Town Criers

I lived in Japan when I was young. I tried my best to fit in – I went to public school, spoke the language, participated in festivals, ate the food – but being the child of a Japanese dad and a white American mom meant that I’d always be looking in not from a position that was the outside or the inside but rather a space between them.

Branded a gaijin – Japanese for outsider – I was fodder for the school and neighborhood bullies. Unpleasant encounters often reduced me to tears, but the waterworks were not only reserved for such instances. You see, unlike my adversaries, my tears were not discriminatory. I cried over skinned knees, spilled milk, school speeches, missed television programs, you name it. The crying episodes became so frequent and problematic that my fiscally conservative father opened up the coffers in a game attempt to dewimpify his firstborn son. We worked out a deal: in exchange for a tear-free week, I’d receive a handheld electronic game.

The above is the very game (bless this thing we call the internet and its explorer Google) – though not the same unit – I “earned” for my efforts. Full disclosure: A quarter century later, I think enough time has passed to say this – Dad, I actually cried once that week, but it was because some kids pointed to a pile of rocks and told me that’s where I lived. Who wouldn’t cry about that? But know that I drew strength from the ninja game you bought me and that I haven’t cried since 1982.

Okay, that’s not true. I’m still the same fragile soul I was back then. I realize now that my acutely emotional nature has more to do with my being the product of two hypersensitive parents than with anything else. This truism serves as a good reminder when my equally sensitive wife and I wonder why our daughter often meets adversity with sorrowful cries.

After all, she is our own flesh and blood and tears.