Miyoko stands alone in the girls’ lavatory, gazing into a small mirror above a cold, white sink. The room is cold, the air is cold and even the hot water seems cold as it pours over her trembling hands. Her face is flush with color and her tear soaked eyes are tinged with red. Her heart pounds hard in her chest. She is angry, she is upset, she is frustrated, and she is lost in this cold world.
She can still see their twisted, pulled, plump red faces dripping with sweat. She doesn’t need to hear their vicious laughter- she can feel it pummeling her and soaking deep inside her where her heart pounds and throbs fast and heavy. Their laughter felt stronger than her heartbeat.
Why were her classmates laughing? The answers seemed to cruelly reveal themselves in the mirror she glared into. Here she is standing before a mirror wearing faded second hand clothes. A faded yellow floral print dress with missing buttons and frayed hem and sleeve cuffs. The missing buttons were replaced with tiny silver safety pins. If they were not there, the dress front would flap open and reveal her second hand bra and her slight breasts. The dress was very tight across the chest and waist. Even with the loose safety pins and loose white ribbon around her waist, with the bow in the back hung limply at the small of her back, the dress seemed to cling and cinch against her skin and squeeze her inside the light, almost sheer fabric. The dress draped down only to about mid-thighs. It seemed to only cover just enough and nothing more. It was a younger girl’s spring dress- that was another thing- it was too cold to be wearing a spring dress- especially one as short and ill-fitted as this one.
With the dress, she wears a pair of thick support hose. The dark beige pantyhose she was given to wear were very thick and binding. The elastic waistband dug deep into her middle, the control top felt like a thick padded diaper, and the stretchy but thick, tight nylon seemed to make her legs itch and feel almost as if they had been sunburned somehow. They were an old lady’s support hose, yet they were somehow tight and cinching. ‘These hose must have belonged to a short, skinny old woman,’ Miyoko thinks.
Aside from the faded, tight, short dress and the scratchy, itchy pantyhose that she wears, she has on a pair of hand-me-down dress shoes. She has to stand back almost against the far wall to see their reflection in the mirror above the sink. She doesn’t want to see them directly. She doesn’t want to see herself directly either- only through the reflection in the mirror. She wants to see herself as her classmates see her, from outside herself.
Her dress shoes were supposed to be a polished white, but they were old and scuffed to a dull grey almost. The shine in the patent leather had somehow died and faded away to dull grey. The little straps and the little shiny gold buckles have also lost their novelty and charm. The straps look warped and the buckles no longer shine gold. The flat three inch heels that might have made her feel slightly taller with each step have been scuffed beyond repair in their former life, and now they feel lopsided. Now these shoes make her walk with a false little limp.
But as Miyoko steps back to the sink and to get a closer look at the answers still reflecting back at her in the mirror, she forgets the clothes and shoes immediately and glares at the most obvious feature about herself- the thing that instantly drew attention to her and set her apart from everyone else. There strapped across the center of her chest, was her hearing pack. Right there pressed against her slight breasts was the light beige, plastic case containing the batteries and gizmos that were supposed to help her fit in and hear like all the other kids in school. From the hearing pack to her hearing aids were thin beige braided cords and wires connecting all the electronic magic her pack was supposed to contain to her thick, obnoxious, and totally noticeable hearing aids that wrapped around her earlobes and plugged up her ears so completely.
Miyoko was born Deaf, but the hearing aids and hearing pack were supposed to make magic happen. They were supposed to allow her to hear like the other kids around her and they were supposed to help her fit in. Obviously the magic backfired or fizzled out completely. She could barely hear the click-clack of her steps as she walked up and down the halls in line with her classmates from the classroom to the gym or cafeteria or music room. Miyoko could just barely make out the sounds and syllables of her teacher’s voice as she spoke through the microphone wand to her hearing pack’s receiver.
If she truly fit in with her classmates, she would not have needed the hearing aids and hearing pack strapped across her chest. If she truly fit in with her classmates, she would not be the only Deaf girl in all her classes, or have a speech therapist, or see the school counselor three days a week.
What else made her classmates laugh in her face? There were other answers that the mirror could not reflect or show. So somehow her classmates knew things her appearance alone could not project. There was something else about her that was not so obvious that made them all stare, point, laugh, and make faces at her.
Was it her voice? She barely spoke aloud or vocalized unless she absolutely had to whenever a teacher called on her to answer a question or read aloud from one of the textbooks. She hated her voice or what little she could hear of it. It sounded like she was crying or wailing out. It sounded muffled, slurred, and broken in her electronic ears. Was it the hearing aids that ruined her voice, or was it just the way she naturally sounded? What was the natural sound of her voice- or… what did she naturally sound like?
What about the color of her hair, the shape of her eyes, and the tone of her complexion? There were one or two other boys and girls in her classes that were also Japanese, Chinese, or from some other Asian heritage. There were kids from lots of different backgrounds with lots of different colors and complexions and features. No-one looked the same, everyone was different. Yet somehow everyone but her managed to get along nicely and fit together like a happy little puzzle.
The mirror only reminds her that she is a Japanese girl. She has soft pale peach skin, deep grey-blue watery eyes, and long flowing black hair neatly combed and tied back away from her face in a ponytail. But the mirror reminds her also that she wears hearing aids, faded clothes, and a frustrated expression. Her classmates know something the mirror does not.
So what is it, Miyoko wonders. Was it the fact that she was one of a few Asians in school? That didn’t seem to be it. Was it the fact that she was born in Japan? That didn’t seem to make a difference one way or another.
They laughed because of her old, worn out clothes. They laughed because she was Deaf and found her cracked, broken, slurry, muffled words and sounds funny and strange. They laughed because if she bent over to pick something up off the floor, they could almost see her underwear through her pantyhose. They laughed because they knew she couldn’t hear the music or sing to it properly during music class. Yet there was something else that seemed to make them laugh even more- laugh harder against her. There was something about her that made all these kids’ laughs and guffaws and chuckles and snickers become sharp or crushing or pressing attacks inside her.
Miyoko still didn’t know enough English to describe or define just how the laughter she couldn’t really hear became something harsh she could feel. In her own words and thoughts the laughter felt like a thousand magic tiny daggers and stones of fire being jabbed into her heart. The laughter just somehow stabbed into her.
The English she learned came from the American who taught at the orphanage near Nagano where she lived. The American was always trying to invite families from the States to come to the little orphanage to adopt children. She was also busy teaching them manners and American customs, and cultural things as well as English, all in hopes of making Miyoko and her fellow orphans attractive to foreign families.
Did Miyoko’s bullies and classmates see this past through her eyes perhaps? Were they laughing because she had been orphaned?
Miyoko only started school here a few days ago and has only lived in this country for a few weeks. The English she does know keeps her head just slightly above water in class for the moment- but everyone knows she will all too easily slip behind. Eleven years of half-hearted English lessons in a Japanese orphanage could not be corrected for or made better or different in a few short weeks or matter of days. While everyone else could comfortably read and comprehend the words and vocabulary from their sixth grade books, in reality Miyoko could maybe understand half of what she read. The other half were gibberish or nonsense to her- in which case she merely nodded or hid behind her book. Her speech therapist however had her reading and vocalizing from kindergarten flashcards.
Was this why they all laughed? No, it was just another element of the answer.
Her adoptive parents- people that the mirror could not reflect- people her classmates could not often see, were kind, loving, gentle spirited people. They took her from the orphanage and adopted her and brought her across the ocean, and across the width of the United States to their cozy, big white Victorian-style home in East River, Connecticut. They were somewhat wealthy and owned many nice things that had to be polished and dusted and shined to a fine gloss. They owned two cars and kept them in a garage that was almost as big as the classroom back at the orphanage where she first learned English from the visiting American teacher.
Her parents gave her warm food, nice clothes, soft warm blankets, puffy pillows, and comforting affection. They didn’t laugh in her face or send daggers and fiery rocks into her heart. They gave her a bedroom with tall windows that overlooked the woods in the backyard that reminded her of her “faraway home” in Japan. They gave her a four post canopy bed with a light lavender canopy and colorful, starry sky patterned comforters and quilts. ‘The bed and blankets of a Moon Goddess,’ Miyoko thinks.
Did her classmates know these things through her eyes or from the look of her face or the faded color in her withered dress and drab beige pantyhose? Maybe; but highly unlikely. There was something else about her that gave these bullies and classmates their reasons to laugh. What more though could they know though, Miyoko wonders.
The more Miyoko stares at herself in the bathroom mirror, the more frustrated and upset she gets. She knows that until she finds the answer, her classmates will continue to laugh at her and continue to meet her with contorted faces and disturbing gestures and frightening expressions. If she walks out of the bathroom without the complete answer, there was no telling how far these bullies and classmates would go. They may go from laughing to pushing and shoving and then on to hitting and scratching and biting and kicking. They could do anything to her right now and she would never know why or know how to stop it or prevent it. She wouldn’t have any means of explaining the attacks to the principal or teachers. They would ask her why or how these things were happening, and in her broken words and wavering voice she would say….
‘I don’t know why,’ Miyoko thoughts hum in her head.
Her eyes drift back to the obvious, where the search for answers started. The faded dress, the thick itchy nylon pantyhose, the scuffed dress shoes with scuffed heels, and the limp ribbon and bow around her waist. The only reason she dressed like this was because these were the only clothes she had that were truly hers from the days at the orphanage. They were clothes that were supposed to look American. They were also the only clothes she had that reminded her of her humble beginnings and her days in Japan.
She had nicer clothes than these and she would have worn them, but she wanted to remember. She also wanted to believe that remembering the past would somehow make the future less mysterious and strange. She didn’t want to change who she was completely. She still wanted something familiar.
Miyoko’s parents understood. The first day she stepped onto American soil and tread upon the threshold of her new home in her old faded clothes from the orphanage, they knew she would cling to them and want them still. Even with the new dresses, fresh white blouses and pleated skirts, and woolen sweaters and brand new tights and socks, Miyoko had to cling to her faded old dress just once more and remember.
Her world could not change all at once all so suddenly. She wouldn’t allow it to change like that- at least not yet.
Even though there was nothing Japanese about her dress, nylons, or dress shoes- they came from that “faraway home” and were given to her there. They were given to her so that she might end up here in the United States, as American as other children she would see and be with. She had to wear them. The dress, nylons, and shoes deserved to be worn somehow.
When she stepped from her bedroom this morning, dressed as she is now, her mother and father nodded and hugged her approvingly. They understood- though maybe fear edged at the faces? Was that worry in their eyes? Did her parents know what was going to happen at school today? Did they know about the hurting laughter?
Her mother smiled warmly and rubbed her warm, loving hand across the side of her face and wrapped her arm around her consolingly. When they looked into each other’s eyes, there was understanding. These faded clothes and things just had to be worn- if for one last time- at “School Picture Day”. So the past could be held onto and remembered and the present and past could meet at last.
The first day at school, she wore new clothes and felt the laughter. The second day the laughter grew and it was so for Wednesday and Thursday too. Today was “School Picture Day”. Today was her fifth day of school as an American student. It was an important day- class pictures were going to be taken. Parents and family would order photos of their sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, and grandchildren in their bright clean school clothes and have them for the rest of their lives to look back on and remember with.
Miyoko’s faded clothes would only last so long; but the photographs would last seemingly forever in her new family’s albums.
As Miyoko’s mother held her and caressed her face and looked upon her with understanding eyes, her father smiled gently and gave her a knowing, sly wink. He was young, but had the eyes and winks of an old wise man, an old kenjin. With a simple nod, all he needed to tell her was already told and understood. He knew what his new daughter had to do and why and accepted it. Maybe in his wink and knowing wise man smirks, he was imagining himself in her world and in her shoes and doing the same thing she was doing.
“This is how you choose to remember your ‘faraway home’,” her father’s smirk and wink seemed to communicate in subtle gesture. “This is your way of changing seasons.”
‘Is it silly to think like this?’, Miyoko wonders. ‘Do I make sense?’
The mirror cannot reply. It simply reflects back at her what she sees and what the rest of the world sees.
‘They laugh because they do not know my thoughts,’ Miyoko concludes as she turns the faucet off, dries her hands, and dabs dry the corners of her teary eyes with a paper towel. ‘They laugh because I am slow to change seasons. Their Spring has already passed long ago.’
* * *
Grandma’s Kitchen
In a small kitchen on the second floor of a white Colonial house on Main Street, there is a simple kitchen table resting against the wall beside a tall window with a full view of a studio room on the second floor of the American Legion Post next door. Grandma tied back the curtains so that her Miyoko could look out the window and watch the ballet students dancing.
The kitchen is brightened with sunshine that streams in from the windows. Grandma stands beside Miyoko and gazes out her windows to watch the dancers next door. Miyoko leans in and presses her face against the pane of glass to get a better look at the pretty girls dancing from beyond the space between Grandma’s house and the American Legion Post, where there are autumn leaves still blowing past her eyes while caught in the breezes and wind gusts that make the windows rattle against her cheek. Through the falling leaves of red, gold, green, yellow, and brown, the girls in their black glossy leotards and soft pink tights leap, twirl, pose, and dance in their second story studio room across from grandma’s little kitchen.
Among the smells and aromas coming from grandma’s bubbling soup pot and warm baking oven where fresh bread was still rising, Miyoko’s thoughts drift back and forth between the ballerinas and the warm, home cooked after school meal she was about to have. Among the table setting of gourds, apples and flowers in an old wicker basket, and the unlit candles and shiny silverware and cloth napkins, Miyoko’s thoughts became daydreams that wandered into the realms of ballet and of warm cozy kitchens where savory soups bubbling with potatoes, carrots, and simmering meats would soak into warm flaky bread slices that squished in the mouth like tasty little sponges.
The girls dancing in the second story studio next door are about Miyoko’s age. They could not be much older than eleven or twelve. In Miyoko’s daydream, she is one of them. She is among the dancers posing and leaping, twirling and pirouetting in a dance outfit just as pretty as theirs. Her leotard and tights are no different than theirs. Her hair is done up in a nice tight little bun at the crown of her head. Her toes are pointed and her arms are outstretched just so. She stands tall as they do- she is just like the other ballet students dancing around her in her daydream as she presses against the cool window pane and stares deeply at the studio next door.
Behind Miyoko, Grandma is pulling the bread out from the oven to cool on the kitchen counter. She smiles at her daydreaming granddaughter and stirs the thick vegetable beef soup.
‘My new granddaughter seeing new sights, smelling new aromas, tasting new foods, learning a new language in a new school, living in a new home with a new family, in a new world….’ Her thoughts drift as she glances over her shoulders at Miyoko leaning against the window. ‘I couldn’t be more happier or more proud of her.’
Miyoko inhales deep breaths, taking in the aroma of her Grandma’s soup. She is being pulled back from her daydreams of ballet.
With a smile, Miyoko gets up from her chair and goes to her grandmother to nestle beside her and wrap an arm around her waist. With eager eyes and a lick of her expectant lips, she asks without words or syllables, “When do we eat?”
With a gesture about her lips with the tip of her finger, Grandma invites Miyoko to vocalize. Grandma wants to hear Miyoko’s words and voice. “Let me hear that precious sweet voice of yours,” she smiles, and invites in voice as well as gesture.
“Wh-when… do wuh weee eeeat?” Miyoko asks, exhaling heavily as she struggles with the tone of her words. “I’m hun-greee!”
Grandma cradles Miyoko’s chin to lean in and kiss her on her forehead. “You asked that very nicely,” she replies.
Miyoko adjusts the volume to her hearing aids and eyes her grandmother. “Is muh vo-eece fuh-nee?” she asks.
“Not at all, it is a sweet voice,” Grandma replies, while ladling out two bowls of soup. “Can you hear me okay?”
Miyoko adjusted the volume on her hearing aids and nodded. Grandma’s voice was the best kind of voice to hear. It was not too loud or too soft. There was no pain in her words or with the sound of her voice either. Somehow the magic gizmos in her hearing aids allow Grandma’s voice to ring clear and pure without distortion or static. Miyoko wonders how and why this is, but it is the steamy bowl of soup that’s waiting for her that steals her attention.
Sitting at the kitchen table, beside the window where the sun continues to shine in and the view is still of a classroom full of young girls dancing and leaping across her line of sight, Miyoko eagerly dips her spoon into her warm bowl of soup and savors the first sips. Her daydreams are paused as she enjoys her meal of fresh baked bread and hot vegetable beef soup, but in the back of her mind and as long as she can see the ballerinas prancing out the window, she knows her dreams are merely suspended for as long as it takes to enjoy her new grandmother’s home cooking. Her dreams would come back to life at the last sip of soup and the placing of an empty bowl in Grandma’s kitchen sink.
“What do you think of those girls dancing ballet next door?” Grandma asks, settling in her seat across from Miyoko. “Don’t they look pretty?”
Miyoko glances back at the window and takes a deep sigh. The girls look very pretty too her. The way they leap and twirl on their toes seems almost magical to her. Their slim and slender bodies look so clean, perfect, and beautiful to her too. The ballet students look so… perfect.
They look flawless and sleek in their leotards and tights.
“I luh- luh- liiiike thuh- their prrr-ity tiiights too,” Miyoko replies, with pained expression. It was so hard for her to hear and control her own voice. Grandma may like her voice and sounds, but she still felt differently.
Each girl wears a sleek, shiny black leotard and pale pink tights. Some girls wear long sleeved leotards and some wear sleeveless ones but they all essentially looked alike. There is something about this Miyoko admires. Each girl can be an individual, but still belong. Some girls wear ribbons in their hair, some have little pins that keep their hair up, but all their faces shine in the beaming afternoon sunlight. No single face was the same either, yet they all shined in the sun. They were all dancers and they were all together and they somehow fit perfectly in the scene that plays out before Miyoko’s eyes.
“Thuh-thuh- they daaance to moo-zic?” Miyoko asks, looking back at her grandmother. “Whuh- ut is moo-zic like?”
Miyoko’s grandmother always admired Miyoko’s curiosity and eagerness to learn. She was always full of questions and so quick to explore and investigate. Grandma leans over the table to look into Miyoko’s eyes to catch the twinkling light in them.
“Music is something those girls over there hear, but something a special girl like you will always feel deep inside,” she replies.
Miyoko’s brows rose, a smile crept across her face, and her cheeks filled with rosy peach color. If there was something a girl could feel deep inside to make her dance as beautifully and as spirited as those girls in that studio, she had to feel it too. If those feelings were stronger than the feelings that came with the cruel laughter and the contorted faces of her classmates and bullies in school, those feelings that made the pretty girls dance and leap and twirl in the air had to be felt now.
“I wuh too duh-ance and feel moo-zic riiight now!” Miyoko pants.
Grandma laughs softly and pats Miyoko’s shoulder. “Of course you do, but first a girl needs to have something to eat first.”
Miyoko smiles and nods and looks down at her bowl of soup. In time she will empty a bowl or two and have had several slices of warm fluffy bread, but then she will gaze out the kitchen window again at the second story dance studio room next door at the American Legion Post and daydream once again, and soon she will feel as those ballet students do and soon she will dance as they do and the cruel laughter and the pain will be washed out and drowned with the feelings of music pulsing through her body.
* * *
