration washes over me. I look at my plate, then around the table. My family's confused identity is on display for Olivia to see. My dad looks at my mom, perhaps expecting her to sweep in, as she often does, and say the words he can't find. But she is busy convincing my sister to eat the last three pieces of lotus root on her plate.

#

After Olivia leaves, I get ready for bed. My father is tired, but he still manages the energy to lay down next to me on my bed, his feet hanging off of the sides. If she hadn't stayed for dinner, he would have already changed into his suit pyjamas, but he is still wearing work clothes, minus the tie.

He is not very good at making up stories, and he is far too tired to read a book. So, he tells me about how he received a 10-yen daily allowance when he was my age. Walking back home from school in his hometown of Yamaguchi, he could buy two pieces of dried squid at the local grocer with that money. If he saved for a few days, which he seldom managed to, he could buy toffee too.

He falls asleep halfway through the explanation, just like he did last night and the night before. I should wake him up, but I choose to watch his chest rise and fall. I wonder if I put my head against his heart, I could hear it speak. Would it say anything?

My mom walks past my bedroom and into theirs. I nudge my father lightly, pressing Bino the Bear, a hand puppet, on his shoulder. His eyelashes flicker. He rolls his head on the pillow and looks at me, his eyes bloodshot. Lifting his body halfway, he leans in to kiss my forehead, something his parents never did. I'm too young yet to realize how this is an effort of affection for him, but one that seems only natural to me.

"Oyasuminasai, Emi-chan."

"Good night, dad," I reply, without skipping a beat. I keep my eyes open, staring intently at him. I expect in private there might be a reaction. Maybe another "Okay?" But I'm hoping for something more —a reason to doubt my transgression, or better yet the words he chose to keep quiet during dinner.

My father smiles, the way when my sister throws a tantrum. He pats my head, turns his back to me and walks towards the door. I think I can hear a defeated sigh as his footsteps fade into the lit corridor. He is the link. Without him I'm just a kid making up names for dad. I drop my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I wonder if we could be feeling the same thing. Misunderstood. Frustrated. Confused. I wait. In his silence, I hold my father's tongue hostage inside my mouth. When he can't hear me anymore, I let it out.

"Oyasuminasai, Otousan."

The winner of the 2024 CBC Nonfiction Prize will receive $6,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts, have their work published on CBC Books and win a two-week writing residency at Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. Four finalists will each receive $1,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts and have their work published on CBC Books.

The 2025 CBC Short Story Prize is currently open until Nov. 1, 2024 at 4:59 p.m. ET. The 2025 CBC Nonfiction Prize will open in January 2025 and the CBC Poetry Prize will open in April 2025.