Sayonara Sensei of Sin

Inspired by The Joy Luck Club – "Sayonara Sensei of Sin" – 1/15/14; Mrs. Dowling's Creative Writing I class, 10th grade.

 Juxtaposed by Sampson was a doll, a ningyō, to be exact. The woman’s face, pale with the brush of a white powder, seemed to smile at him. Her fan, placed delicately in her arm — flagrant with bold reds and bright yellows — appeared imperial and majestic. Ever so slightly, the eyes blinked once, then twice, and finally she battered her eyes in succession. The doll mocked him, buffeting Sampson with its blinking! His eyes grew cross.

      “Get out of my sight!” he yelled, throwing the authentic Japanese doll across the living room. The doll broke in two the second it connected with the wall. Bright yellows and bold reds lost their significance; the kimono lied disgraced on the living room floor. Brought forth by his action, hidden within the doll’s sleeves: a broken arm, and several cracks in other such places.

      Sampson smirked; he hated that doll, especially today—especially when the impossible happened; when all his fellow classmates, friends and peers—people who he trusted, laughed and poked fun at him. And for what—his status, his grades? No, those things were perfectly fine. He was perfect. 

           Sampson got up at four in the morning and studied for two hours before walking to school an hour later. Sampson obtained straight A’s from kindergarten to seventh grade, his current grade, and if one includes pre-K (but, technically, his grade then was an “E” for excellent; there were no “A’s” given out), that too. Sampson made his own lunch and never missed a day of school. Sampson sat with the popular kids and even had a nickname: Sam. Sampson invited friends over to his elephant of a house during his birthdays, giving $100.00 as party favors. Sampson was Sampson. Simply put: No one else compared...

           It was his Japanese side! That took away all his amazing qualities. In history class, earlier that day, Sam and his peers started learning about World War II and Pearl Harbor, which you can probably guess was a pretty touchy subject. Touchy, actually, would be a misnomer; it was more like gruesome. It was as if the atmosphere had suddenly changed in an instant; all eyes turned toward him, and all mouths seemed to say: “Loser!”; “Way to destroy America!”; and “Go back to Japan!” It was a nightmare.

           Yet Sam pleaded with his fellow peers, attempting to disregard their beliefs: “No! I'm not like that! Those people aren't related to me! I'm perfect!” 

           All to no avail. And of course, the teacher was hardly any help in the whole debacle: Mr. Reed dozed on his desk, creating a small puddle with his drool. Thus the boy was humiliated beyond belief, and now he sat—ruminating in the living room—deciding his next move.

           “Ugh!” said Sam. “I can't believe my so-called friends said that about me.” Sam crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I mean, it's not like it's my fault; they can't blame me for something I never did, can they? No. I'm not to blame. It's the Japanese who did it. They're the ones. I'm not—”

           “Oh quit your complaining,” hollered Samantha, Sam's older sister, who walked into the living room bringing a bowl of rice and some nori, seaweed. “Who are you even talking to?”

           “Myself.”

           “Well, it seems as though you need a little help. Maybe I can offer some assistance?”

           “You?” questioned Sam. “How are you going to help me?”

           “You'd be surprised. I have some pretty good ideas every once in a while.” Samantha took a bite of some rice with the nori using a pair of chopsticks.

           “Is this one of those times?”

           “Could be.”

           “Well is it, or isn't it?”

           “Yes, it is.” Samantha placed the chopsticks extravagantly on the table. “Basically, I think we should go to Japan.” 

           “Wow.”

           “I know right? Such a good idea!”

           “No, I meant 'wow' as in that's absurd.”

           “It would be cool. We'd go on an adventure, discovering your—you know—your problem with our homeland.”

           “It's not my homeland! And I don't want to go! You can't coerce me into going.”

           “Come on! We only went once when we were younger. Besides,” she coaxed, “don't you need to go to a foreign place for your History project?”

           “Yeah, but it's okay if we go anywhere outside the city, like another city. So Mr. Reed won't care if I just do a city like Arlington or Fairfax.”

           “But, if you go somewhere else, farther away, it would be really cool; you might get a little recognition.” She winked. “And maybe even a better grade.”

           At this, Sam's tentative outlook disappeared. “Fine. But how will we get enough money to go?”

           “Oh, pish posh!” snorted Samantha. “I saved up some money, and you have your allowance, and um...well—” 

           Sam replied, “Exactly. We can't go!”

           “We can ask our relatives in Japan to lend us some money for us to go visit them, and we can persuade mom and dad. It's winter break. We have plenty of time.”

           “But it's mom and dad; they'll never agree.”

           Their parents were ecstatic to pay for them. A little time off from one's children for any parent is time well spent. And as for the doll which snapped in two, well Sam had to do a little extra work to make up for that. Hence the children, for Samantha was only in ninth grade, gathered the capital to embark on their journey to Japan. Money flew in from their Japanese relatives to their home in Alexandria, Virginia. Also, since their family enjoyed the riches of an upper class family, the money was paid in full, facilitating their riding in the first-class section of the plane.

           As they rode in the airplane, an attendant had come over with some delicacies. “Hello,” she said, “may I interest you two with some seafood, or some of our specialty meats?” Samantha peered up, and unplugged her earphones. 

           “What was that?”

           “May I interest you in some fine delicacies?” repeated the attendant, handing Sam and Samantha a menu each.

           “What is there to eat?"

           “Well if you look down there you'll see that there's a variety of seafood dishes, specialty meats, and other foods as well."

           “Hmm,” mused Samantha, “we'll take the seafood—”

“Seafood?” intervened Sam. “No thanks. I think I'll go with the meat—maybe some venison?”

           “Sure, that'll be ready in--" 

           Samantha cut in, “Wait, hold on a second.” She turned toward Sam. “What do you have against seafood?”

           “Nothing. I just don't like it.”

           “You don't just not like seafood all of a sudden. You used to have some before all the time.”

           “Well that was before; now I don't like it.”

           The attendant backed up a few steps.

           “It's because you don't want to be a part of your Japanese side, isn't it?” chided Samantha.

           “No! It's not that.”

           Samantha smirked.

           “Why are you even making such a big deal about this?” asked Sam.

           “Because that's the whole reason we're going to Japan; to make you realize something in that 'smart' head of yours; to see something you've been missing all these years. And no one can show it to you; you have to feel it in yourself—in every fiber of your being.”

           “I thought I was going to Japan to write a report for my History project?”

           “Well that too, but I'm your older sister. I have to help you in other areas of life, too.”

           A moment of silence propagated.

           The attendant warily took a few steps forward. “So...” she interjected, “seafood, is it?”

           Sam inhaled deeply, then exhaled promptly. “Sure. Seafood it is.”

           Samantha grinned, pride glowing her demeanor. 

           “For seafood we have the teriyaki salmon with rice and shiitake mushrooms; the seafood stew, which contains lobster, scallops, potatoes, carrots, broth, and shrimp; the sushi platter; and the classical gourmet Chinese dumplings, which contains bok choy, shrimp, and eggplant.”   

           Samantha said, “I'll have the sushi platter.”

           “And I will have,” replied Sam, “the dumplings—”

           “But you're Japanese!” reasoned Samantha.

           “Oh brother...”

           “I'm your sister!”

           “It's only food. Don't make such a big deal about it. I know I'm Japanese, it's just I like Chinese food, too. What's wrong with that?”

           Samantha smiled. 

           “What? What's so funny?” asked Sam.

           “You said it.”

           “Said what?”

           “You said: 'I know I'm Japanese.'”

           “Oh...” Sam grinned. “I guess I did.”

           Samantha and Sam rode in that first-class plane, for about thirteen hours, give or take. The two of them arrived at the Fukushima Airport in the city of Sokukagawa, in the Fukushima Prefecture of Japan, where they were greeted by their relatives.

           Emiko, their aunt, cried out, “Sakura!” (Samantha's Japanese name), and “Sauske!” (Sam's Japanese name). Aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, cousins and in-laws—familial fruition—poured their sweetness out to embrace the two children. 

           Samantha rushed to greet her family, whereas Sam remained stationary, kicking at the ground, his eyes downcast.

           “What are you doing!” shouted Emiko. “Hayaku! Quickly! Come over here!” She gestured Sam to come over with a swing of her arm.

           His eyes looked up, and he witnessed a picturesque scene of his family all smiling and laughing; joy and jubilation jeering through each and every one of them. Teasing and taunting they were not. Sam chuckled, what had he been thinking? His family was a part of him; his heritage was a piece of his identity; his tradition was a macrocosm of of his existence. 

           A tear materialized on the brim of his eye and cascaded across his cheek. “Ojisan-tach, uncles; obasan-tach, aunts; ojiisan-tach, grandpas, obaasan-tach, grandmas; itoko-tach, cousins—minna, everyone.” Sam dashed to greet his family, with tears still falling down his face. “I'm sorry!” he cried, as he embraced them all. “I'm sorry...”

           “What are you saying?” asked Tomo-chan, Sam's seven-year-old cousin. “Why are you apologizing?”

           “I blamed my heritage for something that I was ashamed about. I should have stood my ground when all my peers struck my Japanese-side. I should have rebutted them when they attacked my country. I should have done something.”

           “It's okay,” soothed Tomiyo, his grandma. “There are many things that are shameful in this country's history—in every country's history. We must all repent and ask for forgiveness from those our ancestors have hurt. But you—you are the hope that can transform the past, and make a new beginning—a blossoming into a beautiful person, just like your sister's name: Sakura, cherry blossom. You are the hope.”

           Wiping his tears away, Sam faced his family, and he saw himself in each of them; he saw courage, love, hope, bravery, pride—admirable attributes and qualities in them. Arrogance as an aptitude, avarice as a trait, condemnatory as a quality, a sense of extreme independence — these were not in them, and now these were not in him.