Good-by, My Dear Friends hr685

 Our furniture and appliances have finished being moved into our new apartment. My partner and I were gazing at an array of our musical instruments spread all over the floor in the living room of our empty apartment.
Five synthesizers, two electric guitars, an 88-key MIDI board, two rhythm machines, three sequencers, three sound source modules, many effectors, an 8-track open reel recorder, an 8-track mixer, a 16-track mixer, a drum set and accessories. Those instruments have occupied a large space of our tiny apartment although they haven't been used for over twenty years since a computer became a dominant tool for me to make my music. Today, a person from the used instrument purchase company was coming to our apartment to make an assessment and collect them. The instruments that spent so many years with me were on standby for their last work with a  somewhat tense look.
We shared a lot of memories. It was my custom in my old days to carry several heavy instruments on foot and by train into the studio every time my band practiced and rehearsed. I input data of the arrangement I made for my song on the sequencer by staying up all night and the entire data was all gone in a flash when I tripped on the power cord toward morning that got pulled out of the outlet. Technical difficulties were rampant on the live stage since I used so many kinds of electric instruments connected to each other in place of human band members, such as no sound came out of the sequencer or unexpected sound was produced from the synthesizer, which needless to say horrified me and gave me a cold sweat each time. The instruments felt much heavier on my way home whenever I lost a contest or an audition. We had trodden together on a long, endless road of disappointment and cravings. Though I had already stopped using most of them by the time I moved into this apartment, I brought them anyway by paying costly moving expenses because I was too attached to them to let them go.
For this move, however, I decided not to bring them to my new apartment. I was no longer my past self who had desperately coveted success as a band or had focused too much on writing songs and recording them without sleep until I harmed my health. As I grew older and accumulated more experiences, I came to understand things and be mature. That helped me sort out my feelings. I felt it was time to take the next step of my life, thus time to leave my instruments.
Looking back, not all the memories we shared were bitter. There were fond memories as well. An extremely hopeful feeling that I had when I got a new instrument with all the money I saved by working for months on my part-time job. An indescribable satisfaction I obtained when I got the best take after redid recording hundreds of times. Heavenly bliss I felt when I listened to my completed song after a long period of time of making. After all those years, I finally realized how happy I had been and how valuable my experiences were.
The person who came to our apartment from the used instrument purchase company was a young man who undoubtedly wasn't born yet when I bought these instruments. He carefully looked into each of them to decide the price. When he was done, he asked, "Why are you selling them?" My partner replied, "We make music with a computer now and don't use them anymore." Then he said to my partner and me, "It's so wonderful that you have been making music all the way together."
The price he offered was far higher than we had expected. While we didn't have much income from our music no matter how hard we strove with those instruments, they earned a good sum of money for us at the very end. We helped him load the sold instruments onto his van and saw them off. I was a little sad, but somehow refreshed and cleared at the same time. And that made me feel like our new life had just begun.

 

The Umbrella hr681

 I was about to leave the beauty salon for the supermarket across from it when there suddenly came a downpour. It rained heavily enough to whiteout everything around. Some people were dashing toward the supermarket soaking wet instantly. I pulled out a folding umbrella from my bag. In my school days, my grandmother would never forget to say, “Have you got an umbrella?” whenever I was leaving the house, rain or shine. That has made it my habit to carry a folding umbrella wherever I go regardless of the weather forecast to this day.

When I was a high school student, I went to school by local bus. I needed to transfer the bus on the way because the school I went to was far from my home. One day, while I was transferring and waiting for the bus at the bus stop, a heavy rain started to fall. The bus stop was on the street and had no roof. I stuck my hand into my school bag for a folding umbrella, then remembered that morning at home. Since it shined brightly and I felt it bothersome to go get my folding umbrella, I lied to my grandmother’s daily confirmation for once and said yes though I didn’t have it in my bag. As it sometimes happens, it never rains but it pours. I wasn’t carrying an umbrella on that particular day. Learning how right my grandmother had been, I was bracing myself to get drenched. Then, it stopped raining all of a sudden. To see what happened, I looked up. There was an umbrella above my head. And I saw a girl who was about my age and wearing a uniform of a different school standing close to me. I hadn’t noticed she was also waiting for the bus and stepped closer to me to let me share her umbrella when it started raining. It was her umbrella that covered me.

I had been a bad person under the influence of my mother. She was all vanity and cared only how she looked to others. She made me go to the most privileged school in the area based on her values. She believed which school they went to decided people’s rank. After I actually enrolled in that private school, I found out that other students thought in the same way as my mother did. As I was too weak to defy it, I went with the flow and soon adapted that kind of ranking myself. Each school had its own uniform by which the school a student went to could be identified. I was sporting my uniform of the elite school to show that I belonged to the upper class. Most Japanese students use public transportation to school. The students of my school including me were snobbish and overtly despised other schools’ students when we were riding the local bus together on our way to and back from school. We cold-shouldered and ignored the students of the lower rank schools as if they had been invisible. Accordingly, other schools’ students apparently hated us because of our attitudes. As a result, an inamicable, tense atmosphere was created whenever we shared public transportation. The girl who held out her umbrella for me was wearing a uniform of one of those schools that we had been looking down on.

My mother’s mantra had been that everything people do was nothing but for gain, which had inevitably inhabited my mind for a long time since my childhood. But here she was, a stranger who was getting drenched half of her body by giving up half of the cover for me. Even though she had recognized from my uniform that I was one of those pretentious students of the privileged school, she didn’t gloat over my misery. Her expression wasn’t patronizing at all, but rather apologetic as if she expected that I would consider help from a lower rank school’s student as an insult and reject it with anger. I was flurried by an umbrella offered without gain. It proved my mother’s mantra was wrong, my friends’ attitudes were wrong, and I was wrong. I thanked her and we waited for the bus together silently under one umbrella. And we separated into each other’s friends as usual when the bus arrived. Only, now that I broke an evil spell of my mother and my friends, my attitude had changed since then. I learned the school’s rank wasn’t proportionate to the students’ humanity, or rather, was inversely proportional. I greeted that girl every time I saw her and sometimes had a chat with her on or off the bus. When my friends saw me doing that, they would sneer at me saying, “Is she your friend or something?” to which I replied yes. What I didn’t explain to them was that she was my benefactor who rescued me from the evil world with her umbrella.

When I was opening my folding umbrella under the eaves of the beauty salon, I noticed a woman came out of the building, looking discouraged by the pouring rain. I thought of sharing my umbrella with her momentarily, and stopped. I’m extremely careful about helping people. Whenever an occasion arises, I muse deliberately and discreetly whether I should offer help or not because I don’t want to offend someone with my help. I imagine some people may regard it as an unwelcome favor and would rather do it by themselves. I also fear that someone takes my kindness as being looked down on. From those worries, I always try not to meddle with someone. In this case, however, I wavered because an umbrella was involved. While the encounter with the girl in my high school days popped up in my mind, I chose to stick to my way and stepped out in the downpour alone. A few steps later, the woman dashed past me in the rain. The moment I saw it, I shouted to her, “Would you get in my umbrella!?” totally unconsciously as a reflex action. She looked back in surprise and I covered her with my umbrella before she replied while I was surprised at my action myself as much as she was. We ran to the entrance of the supermarket together under one umbrella. She thanked me gratefully and disappeared into the store gleefully. Half of my body got drenched which was exactly what I had prevented by carrying a folding umbrella all those years. Although it  felt stupid to get wet by breaking my principle not to meddle with others, I felt extremely good at the same time because I looked like the girl of the umbrella, half of whose body had been drenched as I was now. I realized how deeply her deed had resided in me and how much I longed to become a person like her. 

Something Never Obsolete hr667

 There are many things that used to be common and have become obsolete now. In Japan where I was born and grew up, an analog calculator called ‘soroban’, a Japanese abacus, had been so popular and seen everywhere when I was a child. Almost every store and household had one and even the elementary school had mandatory classes for the fourth grader to teach how to use it so that students needed to buy it. Most stores in my neighborhood used it as a register. It had been a major tool to calculate until an electronic calculator appeared.

Private soroban schools were abounding accordingly. It was a common practice that students went there after school. In my neighborhood, all children who had learned the multiplication table attended the soroban school. I was one of them. The school was the teacher’s house located right next to my house which was actually part of my family’s premise that we rented him. The class was held twice a week, in which students with different grades and ages sat side by side on the floor and practised soroban on the long narrow low desks elbow to elbow.

Soroban has a national certification system that officially certifies a grade by an examination held regularly . After learning the basics, students would take the examination to get grade certification that started from the level six. The lesser the number, the higher the grade. For some reason, I was extremely good at soroban that required speed and accuracy. I was able to finger the beans on a soroban faster and more precisely than anybody else. I acquired the certification with one try straight from the level six to the level three, which made me the youngest level three holder at the age of ten. The school had never had a student who achieved that before me, and another girl named Junko. We were the same age, got in the school on the same day, and made this achievement at the same time.

Junko was the opposite of me except for skill in a soroban. She was pretty, thin, considerate, and from a poor family. She once suspended and ruined her timed session at the soroban school just to hand me tissues when I had a nosebleed next to her. When I was waiting for the soroban class to begin in front of the school with her and my mother came out of the house to hit me, she helped me run away by carrying my soroban bag and following me. She was the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle in place of my busy indifferent parents and witnessed my first-ever ride, and jumped for joy screaming “You got it! You got it!” over and over. She was such a kind girl.

After we moved on to practice for the level two examination, things had changed. The level two was a whole new game. While up to the level three the result was decided by the total marks of three subjects, which were multiplication, division and addition, the level two required above 80 marks for each subject. Digits were huge including decimals and slip addition was added as one more subject. To pass the level two, we had to score above 80 in all these four subjects. The teacher told Junko and me to brace ourselves for difficulty ahead because we wouldn’t pass with one try from here as we had done so far. He was right. Both of us failed the examination for the first time. Then we had stuck there for over a year by failing three times more in a row. Although we had been on a losing streak, we were looked up to at school because nobody there had ever passed the level two and we were the only students who were trying for it. But gradually, people around us had had an interest in our rivalry since we had progressed in sync. They began to whisper about which one of us would pass the level two first, which had incited competition against Junko in me while we were best friends. Since I was regarded as the top student there with Junko close behind me, I felt I should pass before her. My mother also started to demand that I should, out of her vain. I had been under more and more pressure so that I became convinced I must have beat her on the next try.

On the day of the examination, I planned to have a warm-up before heading for the examination site by having my father time my calculation of the four subjects. Junko was going to drop by my house to go with me. However, I didn’t have enough time to finish all four timed subjects before she came because I overslept. I would have to do without a complete warm-up. My mother jumped on my decision fiercely and ordered me to finish a thorough warm-up. I explained that Junko would come before I finished. “I will make her wait,” my mother said, “Ignore her! You’ve just got to pass this time!” I was constrained to start calculation and I heard Junko coming in the middle of it. My mother ushered her into the dining room that was next to where I was practicing. I heard my mother talking to her to distract her attention but I knew she noticed I was practicing by the sound of soroban beans and my father’s voice of “Start!” and “Stop!” for timing. She was sitting at the table quietly sipping tea and listening to my mother’s gab. I imagined how much she wanted to practice too, instead of wasting valuable time before the examination just by waiting for me. When I finished a warm-up and saw her face in the dining room, guilt assaulted me furiously. We left for the examination together and she didn’t mention about my warm-up or her excruciating wait. My mother’s devious trick worked. I passed. Junko failed.

I was proven to be the best as the first level two certification holder at school. The teacher and all the students admired me. My mother seemed satisfied, but said it was her who made this happen, not me. As for me, I was all guilt. I passed by outfoxing Junko who had been incredibly nice to me all the time. Although everybody expected that I would move on to get the level one certification, I quit soroban. Junko continued, passed on the next try, and acquired the level one certification eventually.

The digital era arrived and a soroban became obsolete. People no longer used a soroban for calculation and the soroban school disappeared. It has been forgotten as time goes by. Yet, I still have an urge to scream and run away every time I remember the day of my last level two examination. Qualms and shame have never disappeared and die hard in me.

A Korean Friend hr580

The neighborhood I grew up in wasn’t so good and low-income families were everywhere. While a small hamlet that my house stood consisted of well-off families of farmers, it was surrounded by poor areas where many Korean-Japanese lived. The income difference produced chronic tension. Naturally, the tension was conveyed to school and the students were divided. When I was in sixth grade, more than half my classmates were Korean-Japanese. There was an undeniable rift between Korean-Japanese students and Japanese students including me and we didn’t mingle well. It was funny because Korean-Japanese kids were born in Japan, converted their names to the Japanese ones, spoke Japanese and looked exactly the same as Japanese, except that they were mostly shabby and sour. As a custom at school in Japan, the sixth grade takes an overnight trip. Our destination was Toba in Mie prefecture, a two-and-a-half-hour ride on an express train from Kyoto. The train had four-people booth seats and each of the students was assigned to the reserved seat according to the school roll. In my booth, I had my closest friend next to me, but sitting in the seats opposite to us were two Korean-Japanese classmates. Those two girls lived in a particularly poor area of all other Korean-Japanese areas, and I had never even passed it by or gotten close to it although it was within my neighborhood. Since I had barely talked with them at school, I felt nervous and thought the trip was already ruined by this seating. But as soon as the train departed Kyoto, what I had expected was reversed. One of the two girls sitting face to face with me began to talk about her intention of becoming an idol singer. Her name was Yukiko Kimura and she declared a plan to enter and win an audition of the idol-searching show on TV when she became fourteen. Because I also wanted to be a singer, I was drawn to her talk and we were lost in chattering. Yukiko Kimura was the youngest of seven girls in her family. Her parents had so many girls in the house that they often neglected her and called her by her other sister’s name by mistake. She said if she won the audition, she would debut by her real name to have everyone remember her name. We talked on and on and had a lot in common. We mocked our homeroom teacher and laughed heartily. Contrary to my initial expectation, we got along so well and had such a good time together on the train. When the trip was over and the school days were back, our friendship was also back to where it was. We returned to each group we belonged to and barely spoke. However, every time I reacted against our teacher and went on strike, or received punishment for that and had to stand in the hallway for a long time, Yukiko Kimura was the first one who joined me and was beside me. Years have passed and I still haven’t heard of an idol named Yukiko Kimura. But I do remember her name to this day…