DSM S01-E01:
NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE
FEATURED SONG:
"International Smile" by Katy Perry.
*** Any featured song may contain explicit content! ***
Please listen at your own discretion.
TRIGGER WARNING:
Mentions of:
- Bullying
- Parental neglect
- Death of family members
RIMA ( 李眞 )
* 李眞 "Rima" (リマ) means "plum" and "genuine". Pronounced as "ree-mah".
The streets of the Tokyo metro are not for the faint of heart. Without previous experience, or at least some knowledge of the train system, the average person would easily get lost. Of course, as fate would have it, today of all days, I had to be that person.
No matter how much I had studied and planned ahead, I realize only now that nothing could've truly prepared me for this predicament I found myself in. I've missed my train connection too many times to count. The paper map stuck to my hand is still dripping with coffee, due to some poor passerby I collided with earlier, rendering it unreadable.
The only reason I even ran into them in the first place is because I keep forgetting that everyone here walks and drives on the left, just like in Ireland. I am constantly having to remind myself to do the same, since America* does the opposite.
* The term "America" in this story refers to the United States of America specifically.
For now, I've found sanctuary in McKing*. It seems like the only American thing here is the fast-food and the tourists. Nothing like some salty fries, paired with an ice-cold soda to de-stress. Although, I'd kill for some carnitas street tacos right about now.
* Some names have been changed to avoid copyrights.
Don't get me wrong, I love Japanese cuisine, but right now I need something familiar to calm my nerves and this knot in my stomach. Something small like this should be okay.
But I need to focus.
I came here on a mission today and there is only a limited amount of daylight left if I am going to make it back in time before my absence is noticed.
I look up from my fries to see people looking away quickly. I have learned in my short time here that the locals don't like confrontation, and avoid it as much as possible. And what's more confrontational than having to explain why you're staring holes into someone?
I sigh in defeat. I should be used to this by now. After all, they stare in America too. Nothing sticks out more in a Los Angeles high school like a pale scrawny half-Japanese, half-Irish girl with fiery red hair after all. I'm like a bright red bouy in the sea of sunkissed skin, chocolate eyes, and dark luscious hair.
But if one more person asks me if my hair color is real, or tries to touch it, I swear I'll flip out!
It's 2005, right smack in the middle of the internet golden age. You can literally get on Goggle to search for anything you'd ever want to know. A cell phone now fits in the pocket of your jeans. You can take your music with you wherever you go using an iPear portable player, instead of lugging around a bunch of mixtapes or CDs. For crying out loud, with the amount of technological advancements in the past few years alone, you'd think there'd be more acceptance by now!
But who am I kidding? People will always be wary of what they don't understand. And if they continue to misunderstand or if they don't like the answer, then their curiosity usually transitions to fear. And sometimes that fear turns to anger or hatred, directed at the misunderstood thing itself.
Memories of being bullied in my younger years resurface momentarily. In elementary school, I was too young to understand why I didn't fit in with the rest of my classmates. In Japan, I looked too much like my father to be considered "truly Japanese", even though I was born there. In America, I was just too different in general, so I didn't belong there either.
It also didn't help that on top of all that, I just said whatever was on my mind, with no filter. If I didn't like something, I told you so. In Junior High, it wasn't long before I started to get in trouble at school for fighting, which is ironic, considering that I was usually just defending myself, and against an entire group of teens I might add.
I shake my head and push the painful memories back where they belong, in the dusty corner of my brain. Nope, no negative thoughts! No time to get all gloomy right now. Look on the bright side; I still have enough time to find what I came here for, if I can get my act together, and honestly I have no reason to complain right now.
I'm finally here, living my dream! I've always wanted to revisit Japan, so when I when I was finally able to do so, I paid my way over as a foreign exchange student. Although, that's not the only reason for my trip. Mom has a lot to do with it too.
That last thought makes me both hopeful and sad at the same time; to remember Mom, causes me to think of my father too.
After the funeral, my father swiftly moved us from Japan to California where, despite being the state of beautiful beaches and eternal sunshine, he became even more cold and distant than he used to be.
That was almost a decade ago and I swear our relationship has only gotten worse. It felt like I lost two parents that day and I was so young at the time, that if it wasn't for my Mom's meticulous scrapbooking hobby, I don't know what I'd do if I ever forgot what her or my brother's faces looked like, especially after so much time has passed.
My father, Seán* Walker, is absolutely no help at all, and refuses to speak of them. Other than Mom's scrapbook collection, no trace of them remains. They might as well have never existed, with the way he carries on.
* The Irish name "Seán" is pronounced the same as "Shawn" in English.
To this day, I still have no clue what Mom ever saw in him, or why I was born with her surname instead of his, although, I do have a few unconfirmed theories. I know her death must've caused him some pain at least, but I've never understood why he chooses to disrespect their memory in such a way.
I always felt closer to my mother and brother, but no matter how much I've tried, there's just too much baggage and distance between my father and I. It also doesn't help that I'm just so exhausted with the whole thing, seeming to be the only one trying to mend our relationship. Honestly, at this point it's become easier if we just avoid each other.
Which is why I didn't feel the need to share all the details of my plan for this trip, only the necessary bare-minimum information to get his approval. And I intend to keep it that way.
Thinking of my father leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Having lost all appetite for my meal, I abruptly get up from my table and with a heavy sigh, I chuck it into the trash.
A slight smile begins to form as I feel accomplished that I have at least mastered sorting the "burnables" from the "non-burnables". Baby steps right?
Honestly, America would probably be a lot cleaner if they did the same. But contrary to this, I will say the lack of public trash cans or recycle bins in Japan has deeply disturbed me. Seriously, the only time I can throw things away is if I am in a restaurant or the local konbini*.
* A konbini is a Japanese convenience store.
When I first arrived at Haneda airport, the 12 hour flight from LAX had made me a bit hungry, so I immediately purchased an ice cream bar. I discovered my mistake when I finished my sweet treat, only to have to walk with my luggage and that sticky ice cream wrapper in tow, everywhere around Tokyo in search of a trash can. I still feel a bit prickly about the experience and now I always carry a spare plastic grocery bag in my backpack, just in case.
Remembering this, I toss my ruined map into the bin while I'm at it, and make a mental note to buy another one later, for the route back.
~ ~ ~
Two hours and several botched conversations later, I finally find what I've been looking for. I hold up the worn polaroid picture next to it to confirm, and my heart flutters with excitement.
The house has remained relatively unchanged since this photo was taken, with only a few minor alterations like the new gardens and a change of paint on the house itself. It still has the same beautiful deep blue kawara* roof tiling, so whoever lives here now must've also appreciated its beauty and my great-grandparents' laborous efforts. I silently thank them, since the rare color is what helped me find it faster. Although I struggle speaking Japanese (since the last time I did so, I was a young child, and my father only converses in either English or Irish Gaelic), I still managed to find this house with the help of many friendly locals. The iconic roof sticks out to them too.
* Kawara: a type of traditional Japanese ceramic roof tiling, usually black-grey. The blue-green type described here was very popular in the 1960s, but is pretty rare in present-day Japan. This is due to a number of reasons, some of which are: installation of cheaper replacements after time/wear/typhoon damage, and simply falling out of fashion after the 1980s.
I approach the house and softly caress the frame, feeling the individual grains grace my fingertips, like it's a loved one I haven't seen in a long time. In a way, it is; this place used to be my childhood home. So many happy memories were formed here, but the feeling is bittersweet.
The only reason we left in the first place was because it reminded my father too much of Mom after she passed. The house had been in her family for generations, and thus Ayame Takai had grown up here as well. It would have eventually passed to me too, if not for my father. The house always felt like a friend left behind, but I let out a sigh in relief because it appears to have been left in caring capable hands at least.
I'm also grateful to see that my family's kanji* carvings have remained on both the gate and the house itself, and not scratched out and replaced by whoever lives here now. Rather they placed their own surname** on a metal plaque next to it, seemingly in acknowledgement and respect.
* 高井 "Takai" (タカイ) means "high/tall" and "water well". Pronounced as "tah-kah-ee".
** 宮咲 "Miyazaki (ミヤザキ) means "shrine" and "blossom". Pronounced as "mee-yaw-zah-kee".
Next, I peruse the gardens, taking in the delightful scents. Mom always had flowers and whatnot in the flowerbeds, such as irises, which were her namesake*, but now there are also fruits, vegetables, and several new trees planted throughout the whole property, many of which are species I've never even seen before. In the middle of examining a star-shaped flower**, a nearby voice suddenly catches my ears.
* 菖愛 "Ayame" (アヤメ) means "iris flower" and "love". Pronounced as "ah-yaw-may"
** Platycodon grandiflorus (perennial). Also known as the British Balloon Flower, or the Chinese Bellflower.
Shoot! Scrambling to hide behind a bush, I mentally kick myself for getting lost in the nostalgia and forgetting my surroundings. I don't live here anymore and I'm pretty sure finding a stranger on your property uninvited is pretty weird, no matter which country you're in.
A teenager around my age opens the front door, exiting past where I was only a few minutes ago. Even from this distance I can tell she is gorgeous. Definitely the popular-at-school type. Her sleek strawberry-blonde hair runs the length of her back, with the top section partially gathered into a loose ponytail. Her feminine attire alone proves how closely she follows the latest fashion trends, and her whole persona just oozes confidence that I wish I had. And it doesn't take a genius to see she is a foreigner too.
She yells back her goodbyes to someone inside the house, and even though she has raised her voice, her honeyed words are almost lyrical to my ears. I'm in awe of her impeccable Japanese, which is spoken as smooth as silk. The way it just flows off her tongue so naturally contrasts greatly with my own speech, which is rough and strained.
She then turns away from the house to walk out the gate. My breath catches when she pauses to stand right next to my hiding spot. Did she see me just now? Oh man, I would be so mortified if she did! But my fears ease when she pulls out a bejeweled compact mirror to apply some sparkly lip gloss. The delicious aroma of strawberries floats on the breeze while I remain absolutely still, waiting for her to continue on.
Finally, she snaps the compact shut and struts out the gate in a hurry. I wonder if she's running late for something? With no time to ponder the answer, I make my escape before anyone else has the chance to spot me. I check that the coast is clear, then I high-tail it out of there. I decide to go the opposite direction, even though it will take longer to get to the train station, because I don't want to risk running into her again.
Looking at my watch, I pick up speed. With this new detour, I'm going to need to run faster if I'm going to make it back before dinner.
~ ~ ~
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