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

The Special Olympics is a short event.

This year, it took place in winter, from March 8th to 15th in Turin, Italy. Before I knew it, it was over.

Special Olympics is a world sports competition for athletes with intellectual disabilities. It also refers to the organizations and their activities that provide sporting opportunities and competitions throughout the year. That’s why it has “S” at the end. It’s plural. I like the fact that it places more importance on the process, growth, and sociality than on winning or losing.

I have one special Olympics memory.

It’s been more than 30 years since. I went to a municipal junior high school on the edge of the Tokyo prefectural border, and there were a variety of students there. It may have been because the city was focusing on welfare.
It was a time when there were no words like “diversity” or “diversity.” In a school surrounded by a rich ecosystem, students with even more diverse personalities and home environments studied and didn’t study.

Among them was U-kun. He was tall, had healthy tanned skin, and was slim. At first glance, he looked like he had high athletic ability. In fact, he was a fast runner. He was faster than anyone else. He was a member of the track and field club, and was a multi-runner who could run both short and long distances. His form was lean, and he looked like he was comfortable using the wind to his advantage. He was always

the anchor at the sports festival. His class was guaranteed to be valuable, so he was seen as the “guardian deity of running” or the “war god that makes you lose your fighting spirit.” As an obese child who hated running, or rather, as someone who couldn’t move forward even when I ran, I felt more than envy, even awe.

However, in the classroom, U-kun was always looking around. He was a little hesitant when he talked. He was not good at expressing his thoughts, and was nervous. He was not good at studying either. He wrote slowly and carefully. I remember that when he was surprised or in a difficult position, he often cried in a low, thick voice.

Fearless, graceful, and somehow ephemeral. Like an impala racing through the savannah. That was U-kun.

One day, when we were in our third year of junior high school and graduation was in sight, he suddenly said this.
“Stop that. Kun, stop it.” He wanted me to stop calling him U-kun and U-kun.

As the other male friends went up in grades, they started calling him by his first name, or by nicknames. This showed their growth from boys to men. But U-kun remained U-kun. Maybe he felt that he was being treated like a child.

No, U-kun, wait a minute. What’s with this all of a sudden? We’ve been calling each other “U-kun” for nine years since elementary school, right? And I’m a Kusa-kun too? You’re not the only one who calls me by my first name, so it’s embarrassing to change the way I call you now. It’ll feel as weird as Shinkase Daishuu.

We graduated without having the chance to change U’s name. We all went to different high schools. I heard that U went to a special school, not a high school.

Time passed, and a few years later. We were old enough to drink alcohol. We got together for the first time in a while and exchanged updates, and one of our classmates said,
“By the way, U-kun participated in the Special Olympics!”
“Oh! That’s right!” I hadn’t heard U-kun’s name since graduation. And it wasn’t an update, it was a battle report. We laughed. U-kun, you’re still running! Good job! I was happy that he was continuing to do what he loved.

And then, we fell silent. While exhaling a lot of alcohol-smelling breath into the glass. We went on to higher education, or got a job. It was time to let go of what we wanted to do, our dreams, or even find something, one by one. We were forced to fit ourselves into a mold prepared by society, and pushed into a boring future. There was no trace of our true selves there.

But U-kun was running. He kept running. In the first place, we never drew a line under him as a mentally disabled person, and we got along well because he was a good guy. U-kun was U-kun. Just the way he was. So it didn’t matter if he was participating in a marathon or a Special Olympics.
What he loved, and what he hadn’t given up on improving himself, was enough to earn him a gold medal. He was running way ahead of us. I remembered his back running down the track.

“He’s really amazing,” “You’re better than me,” “Everyone’s like that, aren’t they?” Admiration for U-kun. Self-pity. It was a salty conversation at a cheap izakaya. What kind of athletes will we become in the future? What does a medal mean to me? To break our anxieties, we clashed our mugs together with all our might and offered a grand toast to U-kun.

“Ah,” someone said as if inspired by the savory smell of yakitori. “Shall we call U-kun?” “Right now? ” “He’ll come.” “
I’ve had a drink with him once, and he’s a real drinker.”
At times like these, there are great benefits to hanging around in your hometown. Young people who live at home and have no money don’t hesitate to squander their friendship. “I know U-kun’s number,” someone pulled out a small phone book. “Call him.” “Do you remember that? U-kun was the one who told us to stop adding “kun” to our names.” “Yeah, that’s right. I remember.”

The sound of a phone ringing came from the flip-phone. Everyone strained their ears to hear it. “Clack. Yes.” It was U-kun’s mother’s voice. “Ah, it’s ●●. It’s been a while. Sorry to call so late at night. Is U-kun here?” “U! U!” It seemed like she was calling U-kun, who was upstairs at his parents’ house.

The guy who had been holding the phone to his ear took the flip-phone off his ear and turned the mouth towards us.

We all shouted in unison into the flip-phone.
“Come on over, athlete Mr.U! Let’s have a drink together!”

I have no memory of what happened after that night. All I remember is that U-kun’s drinking volume was definitely something special.

(End)