Summer Special Memoir vol. 9

Sambo among Us

When we come back from our summer vacation to school, teachers organize a Black Contest in this large temple hall.  Kids compete against each other to see how dark they become over the summer.  Although I have tried really hard to win every summer, my competition always ends in the first round.  To me, being dark is a way to make a connection to Black Sambo from the book.  A champion of the black contest is always extremely dark, just like Sambo. 

A black, smart, and witty boy, Sambo, somehow gets in trouble with tigers.  However, he wisely escapes from them, and quickly climbs onto the top of the coconut trees.  These tigers have no clue where Sambo went.  The tigers keep running around the trees, looking for the mischief until they finally melt into butter.  His mom and Sambo feast on pancakes with Tiger Butter until their stomachs cannot accept anymore. 

I want to be Sambo.  My imagination brings heavenly rich, golden yellow, and mouthwatering butter on top of more than the 25 slices of pancakes right in front of me.  I strongly believe I should receive “real” pancakes with Tiger Butter as long as I become a Black Contest champion, perhaps as a prize.  I also know I am not going to win no matter how hard I try because my home has a fatal disadvantage.  Although my hometown is surrounded by the water, our home is not quite a walking distance to the beach compared to the majority of the kids in our school.  This year’s champion is even darker than real Sambo in my opinion.  Especially in the dark temple hall, he is almost invisible.  We can only track where he is by carefully finding the white part of his eyes.  I enviously and impatiently clap my hands for another episode of losing. 

At least Grandma Masu will take me to the pancake house next weekend.  I know I will order two slices of pancakes with a butter cube on the top.  She will say ok when I ask to order an extra amount of syrup and lemon tea.  As long as I am with Grandma Masu, I don’t really have to be Sambo to get tasty pancakes with melting butter. 

Note: In a few decades, I will learn about the controversy over the Sambo story in the multicultural literacy class in an American grad school. 

Summer Special Memoir vol. 8

Speaking of Creativity

First, in the morning, Ms. Aoki plays music from the boom box.  “Who would like to create a movement with your arms from this music?  Hiro, please come up to the front and show your movement.  Everyone, let’s copy Hiro’s movement.”  Hiro holds his arms up in the air and swings them.  All of our arms are up in the air and swung from right to left, like the wind.  Ms. Aoki is smiling, satisfied.  After that, Ms. Aoki decides who should lead the next movement. Of course, my hand is so straight and high.  My fingers are so straight that they are almost arching out the other way.  Unfortunately, the person chosen is not me.  Ayumi holds her arms up in the air, and swings from right to left.  All of our hands are once again held in the air, and swung from right to left like the wind.  “I know something different,” I blurt out with my arched hand.  “I need someone who is quiet when raising their hand,” Ms. Aoki says while avoiding my begging eye contact.  The next person is up.  Hideki holds his arms up in the air and start swaying.  “Are you nuts?” My heart screams.  I am totally tired of holding my arms up in the air and swaying. 

Looking around, quite a few hopeful “I-wanna-go-next” straight hands and “Pick-me!” eye beams are somewhat ferociously shooting at Ms. Aoki.  Finally her eyes meet with mine.  Her beautiful smile makes me extremely hopeful.  “Ok, that’s enough for today.  Let’s do this next time.”  Are you kidding me?  Ms. Aoki, you will regret it if you don’t see my special arm movement in your music!  This disappointment in Ms. Aoki would haunt me on and off through my entire pre-kindergarten career.  Does she underestimate me?  Does she expect that I will do the same stupid movement?  Ms. Aoki is the person who knows me the best, maybe even better than my parents.  Nobody could copy my completely complicated movement.  Perhaps she is afraid of what might have happened if she picked me.  Earlier experiences of betrayal, disbelief, and realization of “Life is Not Fair” have been appropriately yet painfully seeped into my veins.  Facing the reality is quite shocking and hurtful on my developing body and mind.

However, it seems like that day turned out not so bad.  A rigorously constructed clay snake and a couple of apples are showing off on the wooden clay board.  Rich is making bananas on hers, while I wonder why as I keep rolling a snake as long as it can get, my snake gets longer and longer, and skinnier.  Maybe I can make the longest snake record.  I carefully roll one side, and hold it for a second, and roll the other side so I don’t break the snake.  It becomes longer than my clay board.  I grin.  My snake could be eligible to be a noodle.  The most fun part is coming up.  I am going to coil it up around and around and make my clay typhoon roll.  I am almost there.  When my snake is just about to reach the world record length, Rich pushes her desk by accident.  Bang!  “Sorry!”  As Rich blurts out, my longest possible snake becomes “one” still-sort-of-long snake and “one” miserably short snake.  Instantly, my dream breaks into pieces.  With my frustration, I decide to put two snakes together to make a hideous ugly rock which nobody makes. 

“Raise your hand if you make some animals?”  Ms. Aoki asks.  Someone shows her a mediocre snake proudly.  “Wow, I have never seen such a long snake before!”  Ms. Aoki exclaims.  That snake is not even half as long as mine.  I am about to show my world longest snake and realize that I instead have a horrifically ugly boulder.  Unfortunately, I totally ruined the only proof of the world record longest snake.  It ends up being an unrecognizable humongous boulder.  It is very pathetic that I am so close to get the whole spotlight, yet I am not quite close enough.  Maybe I have to wait for my spotlight moment until the school bus ride home.

We take off our art smocks and hook them up.  My penmanship notebook is ready on my desk.  I am anxious to open my notebook because I just couldn’t make the Hiragana letter “Ne” very well last time.  I erased it several times, tried more than 10 more times, and then time was up.  Nervously, I turn my pages to get to the “Ne” page.  I can easily find the page that is crumpled from being erased a million times.  To my surprise, my “Ne” letter box is filled with red ink marked by Ms. Aoki.  Not once, but over and over and over.  It is clear evidence of her agony over the simple letter “Ne”.  I am so confused about which line she means for me to trace.  Soon my eyes catch the brand new red ink letter “Ne” outside of the box.  Her accomplishment finally appears.  She finally wrote her best “Ne” after several struggles in my practice box.  Thanking her effort, I consciously trace Ms. Aoki’s accomplished “Ne”.  Then, I do mine just like hers outside of the box although I know she is not going to look at this page any more. 

Ms. Aoki always wears a greyish dark blue smock along with the fellow lady teachers.  Mr. Principal always wears a well ironed white shirt and a tie without a jacket.  He shaves his head every day because his other job is as a monk in his temple.  This means he must wear “Kesa” for funerals, burial services, and other temple related activities.  It is kind of like Superman or Spiderman’s life.  Nobody knows the other half of his secret life.  Technically, my pre-kindergarten is a small private Buddhist school where its temple becomes the convenient assembly hall. 

Summer Special Memoir vol. 7

Tight Rain Boots

This particular Wednesday morning sky makes my heart gloomy.  The sky is about to cry using its heavy and dark clouds.  The Cream Sandwich and the Typhoon Roll are not available today, yet it’s still dry outside.  My heart sinks deeply because the moist, yet dry air equals wearing my ugly and tight boots.  My breakfast toast is repeatedly dunked into my sweetened tea, then mindlessly sucked in my mouth.  “Your bus is here.  Hurry up!”  The private Buddhist preschool elephant-shaped bus is patiently waiting for me outside, making a rumbling noise.  My body doesn’t want to move as my mother wants me to because of my rain boots curse.  Should I slip on my regular shoes, run into the bus, and ignore the consequence?  More than enough embarrassment would wait for me if my mother followed me into to the bus with my rain boots in her hands.  She might yell at me, “Don’t you dare to do that again!” 

There is a particular flashback memory in my mind.  When my mother didn’t allow me to wear my favorite creamy white cotton dress, I wore it anyway and escaped from the second floor window.  Going through the veranda, I was free and did not anybody in my family.  It turned into the situation into double trouble. First, I wore something I wasn’t supposed to.  Second, I crawled out like a thief.  My blood will freeze instantly, if I sneak out again, just like last time.  Any potentially miserable scenario should be avoided. 

Reluctantly sitting on the edge of the entrance, my hands grab my boots.  My toes are straight like a ballet dancer so that that they can fit into my boot.  Then, both edges of the left boot are tightly pulled with incredible force.  My feet wiggle into the depth of the boots, trying to show maximum effort.  Thud!  My body flips and rolls backward.  “Do I have to wear my rain boots?”  My mother’s voice falls on my head, “Stop goofing around!  Your bus is waiting for you!”

Four minutes later, a grumpy little girl with tight boots finally steps into the elephant bus.  “Good Morning,” Mr. Principal, the driver, brightly greets.  The bus guide teacher of the week is Ms. Asada.  As soon as Ms. Asada’s smile appears on her face, my bluest thought magically blows away.  The very important morning school bus routine awaits me.  All the jokes from the monthly kid’s magazine are beautifully stored in my brain from the night before.  Telling these excellently selected jokes is an urgent task.  It should be done before I forget.  These jokes are all approved of by my sharp sense of humor. A stand-up-comedy routine is performed just for the bus guide, as if the jokes are my original.  At age four, I am so proud of being able to select a few sensational ones from a couple dozen of jokes.  Since no one acknowledges me or my talent, an overly assertive approach is necessary to get the spotlight on me.  Quite simply, recognition is what I deserve.  Sorry to the original copyright holder, but “the show” is mine. These exceptional jokes are selected by my sharp intelligence.  In addition, who expects that a four-years-old girl could “site” an information source?  To show a clearer picture, an innocent and attention craving four-year-old kid has been talking non-stop until the bus started rolling into the school gate. 

A few seconds before my last joke, the bus arrives at school.  Darn it!  The rest of the joke is up in the air until I go home.  Fortunately my pre-kindergartener’s devastation will not last long. A series of busy activities can distract me easily.  Chances are, some of the same jokes might be repeated on the way home.  The merciful bus guide teacher, who is also my best audience, never mentions how many times I have repeated my jokes throughout the week.  She is kind enough to not tell other teachers about my jokes, because she knows that I am looking for a second best audience.

Kids change from their outside shoes to their inside shoes in the entrance foyer.  Every single voice and noise echoes in here.  Who is talking about what?  From the volume of the noise, a sense of all the students is evident to begin the day.  Checking the shoe shelf nervously, I wonder how many other kids wore rain boots today.  One pair almost makes me hopeful.  I pathetically admit that that pair is mine. It is not even raining today anyways.  There is too much moisture in the air, so some sprinkling will happen possibly later, according to my parents.