“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.