I still remember about the day I stopped crying at nursery school. Until then, I think I stayed by the glass door and cried as I watched my mother disappear into the distance, but that morning, I went into the playroom and decided that I wasn't going to cry. The sliding door closed, and I held back my tears as I picked up a wooden block to force myself to focus on playing with it. I was three years old.
When we moved to New Zealand and I started going to kindergarten, the whole process started all over again. I cried like mad every time my mother tried to leave me. I don't really remember when it was that I finally stopped crying. Maybe it was when Kate came up to play with me.
Today, I went to visit a nursery school as it was part of our shadowing program. I was put into the rabbit class with 17 cute two year olds. The hardest part was making them finish their lunch. They do all kinds of stuff to avoid eating what they don't like: they drop spoons on purpose, drop the food on purpose, walk around the room, stick their hands under your apron to touch your breasts, make faces, and cry. It's amazing how they change their attitude according to who's helping them eat. A girl who would keep shaking her head to me would open her mouth when a strict teacher comes to force the food into her mouth. They can't control their pee, and yet they know how to manipulate college students with huge drops of tears and vague complaints.
One episode that might be worth noting -- a girl I was feeding (Erika) said she was finished and left her seat to pick up her toothbrush, and then the girl sitting next to her started crying, apparently because she thought it was unfair that Erika got to leave her veggies while she still had to eat hers. It reminded me of a monkey experiment that proved that even monkeys didn't accept unfairness (you can watch it here).
Later when Erika had to get changed for her nap, she came up to me with her bag packed with diapers but instead of giving me a diaper, she handed me a pair of pink undies and insisted she was going to be totally fine with that while she made me take off her wet diaper. Well, at least she didn't spit lettuce on me!
On a side note, after nap time was over, they were served a cup of milk with their snacks, and I winced as the teacher gave me my cup. I don't like milk (my mom could hardly breast-feed me). When I took a sip, it was tepid and it just tasted really bad. Having to drink it with messy kids made it harder, but what could I say after telling them they shouldn't be so picky? In New Zealand, I didn't have school lunch, so when I came back to Japan, I told the teacher I couldn't drink milk because I didn't like it. She told me I couldn't say that. I didn't quite understand her, but eventually, I learned to accept the only choice. School lunch does make kids grow up -- physically and mentally.
2014年6月28日土曜日
2014年6月12日木曜日
reunion
This was an entry dated July 8, 2013, around the time I went on hiatus. Found it in my drafts:
Without the time I spent in New Zealand, I probably would have been a very different person. It was where I first learned English. It was where I learned that I was "Japanese". It was where I learned it was only mongoloid kids that had blue butts. And it was where I first went to school and made friends and "fell in love" with a Michael who lived nextdoor.
The past weekend, I met up with a friend from New Zealand whom I hadn't met in eighteen years.
The very first time I met her was at a uniform store. We were both with our parents, buying shirts and skirts and gym clothes, and had the same problem with the size: When you're growing, you don't want to buy anything that's too big but you want something that would still fit you after a year or two. As a result, you end up trying on T shirts that are too big. I pulled at the extra piece of cloth that hung under my arms.
In another fitting room, another girl was trying on the same shirt, pulling at the cloth that drooped over her thin arm. That was her. According to my mother (who remembers the incident more clearly), the little girl followed her around and asked where we were from. She was so intrigued to see these Asian people who looked different and spoke differently.
The next time we met was on the first day of school. Her seat happened to be across from mine. She was so ecstatic to see me that it almost scared me. I never thought she would be my best friend for the next two years.
When I think about her now, it's still the little girl with big ears and freckles wearing a sleevless check dress under the cloudy winter sky. We hadn't been in contact in years when we found each other on Facebook. Her father had died but she still had the portrait of the five-year-old me my dad had painted, which had ended up at her place for some reason.
When I saw her at the hotel lobby last weekend, I recognized her right away. She hadn't changed at all -- even the size of her head! Well, she'd gotten taller and she'd developed some really nice breasts but that was about it. She probably thought the same about me (except the breast part). I was more worried about what kind of person she'd grown up to be, but she hadn't really changed inside either. Maybe she had; maybe we just couldn't catch up enough to realize the change; maybe there were some moments we felt distant, but she laughed the same way. And she remembered what I remembered. In a world where almost everything keeps changing, it's nice to find that certain things stay the same.
Without the time I spent in New Zealand, I probably would have been a very different person. It was where I first learned English. It was where I learned that I was "Japanese". It was where I learned it was only mongoloid kids that had blue butts. And it was where I first went to school and made friends and "fell in love" with a Michael who lived nextdoor.
The past weekend, I met up with a friend from New Zealand whom I hadn't met in eighteen years.
The very first time I met her was at a uniform store. We were both with our parents, buying shirts and skirts and gym clothes, and had the same problem with the size: When you're growing, you don't want to buy anything that's too big but you want something that would still fit you after a year or two. As a result, you end up trying on T shirts that are too big. I pulled at the extra piece of cloth that hung under my arms.
In another fitting room, another girl was trying on the same shirt, pulling at the cloth that drooped over her thin arm. That was her. According to my mother (who remembers the incident more clearly), the little girl followed her around and asked where we were from. She was so intrigued to see these Asian people who looked different and spoke differently.
The next time we met was on the first day of school. Her seat happened to be across from mine. She was so ecstatic to see me that it almost scared me. I never thought she would be my best friend for the next two years.
When I think about her now, it's still the little girl with big ears and freckles wearing a sleevless check dress under the cloudy winter sky. We hadn't been in contact in years when we found each other on Facebook. Her father had died but she still had the portrait of the five-year-old me my dad had painted, which had ended up at her place for some reason.
When I saw her at the hotel lobby last weekend, I recognized her right away. She hadn't changed at all -- even the size of her head! Well, she'd gotten taller and she'd developed some really nice breasts but that was about it. She probably thought the same about me (except the breast part). I was more worried about what kind of person she'd grown up to be, but she hadn't really changed inside either. Maybe she had; maybe we just couldn't catch up enough to realize the change; maybe there were some moments we felt distant, but she laughed the same way. And she remembered what I remembered. In a world where almost everything keeps changing, it's nice to find that certain things stay the same.
2014年1月11日土曜日
mom's great ideas
My mother is a great mom. By which I don't mean we always get along well. In fact, we still argue sometimes. But I'm very grateful to her to have always been honest to me. She has always tried her best to be a perfect mom, and yet she has been brave enough to show me that she is just another human being with many flaws and weaknesses. I'll probably get into this deeper some other time -- today, I want to write about some of my mother's great ideas that I recalled lately when I was back home.
☆ My first halloween costume
The second October we spent in New Zealand, I had my first halloween costume parade at school. I actually don't know if it was my mother or my father that first came up with the idea, but they decided to dress me as Momotaro, literally translated as Peachboy. In the famous Japanese fairy tale, he is born from a peach an old couple finds floating down the river, and grows up to go off on an adventure to fight the demons.
He wasn't my hero or anything; I didn't want to dress as a boy in the first place, and I did protest, but my parents were convinced that they had come up with the most awesome idea. My mother picked up a brush and wrote "桃太郎(Momotaro)" proudly on a large white piece of paper so I could hold it as a flag just like Momotaro did in his story. She dressed me in a small kimono I had worn two years before for shichigosan* and said my pink pajama pants would match perfectly.
So that was that. I went to school the next day dressed as Momotaro. Of course, no one knew who he was. I looked around at my female classmates nicely dressed as Snow White, Cinderella, Tinkerbell... They all looked back at me as if to ask "Who are you?" but after all, I think everyone was too busy admiring themselves.
From then on, I never asked for help on halloween costumes. A couple of years later when we were abroad again, I wore another kimono and dressed as something like Kaguyahime (another character in a Japanese fairy tale but not a boy), and when I was out of Japanese fairy tale characters, I chose a vegetable: a carrot. And of course everyone knew what and who a carrot was.
☆ Fart art
When I was back from New Zealand, I once had to write a poem for Japanese class. I didn't enjoy any form of writing back then. Japanese class was a pain. When my mother read what I had written for my homework, she didn't really like it -- it lacked uniqueness. She picked up a collection of poems by Shuntaro Tanikawa, read me a couple of his works, and said I should write a poem about farts. I don't think she said it like that, but that was what I ended up doing anyway. I guess I thought it was a great idea too.
But very few third graders appreciate the art of fart. Not many teachers have poetic sensibility like Tanizaki. And most of all, not many eight-year-olds can be truly confident in what they've created -- especially when it's "controversial art".
At school the next day, a boy sitting next to me glanced at my open notebook and said we weren't allowed to write about dirty stuff like farts. When the teacher asked me to read out my poem, I turned the page over and read a different one -- probably something boring and ordinary, but something that was not about farts.
*Shichigosan（七五三） is a celebration for three, five and seven year olds. Back when the death rate of children was still high in Japan, they started celebrating the health and growth of children who managed to live up to these ages. I guess nowadays in an age when parents expect a lot more from their children, it's a good occasion to remind them that a couple of years ago, before their kids were even born, they only wished they would be born healthy -- just that and nothing more.
☆ My first halloween costume
The second October we spent in New Zealand, I had my first halloween costume parade at school. I actually don't know if it was my mother or my father that first came up with the idea, but they decided to dress me as Momotaro, literally translated as Peachboy. In the famous Japanese fairy tale, he is born from a peach an old couple finds floating down the river, and grows up to go off on an adventure to fight the demons.
He wasn't my hero or anything; I didn't want to dress as a boy in the first place, and I did protest, but my parents were convinced that they had come up with the most awesome idea. My mother picked up a brush and wrote "桃太郎(Momotaro)" proudly on a large white piece of paper so I could hold it as a flag just like Momotaro did in his story. She dressed me in a small kimono I had worn two years before for shichigosan* and said my pink pajama pants would match perfectly.
So that was that. I went to school the next day dressed as Momotaro. Of course, no one knew who he was. I looked around at my female classmates nicely dressed as Snow White, Cinderella, Tinkerbell... They all looked back at me as if to ask "Who are you?" but after all, I think everyone was too busy admiring themselves.
From then on, I never asked for help on halloween costumes. A couple of years later when we were abroad again, I wore another kimono and dressed as something like Kaguyahime (another character in a Japanese fairy tale but not a boy), and when I was out of Japanese fairy tale characters, I chose a vegetable: a carrot. And of course everyone knew what and who a carrot was.
☆ Fart art
When I was back from New Zealand, I once had to write a poem for Japanese class. I didn't enjoy any form of writing back then. Japanese class was a pain. When my mother read what I had written for my homework, she didn't really like it -- it lacked uniqueness. She picked up a collection of poems by Shuntaro Tanikawa, read me a couple of his works, and said I should write a poem about farts. I don't think she said it like that, but that was what I ended up doing anyway. I guess I thought it was a great idea too.
But very few third graders appreciate the art of fart. Not many teachers have poetic sensibility like Tanizaki. And most of all, not many eight-year-olds can be truly confident in what they've created -- especially when it's "controversial art".
At school the next day, a boy sitting next to me glanced at my open notebook and said we weren't allowed to write about dirty stuff like farts. When the teacher asked me to read out my poem, I turned the page over and read a different one -- probably something boring and ordinary, but something that was not about farts.
*Shichigosan（七五三） is a celebration for three, five and seven year olds. Back when the death rate of children was still high in Japan, they started celebrating the health and growth of children who managed to live up to these ages. I guess nowadays in an age when parents expect a lot more from their children, it's a good occasion to remind them that a couple of years ago, before their kids were even born, they only wished they would be born healthy -- just that and nothing more.
2014年1月8日水曜日
what i have
大切なのは、私が持っているものであって、失ったものではない
今あるものを大切に
What's important is what you have and not what you have lost.
Cherish what you have now.
-Mami Sato （佐藤真海）
When Haruki Murakami was sixteen, he once observed his whole naked body in the mirror at home when everybody else was out. He listed up his own body parts he thought were worse than other people. He counted up till 27 and gave up because he knew it was going to be a neverending list, especially if he included unphysical traits too.
"Sixteen is a very troublesome age," he says. "You notice little things and dwell on them. You can't figure where you stand. The smallest things can make you proud of yourself or otherwise make you feel ashamed. As you get older though, you learn to pick up what is there to pick up, and let go of what is there to let go."
"It's this realization or resignation -- we all have countless shortcomings but we also must have at least some good qualities. We have to cope and survive with what we do have."
When I was around sixteen, I think I just feared being ordinary. I needed to find some kind of identity, and being "different" was the easiest way to be "myself". But I had no special talent that I could be confident of. Nor did I have enough courage for a crazy adventure. So I became a good student with the best grades. Just best in my school. I used to live in a small world with big dreams.
Exactly ten years have passed, and where am I now? I still have dreams, big and small -- I have to become a doctor for one thing -- but I also want to be happy with what I already have. I want to love myself for not what I hope to achieve in the future, but for what I already am.
A couple days ago when I was packing my suitcase at home, I felt a bit depressed that I had to face a test in two days. But when I glanced at my packed suitcase a while later and saw a stethoscope and a textbook on immunology lying there (like they were the most natural things to be in a suitcase), I suddenly realized for a split second that this was the future I had dreamed of two years ago when I decided to go to university all over again to become a doctor. There I was, standing in the future I had wished to be at. What more could I ask for?
今あるものを大切に
What's important is what you have and not what you have lost.
Cherish what you have now.
-Mami Sato （佐藤真海）
When Haruki Murakami was sixteen, he once observed his whole naked body in the mirror at home when everybody else was out. He listed up his own body parts he thought were worse than other people. He counted up till 27 and gave up because he knew it was going to be a neverending list, especially if he included unphysical traits too.
"Sixteen is a very troublesome age," he says. "You notice little things and dwell on them. You can't figure where you stand. The smallest things can make you proud of yourself or otherwise make you feel ashamed. As you get older though, you learn to pick up what is there to pick up, and let go of what is there to let go."
"It's this realization or resignation -- we all have countless shortcomings but we also must have at least some good qualities. We have to cope and survive with what we do have."
When I was around sixteen, I think I just feared being ordinary. I needed to find some kind of identity, and being "different" was the easiest way to be "myself". But I had no special talent that I could be confident of. Nor did I have enough courage for a crazy adventure. So I became a good student with the best grades. Just best in my school. I used to live in a small world with big dreams.
Exactly ten years have passed, and where am I now? I still have dreams, big and small -- I have to become a doctor for one thing -- but I also want to be happy with what I already have. I want to love myself for not what I hope to achieve in the future, but for what I already am.
A couple days ago when I was packing my suitcase at home, I felt a bit depressed that I had to face a test in two days. But when I glanced at my packed suitcase a while later and saw a stethoscope and a textbook on immunology lying there (like they were the most natural things to be in a suitcase), I suddenly realized for a split second that this was the future I had dreamed of two years ago when I decided to go to university all over again to become a doctor. There I was, standing in the future I had wished to be at. What more could I ask for?
2014年1月6日月曜日
wonders
Happy New Year! I hope everyone reading this had a wonderful holiday with their loved ones. 今年もよろしくお願いします。
Every year on New Year's Day, the whole family on my mother's side gather. We used to get together at my aunt's place (because it was the only place that so many people could fit in -- yes, we live in tiny apartments) or my grandmother's place (when my cousins were away managing their own families), but for the past couple of years, we've been gathering at a restaurant where they serve osechi (special New Year's food). It's better because then, no one has to feel the responsibility to prepare fancy foods. Nor does anyone have to spoil their first day of the year being compared in terms of cooking abilities (-- every family cooks the same thing around New Year's, and my now 85 year old grandmother loved to compare and judge whose osechi was the best).
Anyway, this New Year's Day gathering is the only occasion I see my cousins and their kids. I'm not especially fond of children (especially after being exposed to some random nausea-causing virus at the pediatric department), so I'm totally awkward around them. I don't know what to say to these human-looking creatures. They're cute, but it's kind of like talking to a dog, and I don't do that. Of course, they don't even know who I am. Thank goodness the six-year-old is starting to form some memories. Not that I hate introducing myself all over again every time a new year starts.
Putting my own awkwardness aside, I've noticed that I actually do enjoy watching these near-humans actually become humans -- as in beings that can distinguish "you" and "I", express themselves in words, call people by their names, and whatnot*. They start to think and wonder about funny stuff in a very reasonable way.
My uncle in law happens to be French, and the six-year-old above asked, as we left the restraurant, if he was married to anyone (in the family). I could almost see inside his head -- after six years of living in this world, he had learned that 1. there were different races, 2. a family was a group of people who were related biologically or by marriage, and 3. Asians bred Asians. "So if this white guy happens to be a family member he must be married to someone... but who???"
It reminds me of things I used to wonder when I was his age, or a bit younger. I moved to New Zealand when I was four, and I'm not sure at what point I realized the concept of race. I still remember about when we went camping with another family. One night, the daughter (one of my best friends) and I were having a shower, and the mother suddenly started laughing at my blue butt. But Mongoloid kids are supposed to have blue butts, and I had been told that the color went away when you "grew up". So I looked at my friend's white butt and (since we were the same age) took it as a sign that she was mentally mature but that I was still a "child". I was enormously embarrassed. Maybe my parents told me afterwards that it was a matter of race; I may or may not have understood the concept. I don't remember. All I remember is that some of my Japanese friends had also lost their color before me, and I'd been sensitive about my butt color even before coming to New Zealand.
Anyway, I wish everybody a year full of new wonders and discoveries!
*In case I offended anyone, I did not mean to say that people without these abilities are not humans. I just meant to emphasize the fact that humans (compared to other animals) often change considerably in the course of growing up.
Every year on New Year's Day, the whole family on my mother's side gather. We used to get together at my aunt's place (because it was the only place that so many people could fit in -- yes, we live in tiny apartments) or my grandmother's place (when my cousins were away managing their own families), but for the past couple of years, we've been gathering at a restaurant where they serve osechi (special New Year's food). It's better because then, no one has to feel the responsibility to prepare fancy foods. Nor does anyone have to spoil their first day of the year being compared in terms of cooking abilities (-- every family cooks the same thing around New Year's, and my now 85 year old grandmother loved to compare and judge whose osechi was the best).
Anyway, this New Year's Day gathering is the only occasion I see my cousins and their kids. I'm not especially fond of children (especially after being exposed to some random nausea-causing virus at the pediatric department), so I'm totally awkward around them. I don't know what to say to these human-looking creatures. They're cute, but it's kind of like talking to a dog, and I don't do that. Of course, they don't even know who I am. Thank goodness the six-year-old is starting to form some memories. Not that I hate introducing myself all over again every time a new year starts.
Putting my own awkwardness aside, I've noticed that I actually do enjoy watching these near-humans actually become humans -- as in beings that can distinguish "you" and "I", express themselves in words, call people by their names, and whatnot*. They start to think and wonder about funny stuff in a very reasonable way.
My uncle in law happens to be French, and the six-year-old above asked, as we left the restraurant, if he was married to anyone (in the family). I could almost see inside his head -- after six years of living in this world, he had learned that 1. there were different races, 2. a family was a group of people who were related biologically or by marriage, and 3. Asians bred Asians. "So if this white guy happens to be a family member he must be married to someone... but who???"
It reminds me of things I used to wonder when I was his age, or a bit younger. I moved to New Zealand when I was four, and I'm not sure at what point I realized the concept of race. I still remember about when we went camping with another family. One night, the daughter (one of my best friends) and I were having a shower, and the mother suddenly started laughing at my blue butt. But Mongoloid kids are supposed to have blue butts, and I had been told that the color went away when you "grew up". So I looked at my friend's white butt and (since we were the same age) took it as a sign that she was mentally mature but that I was still a "child". I was enormously embarrassed. Maybe my parents told me afterwards that it was a matter of race; I may or may not have understood the concept. I don't remember. All I remember is that some of my Japanese friends had also lost their color before me, and I'd been sensitive about my butt color even before coming to New Zealand.
Anyway, I wish everybody a year full of new wonders and discoveries!
*In case I offended anyone, I did not mean to say that people without these abilities are not humans. I just meant to emphasize the fact that humans (compared to other animals) often change considerably in the course of growing up.
2013年12月25日水曜日
santa claus
The earliest memory I have of Santa Claus dates back to when I was four. I don't remember what my present was, but I remember the card he gave me and what I said about it to my mother: "Mommy, Santa's handwriting looks just like yours!" If I remember correctly, I was pretty persistent about it. We lived in New Zealand at that time, and I had already created an image that Caucasians spoke in English so I was also slightly surprised that Santa wrote in Japanese.
The first present from Sanata Claus that I remember came a year or two later. It was a large box, and I was disappointed because it didn't look at all like what I had asked for -- a stuffed hedgehog. When I opened the present, it was a computer software used to make original stickers. I asked my parents if they had really sent my letter to Santa. It goes without saying though, that I had more fun making my own stickers than I ever did with a stuffed animal.
A year went by, and I did get a stuffed animal. Except that it wasn't just a stuffed animal -- it was a backpack in the form of Chu-Totoro (a character from Our Neighbor Totoro). It was something I had designed in my mind, and I never knew it was actually on the market. I was convinced more than ever that Santa really existed.
The next year, however, I noticed that my Polly Pocket had been wrapped up in a toy store wrapper. I wondered if Santa had been too busy. Maybe he didn't have enough time to make my present at his own factory?
Another year passed and we were now living in France. I asked Santa for a Tamagocchi made in Japan -- he wasn't allowed to just drop by at a local toy store. But Santa already had another challenge to face that year: we spent the Christmas away from home in Italy. Before leaving, I checked there was nothing under the Christmas tree and wondered if he was coming to our hotel. When we came back from our vacation, I found my Tamagocchi under the tree. Only that it was obviously from a local toy store. And I realized this year's Santa had a handwriting that looked just like my father's.
The next year, Santa didn't come. Because I had a great debate with a friend on whether Santa existed, and I gave in. It was on our way back home from school. When my mother picked me up, I asked her if she and dad had been Santa. My mother first laughed, asked why I thought so, and admitted the truth rather easily. Tears rolled down my face. It was just a couple days before Christmas.
When I had calmed down though, I remembered how my mother had become so mad at me when I went searching around the house for signs of Santa few days before -- I had ended up finding a snowman paperbag under her bed. I recalled about the year before, when my father went back to the living room near the Christmas tree to "turn off the lights" just before we left. I remembered all the Christmas cards I got over the years. The presents.
And now, I still remember about when we were in NZ, how my parents encouraged me to prepare some bread and warm milk for Santa and his reindeers in case they were hungry. On Christmas, I woke up to find the plate and mug empty, and observed the remaining crumbs in fascination. The trace of the magical existence gave me a special excitement that nothing else ever could. The world in front of me was full of wonder, and Santa Claus was real.
The first present from Sanata Claus that I remember came a year or two later. It was a large box, and I was disappointed because it didn't look at all like what I had asked for -- a stuffed hedgehog. When I opened the present, it was a computer software used to make original stickers. I asked my parents if they had really sent my letter to Santa. It goes without saying though, that I had more fun making my own stickers than I ever did with a stuffed animal.
A year went by, and I did get a stuffed animal. Except that it wasn't just a stuffed animal -- it was a backpack in the form of Chu-Totoro (a character from Our Neighbor Totoro). It was something I had designed in my mind, and I never knew it was actually on the market. I was convinced more than ever that Santa really existed.
The next year, however, I noticed that my Polly Pocket had been wrapped up in a toy store wrapper. I wondered if Santa had been too busy. Maybe he didn't have enough time to make my present at his own factory?
Another year passed and we were now living in France. I asked Santa for a Tamagocchi made in Japan -- he wasn't allowed to just drop by at a local toy store. But Santa already had another challenge to face that year: we spent the Christmas away from home in Italy. Before leaving, I checked there was nothing under the Christmas tree and wondered if he was coming to our hotel. When we came back from our vacation, I found my Tamagocchi under the tree. Only that it was obviously from a local toy store. And I realized this year's Santa had a handwriting that looked just like my father's.
The next year, Santa didn't come. Because I had a great debate with a friend on whether Santa existed, and I gave in. It was on our way back home from school. When my mother picked me up, I asked her if she and dad had been Santa. My mother first laughed, asked why I thought so, and admitted the truth rather easily. Tears rolled down my face. It was just a couple days before Christmas.
When I had calmed down though, I remembered how my mother had become so mad at me when I went searching around the house for signs of Santa few days before -- I had ended up finding a snowman paperbag under her bed. I recalled about the year before, when my father went back to the living room near the Christmas tree to "turn off the lights" just before we left. I remembered all the Christmas cards I got over the years. The presents.
And now, I still remember about when we were in NZ, how my parents encouraged me to prepare some bread and warm milk for Santa and his reindeers in case they were hungry. On Christmas, I woke up to find the plate and mug empty, and observed the remaining crumbs in fascination. The trace of the magical existence gave me a special excitement that nothing else ever could. The world in front of me was full of wonder, and Santa Claus was real.
2013年12月21日土曜日
call
This morning around 8:45 am, I had a surprising call. I didn't recognize the number but picked up anyway. The guy on the other end said he was T. T what? He added we had been in the same seminar on Anglo-American Law. It took a couple of seconds for me to put a face to the name. The last time we saw each other was more than two years ago.
The first time I met T was probably half a year before that. We had decided to take the same seminar under the same professor at the same university. He came up to me right after the first class and asked if he could have my number. Soon, he asked me out for lunch. We talked about the books we read, our respective future dreams, and he told me about his ex girlfriend. He said he would work anywhere; if he could support his wife so she could enjoy her life doing whatever she wanted to, that would make him happy. He asked if I had a boyfriend; I said yes. He complimented me anyway and said (with no hint of shyness) I had a great figure.
A couple months later, he sent me a text saying he really liked me. I said I really appreciated his feelings but that I didn't want to break up with my boyfriend. He said he understood but that he couldn't stop crying -- that he would be waiting if I ever changed my mind.
When the semester ended, we never met after that. He texted me a couple of times, but I said I couldn't meet. I had already broken up with my boyfriend but I was going through a very busy period. More than a year went by. I wondered about him once in a while, but never thought about calling him. Nor did I expect him to call one random Saturday morning before leaving for work.
「電話帳を整理してたら、なんか懐かしいなと思って(I felt kind of nostalgic when I found your name in my phone book)」 he said, when I asked what was up. He asked me what I was doing now. He said he would've been shocked if I had already gotten married. "You know, I really liked you. Well, not that I called to check or anything..." From what I heard in his voice and the way he talked, he seemed a bit exhausted from all the work but he hadn't changed. He was still the T who came up to me right after class to ask my number. I wondered if he thought I had changed.
I never had feelings for him. And I don't think I ever would. But his affection was always straightforward and earnest. It did mean a lot to me -- probably as much as his bittersweet memory did to him.
The first time I met T was probably half a year before that. We had decided to take the same seminar under the same professor at the same university. He came up to me right after the first class and asked if he could have my number. Soon, he asked me out for lunch. We talked about the books we read, our respective future dreams, and he told me about his ex girlfriend. He said he would work anywhere; if he could support his wife so she could enjoy her life doing whatever she wanted to, that would make him happy. He asked if I had a boyfriend; I said yes. He complimented me anyway and said (with no hint of shyness) I had a great figure.
A couple months later, he sent me a text saying he really liked me. I said I really appreciated his feelings but that I didn't want to break up with my boyfriend. He said he understood but that he couldn't stop crying -- that he would be waiting if I ever changed my mind.
When the semester ended, we never met after that. He texted me a couple of times, but I said I couldn't meet. I had already broken up with my boyfriend but I was going through a very busy period. More than a year went by. I wondered about him once in a while, but never thought about calling him. Nor did I expect him to call one random Saturday morning before leaving for work.
「電話帳を整理してたら、なんか懐かしいなと思って(I felt kind of nostalgic when I found your name in my phone book)」 he said, when I asked what was up. He asked me what I was doing now. He said he would've been shocked if I had already gotten married. "You know, I really liked you. Well, not that I called to check or anything..." From what I heard in his voice and the way he talked, he seemed a bit exhausted from all the work but he hadn't changed. He was still the T who came up to me right after class to ask my number. I wondered if he thought I had changed.
I never had feelings for him. And I don't think I ever would. But his affection was always straightforward and earnest. It did mean a lot to me -- probably as much as his bittersweet memory did to him.
2013年3月8日金曜日
ex
When I was heading for the station today, I realized that a cafe had closed. It was where I had met my ex last before he returned to the States. When I said I was busy studying for my coming exams, he said he didn't mind coming to my nearest station. We ordered hot drinks and talked about our respective future plans. I asked him if he had enjoyed his time in Japan. It was raining outside.
He was probably my first love - the first person I ever cried over. I still think I might've been in love with love, or that I just wanted someone to lean on; maybe it didn't have to be him. I don't know. But I did like him a lot.
Maybe he didn't see it because I was never ready to sleep with him. I still remember how I felt he was being sarcastic when I asked if he didn't feel my love in the texts I sent him.
We had our first fight towards the end of the relationship. We were walking up the stairs - the one that leads to the JR ticket barrier at the Shinjuku south exit. It was Christmas but I was pissed off from the moment we got together (for several good reasons) and although things did get better after we had dinner, we got into a small fight. I thought he lacked respect; he thought I was being persistent. And it made him so uncomfortable that he said he had to go home to skype his mom. He always had to skype his mom. Which was something I honestly liked about him until that moment... Well actually, I think he said he had to skype his mom even before we got into the fight, but anyway, that was the last time I met him while we were dating.
It was four months later that he decided to return to America and sent me a text so we could meet up. After we left the cafe, I walked him to the station and we exchanged our final farewells. No hug, no tears. I didn't even recall how I was embarrassed when he suddenly hugged me on the platform after our first date.
Fast forward another ten months and the cafe had been closed. Nothing except for the shop sign was left. The buzzing of people, the smell of coffee, the colorful cupcakes, the music from the stereo, the guitar players sitting outside - all that had once been there had disappeared. And I felt slightly sad and nostalgic as I hastily walked by the building this morning just like I had done so many times.
It's amazing how time flies. How memories pile up and weathers.
He was probably my first love - the first person I ever cried over. I still think I might've been in love with love, or that I just wanted someone to lean on; maybe it didn't have to be him. I don't know. But I did like him a lot.
Maybe he didn't see it because I was never ready to sleep with him. I still remember how I felt he was being sarcastic when I asked if he didn't feel my love in the texts I sent him.
We had our first fight towards the end of the relationship. We were walking up the stairs - the one that leads to the JR ticket barrier at the Shinjuku south exit. It was Christmas but I was pissed off from the moment we got together (for several good reasons) and although things did get better after we had dinner, we got into a small fight. I thought he lacked respect; he thought I was being persistent. And it made him so uncomfortable that he said he had to go home to skype his mom. He always had to skype his mom. Which was something I honestly liked about him until that moment... Well actually, I think he said he had to skype his mom even before we got into the fight, but anyway, that was the last time I met him while we were dating.
It was four months later that he decided to return to America and sent me a text so we could meet up. After we left the cafe, I walked him to the station and we exchanged our final farewells. No hug, no tears. I didn't even recall how I was embarrassed when he suddenly hugged me on the platform after our first date.
Fast forward another ten months and the cafe had been closed. Nothing except for the shop sign was left. The buzzing of people, the smell of coffee, the colorful cupcakes, the music from the stereo, the guitar players sitting outside - all that had once been there had disappeared. And I felt slightly sad and nostalgic as I hastily walked by the building this morning just like I had done so many times.
It's amazing how time flies. How memories pile up and weathers.
2012年8月20日月曜日
first love?
So I had this neighbor friend I used to hang out with a lot when I was in New Zealand.
We were around five or six. We went to the same school and went to each other's places almost every day until one day when he suggested we draw pictures of a video game character he was really into. We both enjoyed drawing so I said okay let's do it, but the problem was, I didn't know this video game, and although I thought I would develop some kind of interest in the characters, that just didn't happen.
Plus, Michael was being somewhat picky about my drawings and I finally told him I wanted to go home. He had no clue what was wrong and asked if I was hungry. I said I just wanted to go home. We went to the living room where his parents were watching TV and they said, "Sweetie, if you're hungry we have chocolate chip cookies." But I just smiled and said I wanted to go home. And since that day, I stopped going over to his place.
There's an epilogue to this story though. Michael's mom told me to come play with him again every time we met at school, and a month later on Halloween's Day, Michael came over in his dracula costume. It was really awkward (at least on my part), and to make things worse, my dad made us hold hands for a picture. We'd probably held hands like a million times but I felt so shy.
I don't remember what happened after that but a couple months later, I was bored and finally decided to go over to his place again. I remember being really nervous but his mom welcomed me with a warm smile, and Michael and I were friends again like nothing ever happened.
When I left NZ, we never wrote to each other, but he was one of the few people I searched for when I joined Facebook. He doesn't look all that innocent now but it was kind of nice to know that he remembered me too after more than a decade.
We were around five or six. We went to the same school and went to each other's places almost every day until one day when he suggested we draw pictures of a video game character he was really into. We both enjoyed drawing so I said okay let's do it, but the problem was, I didn't know this video game, and although I thought I would develop some kind of interest in the characters, that just didn't happen.
Plus, Michael was being somewhat picky about my drawings and I finally told him I wanted to go home. He had no clue what was wrong and asked if I was hungry. I said I just wanted to go home. We went to the living room where his parents were watching TV and they said, "Sweetie, if you're hungry we have chocolate chip cookies." But I just smiled and said I wanted to go home. And since that day, I stopped going over to his place.
There's an epilogue to this story though. Michael's mom told me to come play with him again every time we met at school, and a month later on Halloween's Day, Michael came over in his dracula costume. It was really awkward (at least on my part), and to make things worse, my dad made us hold hands for a picture. We'd probably held hands like a million times but I felt so shy.
I don't remember what happened after that but a couple months later, I was bored and finally decided to go over to his place again. I remember being really nervous but his mom welcomed me with a warm smile, and Michael and I were friends again like nothing ever happened.
When I left NZ, we never wrote to each other, but he was one of the few people I searched for when I joined Facebook. He doesn't look all that innocent now but it was kind of nice to know that he remembered me too after more than a decade.
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