Musuta Kusaka's Everyday Journey with Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion in Japan

26 years ago. I didn’t have much money at home, so I bought my own suit for my coming-of-age ceremony. At the time, outlet stores were starting to become more common.

However, I wasn’t allowed to choose it myself. My mother. My mother, a former fashion model, chose it for me with a dictatorial style called taste. “Leave it to me! I’ll buy your coming-of-age ceremony too! I’m the one who raised you!”
She was the type of parent who didn’t give me money but would still talk. If things didn’t go her way, she would step in. By the way, this personality caused my wedding to be a complete mess.

As a result, my suit was pinstripe dark gray. I ended up matching it with a black dress shirt and a silky brown tie. I tried to look chic, but it ended up looking dodgy. A fashionable yakuza look. My mother was pleased, saying,
“Yes. I look just like Kyohei Shibata.” By the way, I look like Wakanohana, sumo wrestler. 

I don’t know about now, and it may differ depending on the region, but at that time, the coming-of-age ceremony had three choices: furisode(Japanese Kimono, traditional dress for lady), crested hakama(for gentleman), and suit. In particular, suits were a set price for fresh graduates. They were meant to be worn for the gradually increasing number of formal occasions and for the job hunting that was soon to come. As an outfit for adults.

But my outfit was the polar opposite of fresh. I stood out like a black spot among the dazzling formal wear. At the civic hall where the Coming of Age Ceremony was held, my local friends laughed at me, saying, “That must have been chosen by your mom.” My mother was more popular with my classmates than I was.

Late at night after returning from such a coming-of-age ceremony. I was tipsy from the class reunion, and my mother was up all night waiting for me.

“Welcome back. I’ve been waiting for you.” As soon as I opened the front door, my mother’s voice came down from the second floor. Come running when she calls. Following the Kusaka family rule, I went to the bedroom, where she had her upper body stuck in the closet. She was trying to pull something out from the deepest part.

“Hey, you help out too.” She pointed at me with her violet-painted fingernails. Helping out meant that I had to do it. Feeling a lethargy that was different from the alcohol, I got on my hands and knees and crawled into the closet, which was filled with the smell of mold inhibitor.

“That’s it!” What was unearthed was something slab-shaped about the size of half a tatami mat. It was neatly folded and wrapped in old newspapers that had faded to a sepia color. There were no rips or tears.

“I kept it to show you when you turned 20.” Was it something from when I was born? Something related to my biological father, who I didn’t have much connection with? An inheritance? No way. Either way, it seemed like it wouldn’t be possible to find it tomorrow.

With delicate fingers, my mother unwrapped the package, as if gently releasing the air of a sealed away era.

It was a nude photo. She was 20 years old.

She was sitting with her knees hugged to her chest, and turned the left side of her body towards the camera, showing off the curves of her bust and hips. She had big curly perms. Bright blue eyeshadow and crimson lipstick.
Under the grown-up makeup, her expression was still childlike. She was smiling playfully at me. Her whole body was radiant with youth, even her pointed toes.

“What do you think? Isn’t it pretty?” The mother looked at herself, moving closer and further away. Her toy-like false eyelashes and the thick foundation she applied to her face and neck spoke of her age. Even when the image was blown up to canvas size, it was still detailed, something only film photography could do.

“I had this taken to commemorate my 20th birthday. It was just the photographer and I in the studio. Especially this bust line. You can’t get that when you’re 20 years old.” She
must have sensed the commotion. My mother’s boyfriend, who lived with her at the time, got up and was staring at her next to me. “It’s cool!”

I could only cross my arms and nod. I couldn’t turn a blind eye to her 20 years of planning. But I couldn’t feel any gratitude. And even if I did have an idea, I couldn’t say it out loud. There was no way she would think of buying a suit for her son’s coming-of-age ceremony. After all, she was naked.

She was a woman who could only love herself. All I wanted was to be praised, especially in a life where people often leave her. A child who wants to be told “you’re cute.” Before she was a parent, she hadn’t become an adult in the first place. I realized this before I even turned twenty. When I entered society, this distorted mother-son relationship would no longer work. All I could do was to continue playing her role as Musuta, until the day we parted ways.

I couldn’t help but worry about my younger brother, I.
“Are you going to show it to I too?” “Of course you do. It’s not fair to you.” “Maybe it’s best to look at it from a little distance then.”A mother’s nude body is not something you should look at up close. “That’s right! You can’t tell her body lines if you can’t see her whole body!” Another unwanted thing to pass on to my younger brother.

“Yes. It was a nude of mom. Please put it away carefully.” We didn’t have the luxury of getting a newspaper at home. I had no choice but to rewrap it in a used newspaper. I remember that there was an article about the Vietnam War in it.

The next morning, I told my brother about what happened the night before. He’ll be showing his mother nude on the night of his coming-of-age ceremony. I was the one who was able to withstand the surprise, but I wanted to give him time to prepare. “What? Do you have parents like that?” Yes, there are. Your mother. And my mother too. “No. It’s gross.”

I’m glad my brother grew up to be honest. But, man, don’t say that. That guy, who doesn’t drink at all, managed to hold on by getting drunk on himself and somehow raised us. If he’s going to show us nudes, then there should be an adult tax.

A few years later, I bought my younger brother a suit and let him choose it. My mother was grumbling, “It’s boring.” Even though she was a hard mother to understand, and I don’t see her anymore. This year, I remembered that night of the Coming of Age Ceremony.