It’s abominable how people inevitably become these shrimp memories after awhile, when at one point, you could think of nothing but them. I guess it’s best to believe and adhere to Aerosmith’s famous mantra, “Life’s a journey, not a destination”. Otherwise, you are doomed to a life of superfluous ‘what ifs’, and ‘should haves’. And the last thing you should do in your life is regret.
So far, I feel pretty remarkably blessed. I have managed to survive over two decades without ever breaking a limb, falling ill to some incurable disease, becoming disconfigured in some horrible accident, or losing anyone in that way. I am so typically typical, I am practically you. It’s remarkable. Yet, I can’t help but ponder life’s astronomical defining moments, just as you may ponder yours.
These grand defining moments don’t occur often. They are those rare epiphanies you acquire when you’re doing absolutely nothing at all, and nothing is happening around you- but suddenly there’s some kind of explosion or force that just envelopes you completely. You anxiously look around for the nearest sign of terrorist or volcanic activity- when in fact, that explosion, that insanely intense moment- has simply erupted from the depths of your own mind, far away from everything physical and real.
You’ve entered the world of the metaphysical now. Somewhere, beyond the abyss of the heart and libido. This is the esoteric universe of the blessed or the damned, depending on what personality type you fall into. Are you a fatalist? an optimist? a conformist? simply pissed? Depending on your own personal poo-poo platter of the brain, you pick these moments to add novel meaning to your life. Old rules are discarded, new behaviors are programmed in, and different tastes acquired. This process is commonly known as maturation, but lately, I feel that this may be a misnomer.
Maturation implies that some kind of positive growth is taking residence. You are becoming wiser, stronger, more of the person you want to be. You are expressing your potential- like a nascent bud, blossoming into something more beautiful each day- and following your given path.
Unfortunately, regarding humans, age and maturation are hardly germane to one another. And thus begins my anecdote.
Disclaimer: It’s stupid, but we are all entitled to our own self prescribed epiphanies. Afterall, we are the only ones with full, uninhibited access to our deepest passages.
I was in love with a seventeen year ancient kid. The previous statement would be perfectly fine, if I was one or all of the following:
a) I am Mary Kay Letourneau, famed teacher who seduced her thirteen year old student, and proceeded to mother two of his children and spend time in the slammer because of their forbidden affair.
b) I am bat shit crazy and a child molester.
c) I am a fellow seventeen year old kid.
Despite accepted notion, I was none. I was a twenty-two year old (but could calm pass for eighteen) year traditional female adult, who was a college educated teacher to this alleged seventeen year old.
I know, this is scary. Maybe I fit b) after all. Remember, this is coming from a girl who thinks that her twenty-one year old younger brother is a “child”.
After a period of lackluster relationships, I was in the mood for being swept off my feet. However with this boy, I played the role of seducer/seductress. Realistically, I would never and have never made the first move, especially after my first failed attempt when I was actually seventeen, and subsequently got my heart devestated by a guy who liked to type acronyms in place of genuine words. I’m sure you’ve settled for crappy online flirting at one point or another. Anyways, I am not actually you, so it doesnt matter. LOL.
The background to this story includes that I was leaving the country in less than two weeks, and this taste of sinful expression probably related to my attempts of holding onto something solid there, a tangible memory– or just a zealous attempt to prolong my stay here. If I was fully focused on something, then maybe I wouldn’t be thinking about my inevitable departure.
It’s not that I didn’t want to leave Japan or that I did want to leave. I was a bit ambivalent, because I saw both positive and negative points to life here. Ultimately, however, I fair felt like I had adapted to that home after a year, and I was terrified to return to my original home in Los Angeles (a place I had been nostalgic for since I got to Japan). I guess I was feeling displaced, and that is expected, of course… but who knew that some of my anxiety would be displaced onto a high school crush.
This boy, let’s call him Snow, was tall, shaded, and handsome. He was my quintessential type, sauf the underage factor (although, Japanese teachers are notorious for marrying their students, often selecting nubile mates during junior high school, and marrying them immediately following their high school graduations. Albeit, most of these cases involve male teachers.) The reason is that socialization is considerably different from and difficult in Japan.
Students spend so much time at school involved in extra curricular club activities, studying, etc. that they don’t have a lot of time to hang out with friends, or outside– playing on their ‘ slip and streak ‘ or throwing a frisbee in the park. If you ask any kid here, how he or she spends free time- you are bound to get an acknowledge of, “I like watching t.v.” Even that’s a lie. Everyone knows that Japanese kids do math for fun!
Therefore, teachers (who remarkably spend even longer hours than their students at school) play an integral role in their students’ socialization. Not only do they act as teachers, but they also become role models, as well as friends… meaning, they guide their students in the lessons of “cool” or “uncool”. Of Course, this all depends on how icy the teachers they, themselves happen to be, which in most cases, isn’t as high as you would expect.
Interestingly, I have a hard time believing that some of these teachers can teach anything about social behaviors to anyone else, especially since they are some of the most inept people I’ve ever encountered: lacking professionalism, basic hygeine, and courtesy… but that’s just me.
Continuing on, these teachers will take students out on practice dates, have dinner with them, and so on, eventually following a path of courtship eerily similar to that of a romantic relationship.
And since the legal age of consent in Japan is an alarming thirteen for both genders, the teachers tend to start young, before it becomes “slim pickins”. Naturally.
Upon confiding in a friend regarding my crush, hhe said, “Go for it. Everyone does it anyway, so why should it matter? “
The truth is, the people who do it are mostly Japanese men. And in this society, foreigners, especially foreign women, especially foreign asian women are the dregs of the social ladder. And despite how great my ass looks in a short skirt, I am subject to stricter rules, punishments, and stigmas. In otherwords, I follow a different set of social standards.
Snow was seventeen and adorable, but in a manly way. Like, he could eat a whole four pound steak and still be hungry. And he could pick me up, even if it was only for a brief moment, and he could sing and dance and lead, all of which I’ve witnessed him do. However, his best quality was that he loved me. From the first day I visited his class, he directed a cheerful hello at me, and ever since then, made special efforts to be around me, compliment me, or just inhale my very essence.
In the beginning, he was just a boy, a student… I simply thought he was cute. But as the year progressed in convenient sync with my libido (successful dating in a foreign country is not as easy as you might imagine), I found that I started to look forward to his class especially. I surreptitiously kept my eyes on him for moments longer than I should have. I blushed constantly, revealing my eagerness to pass him in the halls. I was risky. But it was a harmless crush, and it was more of fair fun and play than anything else. Right?
Until the day he asked me out. With the aid of a textbook, he flipped to lesson thirteen: “Going out with friends.”
He spoke in perfect broken english, “If you are free this weekend, let us go to karaoke.” He even let out a premeditated discontinue at the comma, proving my effectiveness as an english teacher.
Perhaps he was simply practicing his english rhetoric or he had no clue to what he was saying (like so many of the kids). Still, he asked me to join him on an ostensible date, and not just any date, but the world’s foremost international drunken pastime. My heart was racing. After all, I was stunned. I had no idea if he even knew what he was saying. More importantly, I couldn’t even recall the last time someone had ever asked me out. Did they do it differently in Japan? I casually replied him, “next time”.
He fumbled in the text book glossary to look up the phrase. He grinned obnoxiously when he discovered the meaning. I couldn’t tell if he was fucking with me, or if he thought I was fucking with him. Either way, I was strangely excited, like a crush was finally coming into fruition.
All of a sudden, it hit me. Snow might simply have been charming, and let’s not forget to mention that everyone flirts with the foreigner from America. That’s why she’s here! To prance around in her short skirts and wear outfits that the school girls are forbidden to! Maybe he was what we, Americans like to refer to as the “asshole”: an all too common species comprised of good looking genes, irresistible amounts of charisma, and excessive heart-breaking abilities. Were there Japanese “assholes” as well? Were they unbiased as deadly as their American counterparts? It didn’t matter, I had already thrown rationale out the window.
The weekend came and passed. I remember sitting alone on those tatami floors making up silly date scenarios. Would we go out and play dance dance revolution? Would we be able to have a conversation that surpassed the usual salutations? Would he put soy sauce in my sushi? and a myriad of other naughty thoughts.
The following week, I saw him at a volleyball game, where I was completely ignored. It was a bit shocking, not that he ignored me, but that I cared so powerful. I kept on looking at him anxiously, wondering what I had done wrong, what had happened in those days of being apart. I gave myself whip lash and an eye strain from staring at him so much. I couldn’t believe that this little kid affected me.
Earlier, I had talked to a friend about it. She accused me of being a seductress. I scoffed at the idea. What a ridiculous notion. Especially considering that the volleyball game proved that I was the one so obviously seduced. In a matter of a month, I was reduced to a hyperventilating, melodramatic, pre-pubescent girl in adore with a slack nineties pop star.
Like I said before, age and maturation have no correlation.
The situation eventually improved. Days later, he told me I looked “very cute”, and it seemed like a return to the good used days. My heart danced. “[He] makes me feel so young,” Frank Sinatra says. He really did.
The humorous thing was that among the language barrier, our cultural differences, and our slight contact, the thing that kept me so hesitant from him was the age difference.
But what is age? Nothing but a number.
That crazy mentality was the impetus for our first and only rendezvous. It wasn’t a tryst, more as it was a very awkward encounter. Living in a tiny rural city in Japan, the chances of us bumping into one another was pretty high.
On a typical Friday night, while the ambitious and studious pupils halt at home to peep, objective like in America, the rebellious teens like to spend their evenings flirting with unattainable women, drinking illegally, and singing their souls out at the local karaoke bars. And for Snow, a well-rounded party boy, he was no exception.
Considering that there were only two karaoke bars in town, entertainment was extremely scarce. Luckily for me, my apartment happened to be just a block away from the cheaper karaoke joint. With that in mind, it was never a surprise to bump into students during my walk home.
Perhaps by destiny or by my extremely perspicacious timing, I happened to walk past the karaoke bar the precise moment that he stepped out for a smoking break with a friend. I didn’t discover the friend, which was fortuitous, considering, something dangerous was about to happen. Snow’s eyes lit up in a perplexed look of surprise and intrigue. Was I really there? We both thought. Twenty-three and seventeen– Really, was five years such a huge difference? The thought seduced us for a moment, as I reached over to engage the cigarette from his gentle acquire and put it in my own.
His perceptive friend excused himself, as Snow and I shared the rest of the cigarette. I rarely smoked, but when I did, I looked capable. Seriously.
We didn’t say anything. We honest smiled and looked at each other. He relegated me abet to memories of high school. Back to those days when I would stare longingly at the track star I was not-so inconspicuously in love with. We could hear bits of laughter and melody from his friends in their music box rooms. Still, we didn’t say a word. Maybe we were both too shy to attempt anything comprehensible in each other’s language.
I looked at him and couldn’t focus on anything but the fact that I would be leaving in two weeks, and that I would never see this boy again. Not in a million years. Maybe he thought the same, because in that brief moment of clarity, he drew is head in close to me. Taken aback, I quickly shifted my position, and backed away. He was embarrassed, but stayed close to my face.
I knew it was a mistake. After all, it was my natural inclination to pull back, to remove myself from the situation which was wrong and illegal in the USA. Celebrated sense boiled in my veins, but my eyes would not leave his study. Have you ever felt like you were no longer in control of yourself? Because, that’s precisely what happened to me.
Suddenly, I was a puppet in a marionette show, and the stars were puling my strings. I closed my eyes and obeyed them. My lips touched his. I don’t know if I did it or he did it. The court will probably argue that either way, it was my fault, so I might as well just take preliminary blame.
He tasted young, like his lips hadn’t known many parts of a woman. He tasted like innocence and sweetness and limited hygiene. He tasted like my first kiss. I closed my eyes and let his tongue wander into my mouth. It definitely felt like he hadn’t ever visited another tongue. He twirled his tongue around and around, as I suppressed a giggle. A naive school girl probably would have thought that this was the most erotic thing of her life.
It was cute. Properly Sanrio cute, because I was in Japan, land of dolls, and doll-like school boys, who barely knew how to kiss, but there I was- unable to take my mouth from his, because I was inexplicably attracted. When we finally pulled away from each other, I let out a small gasp. I looked at him to make sure that we had really done what we had done, and that I hadn’t wet my pants. He was breathless himself. He smiled shyly at me, as if to shroud this naughty secret.
I wanted more. I don’t know if he did. I was aching for some affection, but it was impossible. Some might say that once you corrupt the line into forbidden territory, you’ve got nothing left to lose. But we were still a block away from my apartment. His friends were still singing their heart outs twenty feet away. The moon were still out, and I was still someone who wasn’t that grand of a risk taker, despite my latest foray into the brash and unthinkable.
Sanity had finally decided to return to my brain. After a few brief moments assessing the situation, assessing how much damage I had done to myself and him, (ie: Could I really get fired if I’m leaving in two weeks? ) I turned to leave. He clutched onto my hand. Perhaps he had read my thoughts, and wanted me to reconsider. His eyes were smiling, but mine were not. He eventually let go, but dropped something into my palm. It was an orange fish eraser. It looked used. It looked like a piece of trash from his pocket, yet I was marveled.
The school boy gave me something. Maybe it was nothing, but he gave me something so we could remember the moment. This meaningful moment, that even a sophomoric seventeen year old could understand was important on some level. I squeezed the goldfish as I put in my pocket. It was time to go.
I didn’t look back at him. That last smile of knowing was all he got, and all I wanted him to have. I didn’t shed one single tear for that seventeen year old dreamboat.
The next two weeks sped by quickly. I was never caught; I had gotten away with this love crime. In a way, I was a bit disappointed. I wanted everyone to know that I had experienced a Japanese romance, even if it was highly unconventional. Needless to say, I never told anyone. Getting ready to leave Japan was an experience in itself, packing, saying goodbyes, preparing for the real world a continent away. I didn’t see Snow in school either. It was probably meant to be.
At the airport, I half expected him to be waiting for me, ready to declare one last attempt at love. Who knows? Maybe I would have flung my arms around him, stowed him away in my luggage, and taken him home to meet my parents, who would wonder why I had chosen to adopt a Japanese child. But of course, he wasn’t there.
I’ve been back for a while now, and while the “in love” part of me has definitely waned down, I still think of Snow on occasion. He lives on a solitary palm tree lined island in my memory, and once in a while, I’ll join him and together, we’ll relax on those sandy shores. We’ll hear his friends singing their heart outs to some Japanese pop melody far off in the distance: A tiny memory, lingering in my heart, maturing with age.
