A weekend in six vignettes
1. The sun shines brightly in the courtyard of the American school, where I brought my English Club members to see a barbecue and talk with the students there in English. Haruka comes up to me; she is one of my best students, multi-talented and creative [academically, analytically, musically, and thoughtfully so. During a Pixar film analysis session for English club, she independently pointed out that the theme of La Luna was personal growth].
She asks to leave early. Bewilderment. Before I can give firm reply, the cheery Iowan father at the grill I was making conversation with loops her into it-three sentences in, tears roll down her face. “I lost confidence in my English,” she breathes haltingly, asking again to leave. Bewilderment amplifies as she shuffles off to the train station; I send my Japanese teacher after her to try comforting her.
Are all good intentions suspect?
2. He probes; I explain frankly. I am no Übermensch, but surely I should feel more than this. Am I truly dead inside, or have I faked death so much that it is all I know? Regardless, life continues.
3. The tuna is ambrosia. Fresh caught skipjack from the Pacific by Hanyuda-san’s fisherman friend, the flesh is so glossy that it is literally iridescent, a dazzling glitter of green, blue, and red that I shovel unceremoniously into my mouth amidst moans of culinary pleasure.
In between trying to follow the Japanese conversation and trying to explain that yes, I do know about Mori Motonari, entirely through gestures and emphatic grunts, Hanyuda-san takes unexpected cue from my friend’s playful insult of me, and he and his wife praise me to the skies for helping their daughter learn English. I express modesty the only way I can [flailing of arms and carefully tuned emphatic grunts], but inside I flush with pride. Maybe I should be a teacher?
Maybe I should learn Japanese. ._.
4. It’s raining at night; Perlyn and I are talking in her doorway, watching silver threads slant out of the streetlights into darkness. We are talking relationships, as natural a topic for us as it is natural for wombats to dance in the Bolshoi.
She smiles. “There’s someone out there for you,” she gestures to the darkness.
Smile turns to smirk. “But you just might never meet them.”
5. Happiness is an open cable lift above Amanohashidate. It’s a random slide in the middle of a pine forest. Sea shells polished smooth and glittering purple. Well-placed allusions and finishing each other’s sentences.
Happiness is a fundamental, basal level of existence, cushioning my every fall and buoying every surge. What a beautiful thing to have.
"I’M SO HAPPY WITH LIFEEEEE!" I shout to Ingrid as I run after her, getting sand in my shoes.
6. The room in Kyoto University is packed; packed with people, but also with passion, fervor, and vision. Speaker after speaker pours silver from their tongues as they uphold reason, dialogue, and democratic ideals. “There are no superheroes-there are no saviors. There is no one better to save your democracy than yourself.”
After we have shouted our support via vid-link to those occupying the Legislative Yuan in Taipei, the MC for the Kyoto support protest opens the floor to speakers from the audience. My arms shoot up-for my friend. She is the penultimate speaker chosen; she gushes her own silver to the torrent washing over me.
The MC announces that the number of protesters on Ketagalan has surpassed 350,000 people. Yet another raucous cheer comes up from Kyoto for those faraway.