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

 

Speaking of graduation ceremonies, cherry blossoms come to mind.
I wonder when they became like that.
When I was a junior high school student, they were the flowers for entrance ceremonies.

If there was such a thing as a graduation color, it might be pale pink for people today.

By the way. For me, the graduation color is leopard print. It’s not even a color anymore.

On that day, a female leopard was let loose on the school grounds.

The year was 1995, the year of the Great Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake and the Tokyo subway sarin gas attack. One day in March, I was standing in the entrance hall wearing my usual uniform and sneakers with holes in the heels. The only thing different from usual was that I was wearing a tie. It was a modest dress code required for graduates.

Since it was my graduation ceremony, I didn’t need my textbooks or lunch. When I picked up my almost empty bag, my arms were suddenly restrained. “You’ve grown up. You’ve grown up.” My mother grabbed me from behind.

What we call a back hug today. I can smell her foundation and feel her bury her cheek in my back. “Today is my graduation too,” she sang, graduating from child-rearing and “graduating from this domination.” The way she forcibly sang to the end of a line that didn’t quite fit the words was so typical of her.

I patted her cold hands, which were folded in front of her chest, and gently untied them. “Come on, I’ll put on the foundation. I’m off.” “Hm. See you later.” I was worried about her mascara running, so I left the front door without looking back.

My family was a single-mother household. My mother raised me and my brother on her own. But she also scouted out hosts and prostitutes from her tough connections and invited them in as roommates. Thanks to that, I don’t remember the three of us living alone.

We weren’t alone, but we had our moments. My mother clashed with everyone, and in the end we ended up fighting and breaking up. Everyone ran away from my mother. It even feels like we had more breakups than encounters. At the time, I lived with a former yakuza, nicknamed “Oji-chan.” He was the one who got me into high school. Apparently he’ll be attending my graduation ceremony.

My mother, who is a bit of a risk, and my ex-yakuza dad. I wonder if Nancy and Sid from the Kusakabe family will behave well at the graduation ceremony. I hurried along the sunny school road, feeling like a pilgrim, praying for each step.

When I stepped into the gym, the smell of wax like coconuts was in the air. Perhaps it had been redone just for this day. The metal chairs for the graduates had hard seats and crooked legs, making them uncomfortable. There is no need for comfort for those who are leaving. That’s what I felt like they were saying. The tips of my indoor shoes shrunk in the chill of the spring.

I could sense from behind that the parents were starting to gather. “That’s funny. ” “That’s amazing.” “Who? Who’s that?” Confusion, frowns, sneers, fear. All sorts of voices reached my ears. To shake off the bad feeling, I focused on making my classmate, who had been crying even before the ceremony started, laugh. It had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with the Kusaka family. So I didn’t look in that direction.

But it was no use. My friend sitting next to me tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear. “Oh, that’s Yu-chan’s mom, right?” he pointed to the back of the gym with his thumb.

I followed it with my eyes, and there, no need to follow it, there was my mother. My mother, like a female leopard.

She was wearing a leopard print bodycon dress, tattooed from top to bottom. Her slender figure had miraculously remained intact even after giving birth twice. It was as if she was showing off her pride as a former fashion model.

If she didn’t impress here, she would be a failure as a woman. Look at the kids and teachers. To her, the graduating students, teachers, and parents were all just spectators on the runway. In a sense, she was trying to devour the graduation ceremony.

To be honest, the leopard print looked good on her. If anything, she looked more like a leopard than a leopard. She was sitting in the front row of the parent’s seating area, standing with her back straight and looking for me, just like a cheetah. By the way, cheetahs are not leopards.

“Musuta!” When our eyes met, he called my name with just the movement of his mouth and waved. He was smiling broadly. I inherited the straight teeth from her. I had no choice but to wave back. For some reason, my friend waved back too. He had realized what was happening, or rather he had been hoping for a graduation ceremony mishap, and he laughed “hehehe” in delight.

There is no God or Buddha. There is only Mother. I looked up at the ceiling.

Even though the ceremony started, I don’t remember anything about the farewell speech, the reply speech, or the principal’s speech. All I remember is that I was completely scared of something that was about to happen. There was no way this ceremony would end peacefully. But I had no way of preparing myself for what it was. I wish they had taught me that in compulsory education. Japanese, math, science, and preparation.

That something soon came. The graduation ceremony. Each graduate was called up on stage, and the principal handed them a slip of paper, with the rest of the text omitted.

“Kusaka Musuta” “Yes!” My name was called from the stage. I looked straight ahead, trying not to let the audience see me, and stepped onto the stage. I had imagined it. My mother, standing alone in a leopard among the parents, all dressed formally in white and navy. I could see her eagerly waiting for me to appear.

I was the only one on the stage. I wonder if a gazelle left behind by the herd would experience the same despair on the savanna.

“Musuta! Yes! We’ve been waiting for you! You’re so cool!”
*clap, clap, clap* My mother chimed in from the audience, along with a particularly loud round of applause. It echoed around the gymnasium. I thought I heard the sound of everyone’s eyes focusing on her. The hall erupted in laughter that was unusual for a graduation ceremony. She was on it! There was no doubt that her eyes were blazing with joy at having left a mark.

I felt my head heat up instantly. I suppressed my scream by reading the following text of the certificate, and slumped to my seat. My heart was pounding.

While I was devastated by the shameful punishment of receiving the certificate, the ceremony moved on to singing the school song. I don’t think she even cared about the ending theme. There’s no way we’d all shout together.
A short piano prelude and then the song praising the school began.

Uhh. Uhhh. Sniff. Uhh. Sniff. Wahhhhh.

I didn’t have to turn around to know it was my mother, crying. Halfway through she’d given up trying to hold back her voice. Her sobs were louder than any of the other parents’, and they added a chorus to the chorus.

I didn’t mean to cry, but I felt a pain in the back of my nose.
She raised me while changing jobs frequently, working as a hostess at a Yakuza club in Kabukicho, an esthetician, an apparel store clerk, and more. I knew she had also dabbled in some illegal activities.

I had no intention of sympathizing with her about the hardships she had talked about, as if she had been given up by her own family. From my perspective as her son, she had caused far too much harm.

But I still feel affection for her. I remember rubbing her bunion-torn feet all night. I remember rubbing her back as she held the toilet. She stuffed my fried rice like it was a delicious treat. We managed to survive. We didn’t have time to cry, we just tried to stay together as parent and child.
Even though we were only just finishing compulsory education, I felt like we had come a long way. She must still be holding my hand in her heart.

Her crying made me worry about her sick heart. At that moment.

“Shut up! Don’t cry in this happy ceremony! You’re just bothering everyone!”

My dad’s voice pierced the ceiling of the gymnasium. Don’t bother amateurs. That’s his style. The crying in the entire venue stopped abruptly. Of course, me too. I remember being impressed by the courage of the piano, who played as if nothing had happened. A single sob, a little quieter than before, still reached my ears.

When I returned to the classroom, none of my classmates said anything. The only one who knew about my family situation was my homeroom teacher, who burst out laughing and said, “That was funny. The Kusakabe family is really funny.” He always wore tracksuits, but that day he was wearing a double-breasted formal suit. I felt lonely, thinking that I would never see this person again, having lost a person who understood me.

I don’t remember how I got home from there. I think I probably went home with my usual look on my face, tapping the tube containing my diploma.

What I remember is that my younger brother, who had been watching the whole thing from the student seats, stayed in his room without even congratulating me.
And then the female leopard hugged me with a smile on her face, having completed her work. I wonder if that’s what it feels like to feel the fear of a large carnivorous feline playing with you. There’s love, but we can’t communicate.

“But why leopard print? There were other clothes that stood out,” she said . “Well, it was better than a swimsuit, wasn’t it?” If she was going to cry that much, a swimsuit would probably have been better.

(End)