Chapter 1: Narita
We were just two typical kids. It’s pretty much the standard story that you’ve never heard. Two young teenagers that were forced to move to Japan for whatever reason. We were called “third culture kids,” and the title never meant anything to us. All we knew was this life. A life of travel and adaptation. Tokyo was our canvas. We were tossed a few crayons and told, “Color it as you will.” So we did. We didn’t choose Tokyo, perhaps Tokyo in all of its glam and glitter chose us. We were just characters you know. We always knew it. Somewhere lingering between two green taxis or on a subway platform was the film crew. They would monitor our every conversation and cue the perfect soundtrack that would fit the scene just right. Lost in Translation had not come out yet. Who was Bill Murray anyway? We were the kid versions and we had no idea. We weren’t lost, we were just… there.
I guess I’ll start with me. I was living out the American childhood. Basketball on several select teams, skateboarding on the weekends, and fishing whenever the opportunity came. My father had gotten a job in Tokyo. It was a great job I was told, but 13 year olds don’t usually think in terms of financial benefits. They think about 13 year old things that primarily centered around friends. I was born in Kichijoji and spent one year there. Just enough to say I was born there, but not enough to have it rub off on me. It was mostly a cool thing to say. I was hip. I got the Power Ranger action figures before anyone on my block knew it was a thing. I was the future baby. Pokemon? That’s old. I was American enough to fit in, and foreign enough to stand out.
My father was born and raised in Japan. My American grandparents were missionaries there which led to his perfect Japanese. He met my mother at a jazz club in Tokyo. It happened to be owned by my mother’s father- a professional jazz arranger. I was told it was quite the happening place. They fell in love, got married, and had two children. My sister and I. We lived in a tiny apartment in Tokyo. Tokyo tiny and American tiny are two different things. Very different things. We moved to Washington State when I was still a baby and that’s that. Seattle was my home. Japanese was spoken in my house. My mother learned english and started her life here. We would visit every now and then to Tokyo, but I would have never guessed coming home from my middle school to hear the news.
“We have some news to share with you. I’ve accepted a job in Tokyo and we’ll be moving by the end of the year.” I could see their disappointment as they studied my face.
“Okay, so you guys are going to Tokyo. What are we going to do?” I admit I was having my “emo” years. Thirteen at the turn of the century was all about listening to New Found Glory and Dashboard Confessional. We were all about our feelings.
“Well… You two are coming with us.” In all honesty, I don’t remember much after that. Maybe I slammed a door. Maybe I did the Japanese thing and curtly smiled a dishonest smile and dealt with it internally. I struggled with both reactions.
They ended up not caring enough that I wanted to stay. I wasn’t wearing eyeliner or anything. Nothing too “My Chemical Romance.” I was just content with staring out windows while listening to whatever was popular on my walkman. Yes, it was from Japan. All of my cool gadgets were. I studied the shapes of the clouds as somewhere in the sky we crossed the hidden boundaries between the United States and Japanese air. And there we were. Narita Airport already felt completely foreign and we weren’t even out of the building. The woman over the intercom would softly, yet very professionally, describe where we were to pick up our bags. I was trying to wear my depression like a heavy coat draped over my shoulders that slouched by its weight.
“It’s not that bad.” My dad was frustrated that I went out of my way to show my remorse. I will always remember Japan by one distinct smell and feeling. It’s hard to describe, but that day was the first out of many times that the sliding doors would open to the outside air and instantly you’d feel a thick warmth engulf you as if it were desperately hungry. The smells were of cigarettes, gas from the tailpipes of taxis, and hot concrete. It’s strange that I look back in fondness to such a smell. I gasped at the time. I thought I knew what heat was but I quickly found out that I had no idea.
Everything was different. Concrete on concrete. Skyscrapers towered over us like we were to be pitied. Lights poured into every corner of a window if you let it. Taxis and buses filed to and from their destinations like clockwork. The city itself was a giant clock.
“Get your train ticket and don’t stop the line. Have your money out before the bus stops so you don’t stop the line. Don’t just bend down and tie your shoe or else you’ll stop the line.” My father instructed me in my new life. Everything ran perfectly. I could not spot a conductor, just a giant orchestra that knew how to play each song in synch. I was the new bandmate that had to find my place in the song.
We didn’t own a car. We didn’t need one. Everything was centered around a massive train line that could take you literally anywhere. No longer was I hopping into our minivan to go to whoever’s house. I had to learn how to study each sign of kanji I could not read. Thousands poured into the streets all entirely sure as to where they were going. Except for me. I didn’t want to be here. I just showed up and was forced to figure this thing out.
I didn’t want to think about school. My friends were in Seattle doing Seattle things. Playing Seattle games. Speaking the Seattle language. Here I was getting lost in a department store trying to find the exit. Why are these things so big? Yen was new to me. I tried to calculate how much things cost. Everything seemed to be more expensive and smaller. The cashiers would read the total and politely smile as I struggled to find the right coins and bills. I was the typical foreigner but I lived here now. I wasn’t just passing through. My house was down the road and we had a telephone number. This was my new home. I couldn’t fully comprehend that this was so.
Then the dreaded day came, and oh how I dreaded it. I was a drama king if you ever saw one. “I will not, under any circumstance, enjoy myself,” I muttered the mantra as I took a deep breath and got off my stop. Our school was tiny. Japanese tiny. It was composed of international kids from all backgrounds. Our particular school was made up of a combination of missionary kids as well as business kids. MK’s and BK’s as they were called. I guess I was a BK who originated from an MK and now was a TCK. I don’t know. I didn’t do labels well. I was just here to clock in and clock out.
Everyone was friendly. Too friendly for my taste. They’d approach me to introduce themselves and I scoffed at them like a kid too cool to care. I was a jerk. I didn’t know it but now I do. I strutted in with my studded belt, ripped skate shoes, and brand new jacket. Bought in America. When the bell would ring, I jetted back to the station making sure to not talk to anyone. I rushed home, threw off my bag, and would cross off another day on the calendar. One more day closer to my days back in Seattle.
Days went on like this. I wasn’t budging. More music blared through my headphones that I purchased at Parco down the street. I made friends with some Japanese college students down my road. They were all skater punks like me. Polite, respectable, skater punks. They taught me slang that my mother thought was funny. They welcomed me in because… I don’t know why. I just knew that these were my friends. Not anyone from school, that is, until a peculiar boy named Ben showed up.
We only had 45 kids in our class so when someone “shows up,” it’s not at all casual. I had come into class early from lunch because what else was there to do? I was often the first one. Sitting outside will get you talked to. To my surprise sat another body in the room. He didn’t look up. Perhaps he was unaware of my presence. I quietly sat in the back of class awaiting the moment when dozens would show up through those doors. Happy, friendly, middle schoolers anxious to talk about everything and anything. He was long and lanky. His shoulder jutted out awkwardly high as he bent down with his pen in hand carefully drawing something. I looked at the door and then held my head a little higher to catch what he was doodling. Dark cursive splashed onto the page. I couldn’t read a single line at my distance, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to even if he had handed me the paper. It was neat and sophisticated. His drawing on the opposite page was partly abstract but thoughtfully done. It was a spider web or something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t middle school. It wasn’t skateboards and stick figures.
He had an oversized hoodie that was clearly marked by a skateboard brand. “Okay,” I thought, “He seems pretty cool.” The crowds came in as they always did just as the bell rang. He finally looked up.
“Class this is Benjamin. He’s from Richmond, Virginia but he’s also spent some time living in Mauritius. Mauritius is an island off the southeast coast of Africa. Please make sure you make him feel at home.” And with that, the kids swarmed him just as they had done to me. He was friendlier than I.
“Good,” I thought, “I’m not the new guy.”
