“We miss you,”
they say.
“When will you come back?”
I don’t know.
Confusion;
Melancholy;
Frustration;
Desire;
Fear.
Where are the mountains,
the rivers,
the rice fields,
the music,
the food?
Where am I?
New York?
Phuket?
Iwate?
Stopping,
standing,
looking around befuddled.
“Come back,”
they utter.
“Why did you leave us?”
they plead.
What can I say?
Sumimasen.
Gomen-nasai.
Arigato gozaimasu.
Ganbatte-kudasai.
Owari.
Love,
Alekusu
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Chapter 1: "Tsuyoi"
It was most certainly painful. But worth it. People always stare at my foot, cocking their heads to the side with a bewildered look in their eyes, and ask: “What does that mean?” I’m never really sure how to answer this question.
What does it mean? That implies meaning and definition, and would entail that I come up with a brief, clear, simple answer to please my audience. What does it mean? I always find myself stumbling over my words when I try to explain it. How can I accurately translate something so dense and symbolic? How can I condense three years of my life into one sentence, one phrase, or even—it’s horrifying to think about—one word? “No!” I want to shout. “I can’t explain it” or “I don’t know what it means,” would be an easier answer; yet, I cannot bring myself to do that. I must express this part of me, this other identity, because it is all a part of who I am. And do these people not want to know who I am? Maybe not . . . but, then again, maybe they do.
Fine, I think to myself. I will give it a shot; take a stab at it; give it a go. What does it mean? I consider, trying to find the right words, though I have done this countless times. “It’s part of the Japanese kanji (character), tsuyoi,” I say, slowly and clearly. “Tsuyoi means strong, powerful, tenacious, and passionate. It is also part of the kanji, tsuyomi, which means forte (my last name),” I continue. By now, my audience has grown bored, having already heard a satisfactory explanation, and makes to move off. “Wait!” I want to call out. “I haven’t finished. I haven’t even gotten started, yet.” But that is usually all anyone wants or cares to hear.
I want to describe my small, rural village in the mountains of Iwate. I want to talk about my Japanese family—Otou-san and Okaa-san—and the people with whom I worked. I want to describe the schools, the students, the teachers, and the town sports tournaments held every year in Fall. I want to express what it felt like to live in a village, an area, and an entire region where almost no one spoke fluent English; and where I spoke very little Japanese. I want to speak of the vision that sticks in my mind of the falling autumn leaves as they swam down through the air to land softly on the dirt roads, glistening aka (red), orenji (orange), kin (yellow/gold), and midori (purple). I want someone to understand.
I want to talk about the struggle of staying cool in the summer and warm in the winter while living in a house that had neither air conditioning nor heat. I want to laugh with someone at the oddity of having an outhouse attached to my house, where I squatted over a small hole in the ground instead of a toilet. I want to discuss the absurdity of having a ceremonial drinking party, enkai, for each opening and closing of an event, where barely anyone eats a bite of the expensive food and business men get drunk off weak beer followed by making vulgar comments towards their female colleagues. I want to describe the way the bright orange jinjya (shrine) sparkled in magnificent contrast with the blinding white, freshly fallen, April snow.
I want to speak of these memories, and I want someone to listen. I don’t say these things, though. To embark on such a journey would be too much for the average inquirer. “What does it mean,” doesn’t mean what it should mean. It means straightforward definition. “What does it mean,” doesn’t mean explain and express. “It means strength,” I say, blandly.
“Why do you have it tattooed on your foot, though?” is often the next question.
“Well, because it represents my name, ‘forte’, reminding me to stay strong and persevere when I meet a challenge. I am a runner. It fits,” I add.
“Oh, that’s cool,” is the typical response. Yeah, cool, I think, whatever that means. “So you know Japanese?” the person will often ask.
“Yes. I lived there for three years after college,” I respond somberly.
“Wow! That’s great. I bet that was an interesting experience. Did you like it?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding, “it was amazing, but challenging.” This is frequently followed by various other questions about “what I thought of Japan” and “how the experience was,” questions that could not possibly be answered in less than, oh . . . three years. Nonetheless, I paraphrase as best I can.
“Well, that’s so interesting,” my newfound fan comments. “How do you say it again?”
“Tsuyoi,” I say.
“What does it mean, again?”
“Strong; powerful; passionate,” I reiterate.
“Oh, yeah, right. Thanks,” are the final words I hear before watching someone walk away with a little piece of my life. But am I strong? I think, powerful, passionate? I look down at my foot, at the answer. Tsuyoi, I whisper to myself, tsuyomi: forte.
THE END
What does it mean? That implies meaning and definition, and would entail that I come up with a brief, clear, simple answer to please my audience. What does it mean? I always find myself stumbling over my words when I try to explain it. How can I accurately translate something so dense and symbolic? How can I condense three years of my life into one sentence, one phrase, or even—it’s horrifying to think about—one word? “No!” I want to shout. “I can’t explain it” or “I don’t know what it means,” would be an easier answer; yet, I cannot bring myself to do that. I must express this part of me, this other identity, because it is all a part of who I am. And do these people not want to know who I am? Maybe not . . . but, then again, maybe they do.
Fine, I think to myself. I will give it a shot; take a stab at it; give it a go. What does it mean? I consider, trying to find the right words, though I have done this countless times. “It’s part of the Japanese kanji (character), tsuyoi,” I say, slowly and clearly. “Tsuyoi means strong, powerful, tenacious, and passionate. It is also part of the kanji, tsuyomi, which means forte (my last name),” I continue. By now, my audience has grown bored, having already heard a satisfactory explanation, and makes to move off. “Wait!” I want to call out. “I haven’t finished. I haven’t even gotten started, yet.” But that is usually all anyone wants or cares to hear.
I want to describe my small, rural village in the mountains of Iwate. I want to talk about my Japanese family—Otou-san and Okaa-san—and the people with whom I worked. I want to describe the schools, the students, the teachers, and the town sports tournaments held every year in Fall. I want to express what it felt like to live in a village, an area, and an entire region where almost no one spoke fluent English; and where I spoke very little Japanese. I want to speak of the vision that sticks in my mind of the falling autumn leaves as they swam down through the air to land softly on the dirt roads, glistening aka (red), orenji (orange), kin (yellow/gold), and midori (purple). I want someone to understand.
I want to talk about the struggle of staying cool in the summer and warm in the winter while living in a house that had neither air conditioning nor heat. I want to laugh with someone at the oddity of having an outhouse attached to my house, where I squatted over a small hole in the ground instead of a toilet. I want to discuss the absurdity of having a ceremonial drinking party, enkai, for each opening and closing of an event, where barely anyone eats a bite of the expensive food and business men get drunk off weak beer followed by making vulgar comments towards their female colleagues. I want to describe the way the bright orange jinjya (shrine) sparkled in magnificent contrast with the blinding white, freshly fallen, April snow.
I want to speak of these memories, and I want someone to listen. I don’t say these things, though. To embark on such a journey would be too much for the average inquirer. “What does it mean,” doesn’t mean what it should mean. It means straightforward definition. “What does it mean,” doesn’t mean explain and express. “It means strength,” I say, blandly.
“Why do you have it tattooed on your foot, though?” is often the next question.
“Well, because it represents my name, ‘forte’, reminding me to stay strong and persevere when I meet a challenge. I am a runner. It fits,” I add.
“Oh, that’s cool,” is the typical response. Yeah, cool, I think, whatever that means. “So you know Japanese?” the person will often ask.
“Yes. I lived there for three years after college,” I respond somberly.
“Wow! That’s great. I bet that was an interesting experience. Did you like it?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding, “it was amazing, but challenging.” This is frequently followed by various other questions about “what I thought of Japan” and “how the experience was,” questions that could not possibly be answered in less than, oh . . . three years. Nonetheless, I paraphrase as best I can.
“Well, that’s so interesting,” my newfound fan comments. “How do you say it again?”
“Tsuyoi,” I say.
“What does it mean, again?”
“Strong; powerful; passionate,” I reiterate.
“Oh, yeah, right. Thanks,” are the final words I hear before watching someone walk away with a little piece of my life. But am I strong? I think, powerful, passionate? I look down at my foot, at the answer. Tsuyoi, I whisper to myself, tsuyomi: forte.
THE END
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