Japan Part 1: Math is Universal

       My high school split after freshman year. Right down the middle. The administration called us all to the auditorium and gave our class a choice to make. Stay or go. They built a new high school and our class could make history as the first graduating class in 2007. My impulse was to stay. My five older brothers walked these halls for years before me and I wanted to continue the Carrel Family legacy at Forest Hills Northern. My group of friends had finally accepted me after I had worked so hard to wiggle my way into their right knit circle. The disappointment came when they abruptly announced they were all leaving. As a fidgety freshmen jumping back into public school after attending a charter school, I was grateful for these new friends. But a tidal wave of excitement took them away to the new school, and I was left alone. I opened an empty locker to begin from scratch, again. But three years later, I walked down graduation aisle with Shizuka Horii. 

       I walked into Health Class as a junior wondering just how awkward this was going to be. The teacher stood up front, same height as most of the students or even shorter. She had a butch haircut, a FHN baby blue sweatshirt and gym teacher windbreakers. I sat at a table in the back and peered around. I noticed a girl two rows in front of me. She had dark hair and school supplies ready. Something in me told me that we shouldn’t both have to sit by ourselves, so I grabbed my bag and moved to join her, giving a weak “Yay-health class” smile. 

       Shy. Quiet. No- silent. Thin shoulders held her striped sweater on and long necklaces draped down her unassuming size four frame. Adorable. Her coarse Japanese hair had slight brown highlights, layered, kissing her shoulders. Her sweet face shone flawless Asian skin. 

       Tomodachi means “friend” in Japanese and it was one of the first words she taught me. After our measly health worksheets, we had nearly half an hour to dive into her other homework. She didn’t need any help with math because “Numbers are the same in Japan.” But her thick books stressed her to the limit as her English slowly gained legs and could support her. I taught her silly English phrases and she taught me Japanese, complete with scrawled drawings from both of us. She told me about her family, and how her Mom prohibits chocolate so she doesn’t gain weight. This seemed ridiculous to me because Shizuka raved in a note to me at one point, “I love you more than chocolate!’’ She told me how much she fought with her sister Aoi, and what each of their names mean in Japanese. She was surprised to hear that we buy our siblings Christmas presents.  I taught her knock-knock jokes. I always gave out hugs without knowing any different but her reaction was usually limp. Eventually she candidly said, “I didn’t know why you hugged me. In Japan- we don’t do that.”

       Shizuka’s athleticism was pretty much non-existent. She wanted to learn- so every Wednesday when Health Class traveled to the gym for an hour, we played different sports. And by “played sports”, I mean I would tell her the basic idea, kick or throw the ball, and watch her hand-eye coordination take over. It was comical. It was on those days that her fun personality shone through as she delighted in trying something new and different. She cried out “Keeeemu!” And laughed with child-like glee.

       Shizuka was an amazing artist. For a drawing assignment, she asked me for pictures of myself playing the piano. After the assignment was graded, she gave me the beautiful drawing in vibrant color. My blonde hair lay casual in a spikey ponytail, my blue-tipped fingers dancing on the piano keys. It took my breath away and she told me to keep it. She won numerous awards and was accepted into an art school in Chicago. Our handwritten notes to each other contain her broken English sentiments with Christmas trees, Snoopy, small animals and cute designs sketched on the sides of every letter. Maybe she was bored in class, or just doodling. But in every note she wrote “I love you!” I was her best tomodachi, the greatest American friend she ever had. I often talked with her about my faith and asked a missionary from my church if she could find a Japanese Bible for her. I gave it to Shizuka with some of my favorite verses on a bookmark. I didn’t know she would need such comfort so soon.

       In the Fall of our senior year, she was crying by our side-by-side lockers one day as I approached to drop off my textbooks. I had never seen her cry. “My father is in hospital- he had car accident.” He was in bad shape. She shook in my arms and I knew she needed me then more than she ever had before. My mom took me to the hospital and we walked into the large room. His hospital blanket was draped above his thigh and Mom quickly pulled it down to cover his lower body. “He’d die a thousand deaths if he knew.” He wasn’t awake. Tubes, machines, eyes closed. A little older lady came in to meet us. Her face was sweet and I hugged her, wanting to ask her why she doesn’t let her daughter eat chocolate. She was happy to see us and her smile was pure joy and surprise. She thanked us for coming, but did not know much English. 

       It took him weeks to recover, but he got to go home and resume his normal life and job. Shizuka was so relieved. She told me that she had been reading the Bible that I had given her during this difficult time when she was so worried about her dad. She thanked me, saying Psalm 56:3 really helped her. “When I am afraid, I will trust in you.”

       Sometime during the drudgery of a the school year, she gave me a blue photo album with brown leather accents and told me that it would hold our pictures in it after we go to Japan together. I looked at her like with obvious negativity and shock. Why was she assuming this? Does she know she’s crazy or does she need me to tell her? “Shizuka, I don’t like fish!” She had heard this excuse before, but her persistence was admirable. She invited me to Japan constantly; In our notes back and forth, at our daily locker visits, and when she gave me the photo album. I wasn’t interested in going halfway around the world to visit a culture I knew nothing about. It was her country. Her family. Her sushi. I didn’t have a legitimate excuse, but I denied her pleadings. She wrote me a note: “Pray God and ask Him.” She was sneaky, using my faith against me. 

       It took almost a year, but she finally convinced me that they eat more than fish and I surprised her with a dozen questions and then an eventual “Yes!” We planned for June of 2007, the summer before I left for college. I would fly there by myself and stay for 13 days. 

       “Mom, I can’t do this. They asked me how old I am, and I think I gave them the wrong answer.” I stared at the runway and then my shaky hands, obviously not thinking clearly. I transformed from a graduated adventurous young lady to a scared little girl. I wanted to pee my pants at the thought of traveling by myself to a place where A-Z didn’t exist, just symbols and mass-confusion. My younger brother Jeff took the phone from my Mom. “Kim, do you want to see Shizuka?” I hesitated at his brash tone of voice. “Yeah...” “Then stop being a wimp and get on that plane. You can do this!” My tears dried in relief at the loving exhortation of my brother. My jelly legs walked me through the gate and I got on the plane. I roamed in the darkness of the “overnight” flight when we were soaring over the Pacific Ocean and met a friendly college kid. He wrote me a list of common words and calmed my fears. I landed with his scrawled list in hand and eyes scanning for my tomodachi. 

Related: Japan Part 2: Shizuka, Sushi and Strange Showers

Japan Part 2: Shizuka, Sushi and Strange Showers

       Nijon. That is the name of Shizuka’s home country that we call Japan. When I landed I didn’t have too much time to worry about where to go or how to exchange my US dollars. Shizuka’s face of an angel appeared and though my bag was heavy on my back, the initial challenge was behind me. I hugged my tour guide.
       Arriving in a new place evokes a wonder like no other. I became a sponge, soaking up the busy city of Osaka. I flew out of Grand Rapids to Detroit on Sunday afternoon, spent the night in the air, and landed in Japan on Monday as the sun was setting. My ears heard Japanese jibberish of Shizuka and her friend. I was numb with 17-hour flight jet-lag and the sheer fact that I was halfway across the world with one solitary acquaintance.
We settled temporarily into a tiny apartment with a strange bathroom. A red bucket was to be turned upside down to sit on as a hand-held stream was under my control. The next morning we commenced the walking. I mean, activities. Oh how my dear feet did ache. We strolled for hours through markets filled with fish, rice, octopus and delicious-sizzling meat on a stick. We rode subways and I became great friends with “Udon.” It was a warm, buttery bowl of noodle soup that was my favorite choice instead of raw fish or shrimp with eyeballs still hanging on for dear life.

Shizuka mapped out our itinerary for the two week trip. We spent a rainy day at Universal Studios with two of her friends- Naoko and Haruna. Her smiles were often, her English conversation with me bright and silly. She was home and I came with her. Her happiness added a beauty to her already-adorable face. Her friends Naoko and Haruna whipped out their English dictionary and shyly asked me proper-staged textbook questions. Sometimes they were bold, sometimes embarrassed to practice their broken English aloud.
We wandered around rainy Universal Studios, riding rides and chatting. A welcome break in a covered area rested my newly-sore legs. Shizuka bought us some harmless looking potato/fried bite sized snacks. I looked at it, knowing I was in foreign territory and asked what it was. “I will tell you after you eat it. It’s good! Try it!” She looked suspicious but I felt brave. I popped it in and looked around to hear what my taste buds were whispering. A little chewy. Warm. Not bad. She smiled, “It is an octopus tentacle in the middle. Just a small one. But it’s good, right?” A warm tootsie-roll octopus-pop. Wonderful. Before the two weeks were done, I tried cow intestine – (a little stringy and very chewy) and cow tongue- (tough meat but good). We ate rice and egg omelet dishes with ketchup on top, vegetable and fried egg roll crispy appetizers. We sat on the ground at some restaurants and used chopsticks all the time. I got pretty good at it, except when I stabbed my chopsticks straight up in the middle when I was finished with my lunch one day. Shizuka hurriedly took them out. “That is very bad. Don’t do that.” Whoops.
The most amazing meals I have ever delighted in were at the Japanese tables. A skillet is built into the middle of the table and the raw meat is placed on separate dishes, cold and pink. The sizzles begin and the rice is dished into bowls, as well as a soy sauce mixture in a smaller bowl. I can almost taste the bursting, juicy meat and sauce in my mouth once again. So incredible. Shizuka was right when she spent months convincing me to come to her country. “The food is so good. We eat more than fish! I promise!” I brought sauce home with me but couldn’t create a twin experience for my family. Shizuka taught me how to eat rice with chopsticks. I was doing it wrong- adding sauce to the rice and making it slide off my chopsticks instead of leaving the sticky rice clumped together on top of a bed of two thin chopsticks. She worked patiently with me as I adjusted to the temporary normal I found myself in.

It was the first weekend since I had arrived on Monday. I already had a preview of her bunch of friends at a dinner buffet on Tuesday. We took a million pictures, and it was the first time I realized everyone flashed the peace sign around for every picture and the photographer would say “hai-chizu!” it is similar to the way we say “Cheese!”  I rode on the back of Shizuka’s bike in a long pink skirt, defying traffic and dark skies to meet her friends. I knew the beach weekend with her four friends was going to be wild because it started out with playing on the railroad tracks while we waited for our train to take us to the beach cottage. (That may have been my idea). Mountains soared all around us and Shizuka had shown me the water-soaked rice fields on the way there. We giggled and ran around like old friends, even though they had just met me and I didn’t know ANYTHING they were saying. I could understand why Shizuka was so happy though, and I knew we were going to have some fun.
We played on the beach and wandered along the shore, built a sand castle with tunnels that met in the middle where we all clasped hands and tried to take pictures. The girls got right to work with the skillets and hot pads, whipping out delicious meats, rice and soup for dinner. We ate from one big middle platter and I felt like an adopted and very welcome friend.

The next day we were a bit hung over after the giddy Saturday we had. We visited a mountain tourist attraction and rode individual ski lifts up to the top. I heard the loudspeaker bark something in Japanese, and Shizuka jerked her head towards me and yelled. “He says you have to stop shaking the seat back and forth.” Whoops. Good thing I had a translator.
We got back to town and said goodbye to her friends. Shizuka and I had a lot of time to walk and explore Japan as simple friends enjoying the summer together. We went shopping, visited a museum, and paraded around arcades full of fun photo booths. We climbed in together, snapped a few fun pictures and then doctored them up on the screen with stickers and words and colorful silliness.
Her brother’s friend chauffeured us around to botanical gardens and Buddhist temples tucked near the mountains of Kyoto. We saw glorious flowers, coy fish and bamboo gardens. We dined in restaurants, were given warm washcloths to cleanse our hands before devouring the delicious meat and rice that I had come to love. He had smooth Asian skin and spikey hair. She kept whispering to me how cute he was and I nodded in agreement. She blushed when they talked, always a turn of a grin on her young lips.
       As the blissful older guy left, her cousin took his place. He was goofier, tall with black-rimmed modern glasses, preppy clothes and a smile that took up his whole face. He couldn’t have been much older than us and he had a lot of fun with Shizuka. They talked and laughed and I stared at my surroundings, enjoying the foreign yet peaceful hours lapsing around me. But when we drove home as the darkness fell, my warm fuzzies for our tour guide disappeared. The trek home brought us through winding back country mountain highways. I gripped the seat in terror. His laughing and jovial conversations with Shizuka quickly felt hazardous to me as I sat quietly in the middle backseat. The speed of his little car revved higher and my fear became paralyzing. I pictured the worst and entertained the awful idea of literally flying off a cliff. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the road- unlike the driver who constantly looked back and forth to talk with Shizuka. I watched the headlights dance up and down the pavement and wished he would slow down a bit. The nausea only stopped when he returned us safely to the home for the night. I said “Arigato” but what I really meant was, “You almost drove us off a mountain, you reckless hooligan!”
Our last four days were spent in Shizuka’s cousin’s beautiful home. Shizuka’s aunt and uncle- Obasan and Ojisan- attended to us in every way. A windy staircase brought us to our own large bedroom upstairs, and the bathroom was on the first floor. Their fancy toilet had a button on the side that sprayed water. I asked Shizuka about it, and she delicately explained its use for “extra cleaning.” The bathtub was filled to the brim with hot water every night, and a covering protecting the steam from sneaking out. I was getting used to taking “showers” while sitting on the bucket and single-handedly washing off with the sprayer. I still needed practice. The tub’s purpose was for after your shower, but I wasn’t brave enough to climb in, knowing others would come after me.
Her aunt and uncle were generous and kind, and I wanted to bottle up their hospitality and take it with me. Her aunt was warm and inviting, and scurried around caring for us. Her uncle was stoic but kind in his own way by his mere presence. Their daughter lived with them, and she was more of a bundle of energy and a powerful presence. She was ready to go shopping as the morning sun rose every day. Her long hair thinned on its way down from the crest of her hair and bangs to the curling-iron doll-like tips. She had an itty-bitty waist and her thick makeup made her look like a Japanese princess, but she acted more like a queen. It was as if she always woke up that way. I could tell she was hard to keep up with.
We arrived late afternoon and hauled our luggage upstairs. Shizuka’s family had put together a full-blown oriental dinner for us. Shizuka feared the worst when she saw what they had been working so hard on. She looked cautiously at me before we sat down to eat.

Sushi.

       A pit grew in my stomach when they placed a fancy wooden tray in front of me, four inches tall, lined with two rows of sushi and one lonely cooked piece of fish. I hated at that moment that I was a picky eater, and in all of my time in Japan- this was the very worst moment. I was nauseas. I didn’t know what to do, because there was no other food on the table. Everyone had sushi. Everyone else was excited to eat their sushi. But they all stared at me. Sushi is meant to be eaten in one full bite and I saw no utensils.  I couldn’t cut it into smaller pieces to pick out the rice, tackling it in portions. I had no way out. I stared and stared until I couldn’t prolong the inevitable a moment longer. My stomach refused and I felt childish. I figured I could at least handle the cooked fish, even though I refused to eat fish even in America. The exterior was gray and slimy, barely cooked. I missed home more in that moment than ever before. I could feel their eyes on me, but tears filled mine and I couldn’t even bear the texture of the fish in my mouth. I gagged and barely swallowed my first bite. I looked to Shizuka on my left and said, “I’m sorry” and went upstairs to be homesick all by myself.
On a trip overseas, there is bound to be a breaking point, and that was mine. Not being able to communicate fully, walking miles each day, relying on Shizuka for everything constantly, learning and practicing strange ways of showering/eating/culturing. The sushi set down in front of me in love wasn’t something I wanted to reject. But it was and unappetizing surprise and I just had to push it away. Shizuka explained to me later that they wanted to show me a true Japanese welcome, and she had no idea. I laid down and let the tears escape safely, knowing the night of rest would heal me.
The dinners following that episode were some of the most creatively delicious foods ever created! I was stunned by the perfection and flavor of all the meats, sauce, eggrolls, potato dishes and desserts. I poured out my thanks incessantly to make up for the first night. Their faces lit up when I said “Oishi!” with such enthusiasm. Delicious!
Shuzuka’s cousin took us to a place near the mountains where they make paper. A short Japanese man led us around and instructed us each step of the way. We held large wood templates in a basin of water and shook it side to side for sixty seconds. It was a thick gluey substance and the frame hung heavy in our thin arms. The guide lifted out the large brown frame and set it out to dry. The water settled and the pulp thickened. We used color dye to decorate our paper and we proudly took them home to show off. We had made paper and it was strangely empowering.
      While shopping, Shizuka helped me pick out a brightly colored Yukata. It was a lighter, summer-version of a kimono. We stood in her aunt’s room as she helped us wrap the cloth around us and tied the thick band around our waists. Shizuka and I pinned our hair up and giggled as if it were Prom night. They brought me wooden sandals that platformed my 5’5’’ self two inches taller. We struggled down the stairs and walked to a nearby bar to show off our traditional clothing to her friend. I waddled in the long-tight robe and felt very un-oriental. Shizuka looked beautiful and we strode together in our fancy garb down the sandy streets. It seemed very fitting to end our trip in the traditional clothes of her country. The country I visited for a short minute but would remember forever.
       Three years later, I flew to Chicago for Spring Break to visit Shizuka months before getting married. I knew our time was short. She lived in a tiny studio apartment and talked about how much she didn’t like to cook. Fashion school was hard and the girls were quite witchy. She pulled out a long blue evening gown that she had made, shocking me with a gift of her talent once again. It was funky and silky and strange and gorgeous because she made it with her own two fashionista hands. She projected a picture on the wall and we sketched together. I cleaned her kitchen and we walked Navy Pier and saw a movie. It was so refreshing to be in our American/Japanese tandem again. It was our last time together. She gave me mascara. “It’s so snowy and windy and rainy all the time, I can only wear waterproof.” I smiled. Her eyes looked tired, and I could tell she couldn’t wait to get back to Japan. She liked our French fries and had learned a valuable tool- English. But her heart belonged in her country. She said, “I want to get married and be Mom.” Now she is, and she’s home. She is married with an adorable little girl and a baby boy on the way. I miss all those special things about her and wonder if I will ever see her again.

Shizuka gifted me with her friendship, an intangible feeling of love and acceptance at all times. She showered me with kind words on a daily basis and trusted me with her tears. Her sweet demeanor put me at ease in the rough waves of uncertain high school teenage seas. We supported each other. We taught each other. We ignored the opposites of our culture and embraced the common thread of true friendship. We pushed through the barriers of language and misunderstanding to braid a beautiful, unique relationship.
I never thought the blue and brown leather photo album she gave me would actually be filled with photos of my little white self amidst a sea of Asian mountains and smiling oriental faces. She won me over. She brought me to her world and home safe again. She pried open my eyes to the beauty beyond my front door, and no price can be found for that. I wonder if my high school class hadn’t split in two and I lost all my friends… would I have noticed Shizuka? My friendship with her didn’t make me popular. But giving up ten friends for one Shizuka was worth it, and if I had to go back… I’d stay for her.

Related: Japan Part 1: Math is Universal