Month: May 2022 (page 1 of 1)

I emerged at the ranch, on the other side from the University. There were the dotted horses in emptiness before me. The sun was still casting its ray all around. The ground had been consist of mud and gravel, though vehicles had worn it down virtually. I traced their ruts; the horses in a peaceful mood felt like a reprieve from the annoying things in my head.

There was enough space for children to play soccer. Some of the boys darted toward me, “Faster, faster, faster.” I ran with them, and then sped off rather deliberately. Although I felt like I was being chased, when I looked back they had long since cease to run and played soccer with their smiles; besides, I had overlooked the adults barbecuing over beer and reggae. Caribbean people enjoyed a happy, carefree life, unlike most Japanese, who tried far too hard.

The road in the ranch finished abruptly at its periphery. A little way ahead was a row of houses. There was a path through the jungle and among the big fruit trees, a path beaten by vehicles. I recalled an evening when I had run through it. The ranch had disappeared into darkness and I become aware that a vehicle was edging up to me, slowing to a halt.

“What are you doing?” Startled, I got caught in a branch of green plums beneath the franks of dark trees. “I’m just running, sir.” I replied to the police officer. “Look at me.” I tugged at my UNDER ARMOUR T-shirt I wore. He looked me from top to bottom and accepted that reluctantly. “You have to wear something glowing. Or else a car hit you.” I held out my left wrist. “Apple Watch shed light.” “No. Reflection,” he said sternly. Not wanting to put on what was not cool, I said, “I don’t know where to get it.” “Home Depot,” his eyes fixed to my face. “Next time, without it, take you to the police station,” he rolled his eyes and drove off. A short while later, I passed the black man running with no reflection, assimilated with darkness.

The sun had retreated now, purple layer like an hallucination loomed in a residential district full of luxurious houses, and before long I passed by a a matronly woman wearing an off-white Panama hat. “K.” I stopped, looking back, astonished. “Aisha. I didn’t notice. It’s been so long.” She looked younger than her actual age of sixty five. In Saltibus, we had hiked more than three hours a day to visit the clients until she retired. No other person in this country would be as diligent as her. I admired her wonderful energy and bright manner―she invited me to her house for lunch every work day and gave me many local fruits. “Yeah, I’m going to my daughters house. Won’t you come for dinner?” “I wish I could, but … .” I was so happy just to see her.

By the time I could see Laborie bay, where I sometimes swam, the sky was dark. I rounded the corner of the bus stop, going right along the highway with many ups and downs, past large houses hidden behind the woods. A breeze gently shook the shadowy coconut trees and some vehicles had driven past me. I would have been greeted by a soft horn of the bus driver perhaps I knew.

When I saw a pickup truck with several boys on the bed, I knew they would stare at me. “Hey, Chinese,” one of them stood up. “Ack-chooww!” he imitated Bruce Lee with his limbs; the other laughed out loud. I had at least three names in Caribbean countries. Chinese, Chinaman and Ching Chong. I no longer gave a shit, not because of what teenager said, but because everyday someone called me names.

For a while no passersby in sight, but the large trees thin out, and the Massy Stores with lights out here. The woman selling avocados was still there by it. Although I had often bought some, I did not pause and greet her. Once I asked her to sell one for four EC dollar. “Five,” she said soberly. Nevertheless, I did so one more; she resented, turning away and yelled something at a fellow worker in the distance in Creole. Since then I had never decided not to haggle, for she sold so much more delicious and bigger ones than others.

Past the Massy Stores, I had sprinted the path, which descended, the grass poking my feet. In life, there had been so much injury, and it was far from perfect. Crossing the main road toward a tunnel of trees, I did so again as if to obliterate my tracks.

Gentle palm trees rustled in the wind. Along streams stood small wooden terraced houses. Around one of them were some half-naked men, drinking beers and talking boisterously. The heavyset neighbor. I supposed. I had never been asked to join. “K. Watch out for the bricks. I’ve put them away,” he hold a Piton beer in his hand, and I thanked and treated him lightly. The friendly Caribbean people I knew was somehow lazy, unreliable, or irresponsible. 

As I was approaching my house, I could hear the distant music of Gregory Isaacs. Ahead of me, the three small kids played ball. When I came nearer, they broke into a trot. I had no choice but stop and exchanged fists―’yeah man’’―in turn with each of them. At the same time, I saw, just beyond them, stray dogs I feared might attack me.

*

I looked at the torii gate jutting out of the bay, the morning sun overhead. When the tide goes out, you can go there. Every day, I passed the elderly woman running recklessly―her shoulders stooped and her gaze forward―in her awkward movement. She looked diligent and stubborn,  however her several muscles were so lazy that her figure lacked beauty. Why could not she stop and face her own weakness? But no one would stop her because she would never stop until she could be ruined. Her self-righteousness hampered her from knowing another world.

In Japan, I was running on the island. Office workers, rushing, can not stop except at traffic lights. Runners and walkers remained impassive. However, I sensed its perfection―skyscrapers and rows of houses, shopping malls and sports facilities, hospitals and parks. No inconvenient. These modern architectures and its ground had been clean and well-maintained. But, I never felt right about its beauty, the sidewalks draining my energy.

It was easy for me to become nostalgic, and there appeared to be much interaction on an island. I had lived in a magnificent house atop a hill. Here was where I seemed to develop a complete sense of isolation myself.

l opened the door and stepped out onto the terrace. There were bricks into pieces by my feet. I was hovering in the corridor anxiously; it occurred to me I had heard a thud yesterday. A raid on my house? It could not be.

The plantains (similar to banana) was covered with overgrown trees of my garden. It had been a year since the heavyset, half-naked neighbor opened a coconut and gave me, its milk dripping down and I sucked it immediately. I supposed he neglected to take care of my house.

Here was where this house commanded the colorful houses all the way to the clear sea. This was Saint Lucia, the beautiful Caribbean island, where the hot weather all year round and the old ways did not seemed relevant, where I was trying to invent myself.

“Hey. How are you? Are you enjoying?” A woman raised her voice. I could see the woman with her kids hanging out on the veranda of the orange apartment. “Yes.” I raised my arm feeling well.

On the adjacent property, there were the large trees that were a riot of mangoes; sometimes, I climbed up to gather them. I loved eating the big, ripe mangoes. It would be very expensive to eat such luscious ones in Japan, so I had done with every meal.

Recently, I had noticed a strange black woman sitting alone on the stairs next to my house. The beggar wearing filthy dark clothes did not seem dangerous. but I turned to the door, locked, and checked again. Indeed, I could recall the homestay in Gros lslet. The front door of the house was double with four keyholes―the way of turning the key was all different―I had been unable to manage to open. Protected with iron bars were all the windows of Caribbean countries’ houses. Once inside the house, you would feel as if you were imprisoned.

It was in the early evening and I turned on my Apple Watch on my left wrist, starting to run. The road had been descending steeply; past the imposing house where the rich white man resided. And at the same time I recalled a rainy day―that I had walked under my umbrella with the heavy bags after shopping at the Massy Stores. By the time a vehicle slowed to a halt beside me, I found I managed not to stagger along. “Ride on,” said a white-haired gentleman in a BMW, who picked me up and took me home.

Past the splendid pastured horse, at the corner of the two sky-blue drums that symbolized the Caribbean sea, a cat slinked about the overflowing garbage. The road now leveled. I crossed a small bridge and into the graveled path that rose. The grass field entered the picture―several goats that moved around, palm trees waving in the wind. There was no one there. I ascended the path for a few minutes, feeling clean inside, and here―the buses ran with the blare of music like reggae―was on the main road. If you raised your hand, the driver would jam on the brakes.

The path along the main road was uneven and uphill all the way, but I had a sense that I continued to overcome small obstacles. “K,” I saw the vehicle pulling up beside me; stopped running. “Everything is okay?” She was my colleague and on her way home. The aloneness of me would have made her worry. “Thank you. I’m all right.” “If you have anything, ask me. Okay?” she drove away and I felt light.

At the next bend, I was greeted by a black sign marked “GUINNESS” on the huge billboard; I would enjoy drinking it after running. To the left appeared Health Sciences University where the doctor next door, who was American over forty years old with no family, had worked as a docent. He seemed not to want to have much to do with me, perhaps because I was not a white-collar worker. A few months after I moved in, he simply said “good-by“ and left for Colombia.

On the other hand, there had been so painful things that I was wary of my surrounding. My memories was flashing before me―some off-leash dogs biting me. The owner scolded them at once, but showed no sign of apology to me, in spite of blood on my legs. Having barking excitedly at me, they tagged behind him, as though to have to defend their owner. At the sight of him surrounded by his loyal dogs, I was unable to say anything to him―you’re supposed to say something?

The other day, a fat woman holding her little boy’s hand pointed at me. ”Look,” she said to her son, laughing out loud. They started to march singing a racist song that insults Asian; I had ignored her with the utmost contempt. Who would not enlighten her on demeaning her own race before “Black Lives Matter?”

“K.” I heard a girl’s voice, and turning, saw the two cute girls skipping down the hill toward me. I stopped biting the mango, its yellow juice running down my wrist. “This is the invitation,” one of the girls said, holding out the card to me. “Oh, I knew you were going to graduate in September,” I wiped my mouth with my short sleeve. “Yes. You’d be a ‘welcome guest,’”she said. “Thank you. I’II go the ceremony,” I said in my teaching voice.

Covering their mouth with their hands, they faced each other, chuckled, and scuttled to the school, where I had taught 6th grade pupils yoga every Wednesday throughout the year the boys and girls thoroughly enjoyed my lesson.

As a matter of fact, I was reluctant to attend the graduation ceremony. Imagine a principal or executive giving a speech in the official language. It was just boredom. However, I supposed they prepared something special ―a gift or message cards or a photo album―so I could not let them down.

*

I sat an empty seat at the back in the auditorium. Colorful balloons strung from the ceiling adorned the whole room, people smartly dressed with dreadlocks: the men wore red, blue or green shirts, the women shimmery or partly patterned dresses. I was, in fact, unremarkable in a white shirts and black trousers with an Asian face.

The presumptuous speech of a principal and executives seemed to be no different from that of Japanese ones. Then, I was seeing each alumnus holding his diploma, taking a photo with his homeroom teacher, and it made me smile a little.

As I watched a slideshow of the alumni on the big screen, the yoga photos―several pupils lined up in wheel pose (yoga pose) by a seaside―was projected; I was delighted to learn they did it outside of class. And then a girl begun to introduce me. “K is from Taiwan … .” No, no. You are funny. I am Japanese. I am certain I had said that many times. Then a boy followed her. “He loves ‘Jackie Chan.’” I laughed. Not me, it was you who always mimicked his actions. I never even said the word, “Jackie Chan.” 

Some people exchanged a quick smirk and glanced back at me. Meanwhile, I had leant forward on my chair so that I would go up to the stage when my name was called. But the next moment, the yoga photos switched the other ones of a picnic in the woods―I was somewhat disappointed and sat back on my chair.

Now, one by one each alumnus handed his teacher or educator a small gift and hugged each other. What was in the boxes: food, drink, daily necessities? The presentation ceremony was nearly over; when I saw a pupil approaching me, I would get to my feet, reaching for him, and maybe I would pat his head instead of a hug. I would say something good and shake his hand strongly, and then I would take graduation photos surrounded by the alumni―that would suffice in what I could do.

There had been the lively hubbub throughout the auditorium. A number of guests begun to stand up, then I saw a couple leaving the room. No one pupil came.

I walked out of the auditorium into the narrow corridor, and made my way to the 6th grade classroom next to it, looking at its stage from outside the window. Just as my eyes met with a few pupils, they yelled at me. “Yogaman,” “Jackie Chen.” I smiled and waved to them, but almost Immediately they begun to fool around, barely paying attention me.

“K.” Hardly had I turned to a voice when a girl in a glittering ethnic costume tugged at my arm. “Come.” A tumult of shouting and laughing came from inside it, but she had kept her arm in mine and we now walked back down the corridor; descending the staircase. I was a “yogaman” with Asian face, notably popular with the locals and guessed there would be something of the hospitality to me, recalling the word “welcome guest.”

*

We were standing in front of a dimly lit door by the playground. The glittering girl opened the door and let me in first. The room was packed with people and some stuff; the air stagnant―in the slant of sunlight, a column of dust motes floated upward. At the corner, there was a pile of scattered tools: pairs of scissors, packing tape and crumpled paper. I could see some people eating around a few small tables, including the 6th grade homeroom teacher giving me a cold look with her languid posture, and others putting some food onto their plates from glass bowls.

“We’ll treat you to dinner,” she said, pointing at the plates. I obeyed her. The wood floors were shabby and creaky. I took a plate and regarded the choice: neither fried plantains nor green figs agreed with me, stewed chicken was dry, salad and fruits no fresh. I normally had eaten such meals, felt a little bad.

I put my plate on the empty table, being careful not to bump into the people stranded in the narrow aisles. Straddling a fixed wooden stool, back to back with the person behind me, I was forced to sit up straight.  Under the table, I  had stepped on a tube of paint and it had leaked.

After the dinner, I found myself alone in the playground, gazing at the pupils clustering around a teacher. Some children ran around with snacks. There was the convivial atmosphere around me―to pop music, the man and women in brilliant native dress dancing in a circle, other people enjoyed talking and laughing in little groups who would not have anything to do with me.

Hovering in the middle of the playground, I poised between solitariness and joviality amidst an aloofness just where I could be myself, and came to the conclusion that joining in such atmosphere was no part for me. I could recall the drinking parties, where I always feigned that I enjoyed myself. I sat awkwardly by myself on the tatami floor, giving a feeble smile, while people around me talked with much jollity and wandered from table to table. Not wanting to be seen as isolated, I expected someone to talk to me.

“K, hurry up.” Turning toward a girl’s voice, I was relieved to hear my name called again, since I had been isolated since the beginning. Whether home or abroad, I did not know how to interact with people. At the school entrance, a pupil beckoned me to follow her. Not expecting anything so special, I started walking in a trot to.

We both went through the school gate and stopped in front of the hillslope. “K, cross the road,” she pointed to the hilltop; the rattling sound of a bus (they call van bus) could be heard in the distance. “The last bus.” she said. I found myself at the bus stop in no time and raised my hand to ride on.

Just as I got into the bus, it begun to pull away. The reckless driver warned me of something; I noticed the door was ajar. “Disclosed … ,” he muttered.