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

I remembered S-kun, who I used to live with. We lived together for about 6 to 7 years, from when I entered university, graduated, got a job, and started living alone.
S-kun was my mother’s boyfriend. And he was a trans man.

He was my mother’s colleague. We both worked at apparel stores across the street from each other. We met in a slanted, duct-taped shopping mall in a sliver of Tokyo.

That day, S-kun came to visit me after work. I took the train going in the opposite direction from his house. His mother hadn’t come home yet. The two of us talked about how I gave annoying customers strange nicknames, my girlfriend, and my high school-aged brother’s sexual attraction.

There was a few seconds of silence, and then a soccer player on TV scored a goal. “See, you like me, don’t you?”
S-kun called himself “yourself.” It was a serious confession of love, disguised as a joke. And to the son of a man he loved. It was a fake smile that was far from a goal, as if he was about to burst into tears. “Yeah. I know.”

Well, that’s what it was, I guessed. “Can I live here with you?” Our knees pressed together. For some reason, I still remember his hand tightly clasped on top of them. He was pale and plump.

Even so, isn’t this a bit of a jump in the conversation? But, whatever. Love is a leap. There’s no such saying. “Yeah, isn’t that great?” I replied immediately. “Oh! That’s great! Thank you.” Doraemon wrapped both her hands around mine and shook them back and forth. With the force of, “Thank you for your honest vote!”

Even before then, many different people had been living in our house, one after the other. A host. A prostitute and her daughter. An ex-yakuza and active criminal. They were all brought in by their mothers. Then they all left.

So. I knew that there was someone I wanted to live with. That alone was a miracle. It didn’t matter if S was male, female, or something else. He was who he was. Even if I had known the word transgender back then, I would have thought, “Is there any problem with that?”

Moreover, S had no place to go back to. He had no family to rely on. He also grew up in a single-parent household, but his parents insisted on calling him their daughter. They stubbornly continued to call him “S-ko.” He seemed to think, “This is no good.” He had left home as soon as he graduated from junior high school.
So if this was going to be his parents’ home, that was the best thing.

I had been telling my mother for a long time that I should stop having boys. Because I had been through so much pain. So when I saw S-kun, I thought, “That’s not what I meant, Mom… ” To be honest, I was confused. Just a little. No, quite a bit. In hindsight, I feel really sorry for S-kun for thinking such a foolish idea, but there’s no doubt that it had quite an impact on a teenager like me. I also want to say “well done” to my former self who kept calm and immediately said “OK.”

Thanks to that, the years we lived together were probably the most peaceful years for the Kusakabe family.
My mother was a beautiful woman, and a pathological believer in relying on others. I don’t want her to have such a belief.

My mother and S-kun got along well. They took baths together, shared the same bed and futon, laughed a lot even though they didn’t have much money, and were somehow noble. No, the whole family was like that. Only in those days.

I never fought with S-kun, and we cried together when our dog died. He helped me choose clothes for dates, and we secretly told each other about our younger brother’s secrets. Of course, delicacy was necessary, but it was nothing more special than the manners of living together.

On the other hand, he may have been very careful about his life, if I think about it now. Still, he must have been comfortable. I can tell by looking at his profile as he drank beer. And the first person.

S-kun called himself “jibun” at work or when he went out. He seemed a bit cool and serious. But in reality, “boku” or “ore” or “watashi” were all kind of hard. By the process of elimination, “jibun” was the only one left. From his self-introduction, it seemed like he had given up on being understood by others.

At home, it gradually changed.
“Jibun” became “ore” without me realizing it. “Boku” is used only when something awkward happens. Like “I’ll make dinner for you today.” “Sorry, I ate your ice cream.” That must have been deliberate.

When did I stop calling my mother “Mom”? I don’t remember, but I’m sure it took a lot of courage and embarrassment for me to declare my growth at the time. I’m sure it was a strategy for a child. Especially S-kun, it was about himself. “Jibun,” “ore,” “boku” were very natural. There must have been various emotions behind it. The ticklish feeling of changing the way we call each other may be born from family interactions. Whether it’s parent and child or husband and wife.

So I try to imagine. What would have happened if my mother and S-kun had been able to get married?
I would have had to leave home, and it would have been inevitable that our family would fall apart one way or another. But for S-kun, he could have created the family he chose, even for a time.

I might have called him “Papa” or “Dad” since he was only about five years older than me. Even if it was just a joke, how much of a boost it would have given him in life. As his son, I was sure to congratulate the two of them, or rather, S-kun on his leap forward.

At the time, S-kun couldn’t get married as S-kun. And it’s still the same now. Everyone can get married as they are. Is that really such a bad thing? Is it something that requires putting up barricades with systems? It ‘s hard to find someone who is willing to walk with you in a life where there are more sick times than healthy times .

Some people say that Japan’s view of the family will collapse. As someone whose own family fell apart, I can tell you that the amount of time a family can spend together varies from family to family. It’s a sad theory of relativity. What’s wrong with cherishing those moments? Sexual minorities are not the only ones affected.

Many other memories come back to me. My friends and S. My girlfriend and S. My grandparents and S. When we wrote a resume together for S’s job change. When he said the fried rice I made was delicious. When he told me about the physical discomfort and curse.

I haven’t let any of my relatives meet my daughter. In fact, I haven’t even told them. But I think I should have told S. That my daughter was born. That I gave her a name that can be used by both genders.

If we were to meet again, it would be nice to be on a street corner where many couples are getting married. It would be great if we ran into each other’s families. Where S is, who he’s living with now. There’s no way to find out. Well
, knowing him, I’m sure he’s doing great with his new girlfriend.