Saturday, January 13, 2018
Hidemi Woods, Author hr602
Over the various obstructs, I finally passed through the ticket gate and
saw my former high school teacher at the train station. I recognized
her right away and she did the same to me among the crowd of passengers
getting on and off the train although we hadn’t seen each other in
decades. Even before we exchanged greetings, our hands were squeezed in
one another’s. We settled in a cafe in front of the station. The long
gap dissipated instantly and we were talking as we had been in a high
school classroom. We talked about what we had been doing all these years
to catch up. As I listened to her, I realized why she was a rare
teacher with whom I got along oddly well in my high school days and why I
had kept in touch with her by Christmas cards. She was a person who was
similar to me. When I talked about how I had turned my back on Japanese
music industry and moved my business to US, she easily understood. She
also once looked for a way to get out of Japan and live abroad. It
didn’t happen because her work, teaching Japanese classic literature,
wasn’t so global-oriented. Just as I’ve felt, she felt her way of
thinking and living didn’t fit well into Japanese intolerant society.
One example was that she wanted to keep and use her last name instead of
her husband’s when she got married, but the Japanese law didn’t allow
it. She had patiently waited for the new bill to be enacted, only to see
it revoked every time. She wearied of Japanese inclination to disregard
differences and couldn’t agree with implicit pressure to be the same as
a Japanese. I wasn’t sure if it was the reason but she said most of her
past students with whom she still got in touch lived abroad at one time
or other like myself. Now I knew we were alike, and we had suffered
from the same thing in the different field. She listened to me so
joyfully while I was talking about myself, but that grave fact lingered
on in my mind - I haven’t achieved anything. I had nothing to show off,
and didn’t have audacity to forge stories. What I was telling her was
all true in which there was no success. I couldn’t wipe off the thought
that I might be disappointing her, in this very moment. I had brought my
first physical book, ‘An Old Tree in Kyoto’ as a gift for her since she
was my literature teacher. I only could do that much. When I handed it
to her, she was very pleased. Actually, she was pleased so much that she
asked me to inscribe the book for her. Up until the point to meet her,
there were too many incidents I panicked at, but none of those was in
this magnitude. I seriously panicked. I had never inscribed a book
before, let alone I had never imagined that would happen to me. The day
came without any warning, out of the utter blue. I couldn’t think of
anything, and absolutely had no idea what to write. She said gleefully,
“Write something.” I froze. I just couldn’t figure out how to do it. I
tried to remember the scenes of a book signing in the movies and TV
dramas. An autograph, that was what I came up with. Sadly, I didn’t have
mine as I’m too obscure. In conclusion, I had nothing worthy to write. I
said to her apologetically, “I don’t have an autograph because I’m not
famous.” In contrast to my grave note, she replied frankly, “Oh, no, no,
I’m not asking for your autograph. That’s okay.” I was cornered. An
inscription is supposed to be meaningful because of someone’s
achievements. In my concept, it’s not what an unimportant person gives. I
noticed sweat slowly came down to my brow. I held a pen in my hand, my
book before me, still as a stone. There was no escape. It was time to
throw away all the remaining pride I had clung to and confess. “Teacher,
neither my music nor my book sells. I’ve never inscribed a book. I’m
completely nobody.” Although I uttered it on the verge of crying for
embarrassment, she gave me a vacant look as if she didn’t get what I was
talking about. “I don’t care,” she said. “I just want you to write
something on your book to commemorate this incredibly happy day of
mine.” Her eyes were twinkling with sheer joy. I made an inscription
with my trembling hand. I was too tense and nervous to remember what I
wrote. I can’t recall to date while I have a vague memory of scribbling
her name, something about remembrance of a happy reunion, the date, and
signing Hidemi Woods. What I remember vividly is the sensation I had
when I finished writing. I felt as if I had officially become an author
and that book signing was its ceremony. I handed back my book to my
teacher, weirdly confident like a different person. We said goodbye at
the ticket gate of the train station. When I was leaving, she said, “If I
were your parent, I would be very proud of my daughter.” After the
decades' gap, she taught me something again...
Labels:
Author,
autograph,
daughter,
high school teacher,
inscription,
Japan,
Japanese,
Kyoto,
singer-song writer,
US
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