Recently, another Japanese hikikomori or “shut-in” made the papers after a young girl he kidnapped escaped from his room. She was seven when she was kidnapped, seventeen when she escaped. For ten years he kept her hostage in the house he shared with his mother, who claims never to have known that this child was under her roof, sharing the meals she left outside her son’s bedroom door. The girl wasn’t interviewed, to protect her confidentiality, but I wish I knew her side of the story, why it took her so long to run, and what it’s like to come back to life now, if it’s possible. Haruki spent four years shut in his room. He might be able to answer this question. But he’s not speaking. At least not to me.
Once again, the technical boys are wearing only their underpants when I enter their portable classroom. But today Miyoshi-sensei is not standing with his back to the room. He is sitting in the desk next to Nakajima, his head on his arms, apparently napping. I apologize for being late, explaining that there was a line for the photocopier.
“It’s okay,” he says, sitting up, but not getting up.
“I made a worksheet,” I say. “Should we hand it out?”
“If you’d like,” he says with a shrug.
When the stack of worksheets reaches his desk, he takes one as if he were a student. He’s acting like them too, aloof and disinterested, though for once they are looking at him, waiting to see what he’ll do—or fail to do—next.
“You are almost finished with high school,” I say, standing alone at the front of the room, holding up a worksheet that Carolyn decorated with drawings of people at work: a woman in a white jacket with a stethoscope; a boy in a McDonald’s uniform holding a box of fries; a guy waving a conductor’s baton. I explain to the students that they should each circle a hobby, then follow a line to its logical career. “I like making bread,” I say, following a line with my finger, “so in the future I will become a…baker.” The boys stare blankly. “I like playing guitar, so in the future I will become a…rock star.” I ask if there are any questions. No one raises a hand. Miyoshi-sensei pulls a rice ball from his pocket and unwraps it. The sound of crinkling cellophane fills the room, along with a vinegared whiff of pickled plum.
“Can you please translate what I just said?” I ask him.
“Sorry but I was not listening.” While I repeat myself, he finishes his snack, removes the plum pit from his mouth and examines its glistening strands, then wipes his hands on his pants, making the boys laugh.
“What’s the matter with you?” I say.
“Nothing?”
“Then why won’t you translate?”
“Because it is not realistic,” he says with a sigh.
“You mean it’s too hard for them? I can simplify the sentences.”
“Sentences are not problem,” he says. “Problem is, these boys could not become architect or symphony conductor. These are dream jobs for best students from top universities. Not for technical students of Shika High School.” He uncaps a bottle of Coke and sucks the tan foam that spurts from its mouth. “Maybe one or two who are very lucky will get jobs at Shika’s nuclear power station. Most will work at gasoline stand or convenience store. I’m sorry but it’s fact.”
I scan the room, wondering if the boys understood his grim prediction, if they’re resigned to these dead-end futures or pissed off. I notice that one kid has vertical stripes shaved into eyebrows and rubber plugs stretching out both earlobes. Another has somehow managed to bleach just the roots of his spiky hair, so he looks like a porcupine. Then there’s Nakajima, whose Afro-perm, growing out, resembles an exploding mushroom cloud. “Just ask what they like to do for fun,” I say, inspired by an idea of what might reach them. “If they say they like to style their hair, that’s great. They can be hairdressers!” Miyoshi-sensei finally translates the question into Japanese. In response, Nakajima mutters something that makes the boys around him hoot.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“Blow job.”
“What?”
“It’s Nakajima-san’s hobby.” He shrugs again. “It’s fun for him.”
Back in the faculty room, Miyoshi-sensei flips through the worksheets while I stand beside him. “They all wrote blow job!” he exclaims. “Every one!” In fact, they all filled in the worksheet the exact same way: I like BLOW JOB, so I will become a GIGOLO when I grow up. Gigolo was my contribution. I couldn’t think of another career to go with that particular hobby. The boys found the notion of a male prostitute hilarious. “Great job!” they kept saying. “I want!”
“Well,” I say, “since that was the only thing you wrote on the board…”
“No,” he says, “I mean, I can’t believe they all wrote! I didn’t know some of these boys could make alphabet shapes. But look! It’s good English, ne?” He glances around before opening the bottom drawer of his desk, which is slung with files. “I think I have something that could be quite useful for you,” he says, riffling through the drawer. From the back he pulls out a cardboard tube, uncaps it, and slides out a roll of posters, smoothing them on his desk. At first I think he’s showing me his stash of porn as I take in a poster showing a naked white man leaning into a naked black man’s arms. Both look like they were cast from the same Chippendale mold, their hairless torsos glistening. I thought you loved me enough to tell me everything reads the caption. The next poster shows a woman lying with her head on another woman’s lap. With you, I thought I was safe. In the final poster, an Asian woman straddles a John Lennon look-alike, offering him a condom. Avoid risky behavior!
“Do you recognize?” Miyoshi-sensei says.
“It’s what you told me after the enkai.”
“No,” he says, blushing. “I mean posters. I got them on my first trip to California. I was exchange student in Eureka. I rescued them from high school trash bin. I couldn’t understand my eyes.” As teachers start to fill the faculty room, he slides the posters back into their tube and hands it to me. “How about using these to teach sex-ed?” he asks in a quiet voice.
“Are you serious?”
“It was your idea,” he says. “You told SMILE club that Japanese students should learn sex-ed in school.”
“Who told you that?”
“Yuji Ishii,” he says. “He has only medical practice of Shika, so he sees patients with all kinds of condition, including STD or unwelcome pregnancy. He thinks sex-ed would benefit Shika’s students too. Especially technical boys. But how can we hook students’ attention without hooking parents’ attention?”
“I don’t know,” I say, because he seems to be waiting for an answer.
“By teaching in English,” he replies with a grin. “Maybe we found the one subject to interest these boys!”
“But they won’t understand a word,” I protest.
“Neither will parents,” he says. “It’s good idea, ne?”
“I don’t know,” I stall. “What if we got caught?”
“Be sure to include a grammar point in your worksheet,” he says. “So it looks like English lesson and not sex-ed.”
“What kind of grammar point?”
“How about prepositions,” he says. “In, out, next to…But make it sexy.” He laughs when I say that the whole point of sex-ed is usually to make sex seem unpleasant, so that kids won’t want to have it without protection. “Technical students are eighteen,” he says. “They know well, sex is not unpleasant.” He bites his lip and again I find myself staring at his mouth, remembering the feel of it. He riffles through his drawer, handing me one last “curiosity object,” an English pamphlet describing every conceivable sexual act, beginning with frottage and ending with anal penetration. I imagine standing at the front of the room, asking the boys to repeat the word “Rimming!” after me.
Then he hands me a piece of paper covered in his cursive.
Dear Miss Marina,
How are you? I’m kind of tired. As you suggested, I brainstormed about times in my life when English was useful. During this storm, here are some memories that f
ell like rain from my brain.
First I remembered going to school as small boy and hearing English for the first time.
When I was small boy, every day my mother went to work at the bank, my father went to work at Shika’s Town Hall, my older sister went to school, and I stayed home with my grandparents. Every day was like every other day. Time flowed like a river. I would make a picture or play in the garden or go to pick mushroom or wild mountain yam with my grandmother. Often my mother said, “Hiroshi wa samishii desune…” I knew “samishii” means “lonesome,” but I did not feel it. Still, when she said, “Soon you will go to school and make good friends,” I felt excitement. Before first day of school, my mother taught me to shout, “HAI!” after teacher called my name, and “GENKI!” for how are you. I was worried to do it correctly, and I practiced so much. I did not realize that I couldn’t really make a mistake. If I made a mistake, no one would notice. All children shouted together. My voice became erased. For first time ever, I felt lonesome. I wondered if other children felt the same. They seemed GENKI, but maybe they were also hiding behind the group. One day we had a visit from an English teacher. He was a Japanese. This was before so many English teachers became imported. It was kind of confusing. This man’s face was like ours, but he made funny sounds. He taught us to say, “This is a pen.” Another children felt foolish, but I didn’t mind. It was relief to hear my own voice again. He said I spoke very well. I experienced pride, but also something else. I realized that I was different. This was first time I used English, but I don’t think it shows how English is useful in my life.
Next I thought about attending high school class trip to Fuji-san. Of course Fuji-san is Japan’s mountain, but this was the first time I used English with a native speaker.
Before bus departed, all teachers said, “Make a memory!” and “Take a picture so you couldn’t forget anything!” and “Have the trip of a lifetime!” Bus drove all night, and I didn’t sleep after another boy took my pillow as a joke. Finally morning arrived. There was Fuji-san, poking through clouds. (Should I say “between”? What is correct preposition for position of mountain in sky?) After many long hours hiking to tip of Fuji-san, we all agreed we had a “wafu.” This means a Japanese wind blowing in our spirits. Really I was “winded.”
Naturally, everyone wanted to take group picture. Italians enjoy eating spaghetti. French enjoy making love. Japanese enjoy posing in front of some monument or scenic wonder. Rule for group picture is: whole group must be there. Usually there is some tree or garbage can to put a camera on, or someone from outside group to perform this favor. But Fuji-san’s tip was bald, and only other tourist was foreign girl. She had golden hair and pale eyes like you.
“Hiroshi,” one boy said to me, “You take our group picture.” Teacher agrees: this is good solution. There were twenty students in our class, and twenty cameras, so I became busy. Then the pale eyed girl suddenly appeared in my frame.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“That’s okay,” I said. It was first time I used English with native speaker, so of course I felt nervous, but also excited. I loved English class, even if we only said, “This is a pen. Is that a pen? It is a pen!”
“Do you want me to take picture for you?” she asked.
“That’s okay,” I said again.
“But you aren’t going to be in it,” she said.
“That’s okay,” I said again. Then I worried she thought I couldn’t understand because I said the same thing every time. So I joked, “Maybe I am not handsome boy. So they don’t want me in picture.” She laughed and said, “You are too cute. You make them look bad.” And I felt great. I could share English joke! Other students couldn’t understand, so I laughed harder to make them jealous of me.
On return bus ride to Shika, all classmates agreed: “That was the trip of a lifetime!” Over and over they said those words. Also, “We made so many memories. We will never forget this trip!” I thought, trip of a lifetime? Memories of Fuji-san? Sorry but I wanted to see more than Japan’s mountain. I wanted to travel the world. So I went to university and studied English, etc…Then I returned to Shika to take this teaching job. Maybe my father influenced the board of education to hire me. It’s good job. I know I should be grateful. But sometimes I feel confusion. English should be my passport. Why am I still here?
Of course I have taken many trips. On my trips, I always take many pictures. But I travel alone. This is why my photo albums are full of school bathroom or cafeteria trays. Using English, I could ask another person to take my picture. But I guess I am too Japanese after all. I still think photo should show a group, or friends laughing, or lovers holding hands.
Again, I don’t think this proves usefulness of English in my life.
Finally, I thought about how English is useful when I sing karaoke. I should begin by saying that singing is not truly my “hobby.” “Hobby” means for fun I think. But karaoke is how I speak my truth. If I use speaking voice to say to someone, “I am lonesome,” especially if I say in Japanese, they will find me kind of pathetic and probably run away. In any case, I would never say this. But if I sing, “I feel so all alone,” in style of Elvis Presley, maybe they will not run away. Maybe they will come closer, to enjoy great song, and lonesome feeling will go away.
Problem is, life is not karaoke booth. This strategy does not work in real world. So even if singing English songs at karaoke is my passion, it’s not really useful.
Now you can see why I could not make this speech. Thank you for listening to me.
That’s all.
See you,
Hiro
“I love it,” I say, and I mean it.
“It’s too dark,” he says.
“It’s honest and open.”
“Too honest and open. If I made this speech, I would feel kind of naked. I could only share such private thoughts with you.”
The other teachers are returning from their classes to the faculty room and I can feel them looking at us, wondering what we’re up to, huddled together like this.
“You found these sex-ed posters at a high school in Eureka?” I ask, and he nods. “The town this American mayor just happens to come from?”
“My host-sister is married to the mayor. It’s how I could invite them.”
“So why don’t you write about what it was like to live in an American family.”
“But she was there,” he says. “Maybe it’s boring for her to hear stories she knows.”
“No way,” I say. “She’ll love to hear your memories of that summer. And I’m sure your English was useful to you then.”
“Okay,” he says. “I will try once more. But this becomes final attempt.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
kirei: (ADJ.) beautiful; lovely; clean; tidy
This morning when I wake up Carolyn is in the kitchen, standing over a pot of boiling water, wearing boxer shorts and a gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, her skin flushed and damp. I watch her use chopsticks to pull steaming rings of dough from the pot and deposit them on the toaster oven tray.
“Hey,” she says, startling at the sight of me in the door frame. “Happy birthday.”
“You remembered,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says. “You only turn twenty-three once.”
She reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, then kisses the corner of my mouth, a compromise between lips and cheek. We haven’t talked about our fight, or the fact that I’ve been sleeping on the couch downstairs.
“I can’t believe you made bagels,” I say. “My favorite breakfast.”
“They’re no H&H,” she says.
“They look amazing. You really didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”
“I know,” she says. “I wanted to. It’s your birthday.”
I feel a pang of sadness, remembering that we had an exchange almost identical to this one on the first night that we slept together. Every ending is written in its beginning, but yo
u can’t see it until you look back.
“I wish it wasn’t my birthday,” I say. “Twenty-three is such a nothing number.”
“At least you’ve got two years before you become a Christmas cake.”
For some reason, lovers in Japan get together to eat sponge cake on Christmas Eve. These sponge cakes go half off on December 25, when no one wants them anymore. At twenty-five, an unmarried woman is referred to as a Christmas cake.
We set the coffee table in the living room with a makeshift tablecloth and Carolyn carries in a platter of bagels and cream cheese. I thank her again as she hands me a mug of coffee, the milk whisked to a froth so it looks like a cappuccino. She sits across from me on the floor and watches while I cut a bagel in half, spread it with cream cheese and take a bite.
“It’s really good,” I say. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I’m not hungry,” she says. “I couldn’t stop picking.”
She tells me to open my present, handing me a large flat object wrapped in the front page of the Daily Yomiyuri. I peel the tape back carefully from the newspaper, unwrapping a book with a green Lucite cover and rice paper pages. “Did you make this?” I ask and she nods. “It’s beautiful.” On the first page, she has written the word mukou—abroad, the other side—over a drawing of our house. On the next page is a drawing of Amana, lying with her chin tucked between her paws. I turn this page fast, swallowing hard. On the third page she has glued the photograph of our digital daughter, half her, half me, posed between us on a park bench, looking so much like a real child that it hurts. There’s nothing else after this, just page after blank page.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I didn’t get lazy,” she says. “I left the rest for you to fill.”
If You Follow Me Page 24