Heritage

It was a nice, sunny morning. I wandered the halls of the Palatine High School, heading in the general direction of my locker. The first period wasn’t going to start for another fifteen minutes, so I wasn’t in any hurry.

The halls were mostly empty. Here and there, I saw people snoozing, chatting, rushing to finish their homework, making out - nothing but normal, high school stuff. Armed with tiny, bead-like stereo headphones and a CD player, I was listening to Hikaru Utada lamenting about her crush:

               It's automatic                Soba ni iru dake de                Sono me ni mitsumerareru dake                         Dokidoki tomaranai                (I don't know why)                No to wa ienai         I just can't help                It’s Automatic…

Thanks to the shameless exploitation of school-owned CD burners, I was able to put most of my favorite songs onto a single CD. Since my musical tastes are widespread, most of my peers try to stay as far away from my CDs as possible.

               My name is Arturo Ryokan, or Art for short. I am sixteen, but people tell me I look even older. My appearance tends to throw people off. I am fairly tall. I have jet-black hair. My dark eyes, while being as large as those of a person of European decent, have a soft almond shape.

               Today, I was wearing sneakers, loosely fitting jeans and a green shirt with “casual interruption” written on it in black kanji.

               “Hi Art,” said Megan. She was a short, petite, pretty cheerleader with long, light-brown hair and large, brown eyes. Despite the popular stereotype, she was actually very nice.

               “Hi Megan,” I replied, giving her a brief smile, “hello, Megan’s Boyfriend.”

               Hey, you can’t expect me remember his name when Megan changes her boyfriends at the speeds that make Jennifer Lopez seem like a devoted wife. So I called him “Megan’s Boyfriend” just to be safe.

               I could never understand this kind of mentality. I guess it’s because my parents became a couple back in their high school days. Sure, my dad wasn’t mom’s first boyfriend, but he was certainly not her 140th. And once they got together, they stuck together, surviving high school, college and the challenges of the marriage. To this day, they are still very much in love. Believe me, I know.

               My mom is named Alice. She is not just a talented artist. She lives forart. She breathes art. If the world came to an end, but all the art galleries survived, she would throw a party. It’s no wonder I wound up with a name that could easily be abbreviated to “Art”. One would think this would make me hate art for as long as I live, but it doesn’t. I genuinely enjoy art.  I am not nearly as talented as mom, but I am still fairly good.

               My dad, Kenji Ryokan, is a martial arts instructor. He also published quite a few poems and short stories. He comes from a fairly old, respected Japanese family with rich history. His last name, Ryokan, is a corruption of Japanese Ryouken. When dad’s parents moved to America, the immigration officials accidentally misspelled it (as it often happened back in the 50s). By the time my grandparents got an opportunity to correct it, it was too late. So, we use Ryokan in public, but at home, we stick to the original.

               My mom came from a wealthy family that can trace its ancestry back to English colonists. I never really got along with most of its members. My mom turned her back on a golden life her family laid out for her so she could pursue her art. But in the eyes of her parents, she did it because of my dad. Needless to say, family get-togethers tend be have all the warmth of a Cold War peace conference.

               Thankfully, my dad’s family approves of his choice. Otherwise I would have gone nuts by now. Having one side of the family pressuring me to choose one culture over another is bad enough. I am not sure I would have survived such assault from both sides.

                Although my grandparents let me chose my own destiny and make my own decisions, they expect me to learn Japanese language, history, culture and customs. I had no problem with that.  At first, it was because I was too young to know any better, but as I grew older, I became genuinely interested. In the process, I discovered anime, J-pop and Japanese cinema. Because of my extensive knowledge of those aspects of Japanese pop culture, people tend to assume I am a wannabe who doesn’t understand what being Japanese is really about.  Not that there is anything wrong with trying to learn about a different culture.  But it’s one thing to learn everything about another culture by reading books or watching movies. Knowing that this culture is in your blood, that it’s a part of who you are is something else entirely.

               Does this make me Japanese? No way! American culture is just as much a part of me as Japanese culture. Granted, I didn’t always feel this way. But over the years, I learned that choosing is pointless, because whenever you choose one side, you find an argument as to why you should choose another side. Overall, the reconciliation of my dual heritages has been more of a blessing then a curse. I could watch a movie without having to rely on those pesky subtitles and laugh at how off they actually were. I had a lot more holidays then most of my classmates.  Having a dual heritage allowed me to see incidents like Pearl Harper from two different points of view.  That makes it easy to separate the inevitable bias from each version and draw my own conclusions.  The list goes on.

               I passed by Korean-American couple enjoying a morning stroll. 

               “Good morning, Art,” said the guy. I knew him from my Tae Kwon Do class.

               “Good Morning, Tim”

               My relationship with the students of Asian descent is a complicated one. Some can’t get past my mixed heritage and don’t want anything to do with me. Others assume I am Asian and don’t have a problem with me. Others assume I am white and don’t have a problem with me. But most of them realize that I am not a culture, but a real person with my own thoughts, feelings, tastes and opinions.

               I heard somebody running to catch up with me.

               “Hi Art.”

               The voice belonged to a short teen with brown hair and blue eyes. He was a year my junior. Unlike me, he looked young for his age.

               “Hi Dare,” I replied, “what’s up?”

 His real name was Theodore, but he prefers to use the nickname he earned as a troublemaker in elementary school.

“Well, Miaka’s birthday is coming up, and I am trying to figure out what I should get her.”

“And seeing as that I know a lot about all things Japanese, you want to know my opinion?” I asked. Dare nodded

Miaka is a Japanese girl Dare is in love with. They have to keep this relationship a secret, because if Dare’s parents find out, they would freak. It’s not Dare’s parents are bigots. They just want their son to wind up with a timid, conservative, Christian, blonde girl (someone like our mutual friend Mary-Ann). Miaka didn’t fit any of those requirements. It has been my experience that secret relationships tend to end in disasters, but I still hoped it would work out.

“Well,” I advised, “for starters, you can’t think of this as “finding a present for a Japanese girl”. You have to think of it as “finding a present for a girl I love”. It will make things much easier. And whatever you’ll give her will come from your heart, not from my knowledge of all things Japanese. You know what she is into. You figure it out.”

“Thanks, Art,” said Dare, still undecided but grateful. He went to his locker

The CD Player was playing “Thank you” by Dido. How ironic.

It took me another two minutes to reach my locker. It was in the art hallway, so unlike most lockers, it was big enough to host a makeout session. I struggled with the combination and opened it. The inside was decorated with photos of my favorite singers, hard-to-find photos of Tamlyn Tomita, photos of Julia Nickson, Shannon Doherty, the cast of my favorite shows, a few sketches and of course, pictures of my family and friends. My personal favorite is a picture of Nat and me posing in front of a habitat with monkeys that went out of their way to make a fool of themselves. 

That’s when I felt a pair of strong yet delicate hands on my shoulders:

“Thinking about the good old days, huh?” said a girl with a lovely Russian accent

Well, speaking of the devil…

“Hi, Nat.”

I turned around to find her staring at me with mock skepticism.  

“And what do you mean, good old days, ” I remarked, “what’s wrong with the present?”

“Nothing,” she smiled, “all things considered, nothing at all.”

Her real name Natalya Daviydovna Kukushkina, but I call her Nat for short. She is my age and less then a half-head shorter then me. She had voluminous red hair that ended a few millimeters below her ears. Her eyes were the color of summer leaves. Her every curve was a study of perfection, an amazing balance of sexuality and beauty. Toady, she was wearing darks hoes, blue jeans and black blouse, which complimented her perfectly. That was really no surprise. No matter what she does or what she wears, she will always be the most beautiful girl to ever walk the Earth.

I met Nat five years ago, when she he just moved from Russia. She had the nerve to feel loyal to her homeland, so she refused to say a Pledge of Allegiance. She didn’t realize that here in America, patriotism is a hypocrite.

Nat barely knew any English, but to me, her simple defiance (I will not!) was far more powerful then Emancipation Proclamation. From that moment on, I knew she was something special. Over the years, her beauty blossomed and her broken English evolved into a sonnet of sarcastic wit. We became best friends. Recently, we became something more. Since then, we have been trying to figure out where to go from there.

“So, how is everything?” I asked

“Peachy. Damon has been stalking me.”

Damon is Nat’s ex-boyfriend

“Do you want me to kick his ass?”

“No, I’ll take care of it”

Knowing Nat, it will probably involve her famed Tae Kwon Do skills.

She reached into my locker and grabbed a small paperback. Even before we stated dating, she used it to store some of her stuff, since I had plenty of room to spare. What can I say: it pays to have an art locker.

“On the other hand,” added Nat, “my mom is speaking to me for a change”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“If it was your mother, it would be a good thing. But with my mother, I can never be sure.”

“Good point. But how do you feel about it?”

“She’s my mother, and I will always love her, no matter how many stupid stunts she pulls.”

“Isn’t it the mother’s line?”

“Hey, after all the endless hours of being brainwashed by Gilmore Girls, what do you expect?”

“I expected you to pick up Lane’s taste in music,” I joked, referring to Nat’s devotion to boy bands

“Arturo Ryokan,” she parodied a classical 50’s mom, “you shouldn’t mock your girlfriend’s taste in music when she holds your trance collection hostage.”

“You better not threaten my trance collection! Don’t forget: I got your romantic novels hostage.”

“Oh no you don’t!” she reached into my locker, trying to snatch away all the paperbacks. I moved to pretend-intercept her.

Nat was in such a rush to rescue her books she literally flew into my arms.

I was standing there, holding the girl I love, feeling her heart beat, smelling her perfume. I looked into her eyes and the rest of the world no longer mattered. This was…perfect.

“You are a hypocrite,” purred Nat, “I can’t mock Hikaru Utada, but you can make fun of Backstreet Boys.”

“Nat, everybody makes fun of Backstreet Boys”

“I could care less what everybody thinks. It’s you that’s the problem. We are dating.  Why should I bother spending any time with you if you can’t even go ten minutes without making fun of my music tastes.”

“Because you love me.”

Nat paused for what seemed like days. Then, she finally proclaimed:

“Hikaru Utada still sucks.”

“Don’t make me choose between you and Hikki.”

“She is married.”

“So?”

Before I knew it, a mock-fight over our tastes turned into a passionate makeout session. How did it happen? I didn’t know, and frankly I didn’t care. But let me tell you: when I said that art lockers could host makeout sessions, I was exaggerating. Don’t ever try to make out in front an open locker! I repeat, don’t try to make out in front of an open locker!

Man that sounded ridiculous.

Our bliss was rudely interrupted by the school bell. We parted, still holding hands.

“I guess I better go,” said Nat apologetically

“Yep,” I nodded reluctantly, “you don’t want to be late for the only class you’re failing.”

“And you have to get to 2D Studios”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“So we better go.”

“Yes, we better.”

Nat gave me a quick kiss:

“Ya lublyu tebya, Arturo Ryokan”

“Ya toje tebya lyublyu, Natasha Kukushkina”

We let go of each other’s hands

“I’ll see you at lunch,” said Nat. She gave me a brief way and rushed in the general direction of the Foreign Language hallway.

I reached for my CD player (which I paused when Nat came) and hit play. It was playing “Look at us” by Sarina Paris.

Is it just me, or do I have some kind of psychic control over which song the CD player chooses? Because aside from a few exceptions, the songs always come on at the most eerily appropriate time.

I dropped off all the books I didn’t get and went across the hall. As usual, the door was locked, so I had to use the one on the other end of the hall.

I am Arturo Ryokan. To me, heritage is one of the most important things you could have. It is your past, your roots, the foundation on which your destiny is built. It’s up to you to decide how you want to build it. All you have to do is have an open mind, a kind heart and lot’s optimism. Because I swear, if I am going to read another sorry tale about a poor, suffering person of mixed heritage I am going to scream.

And speaking of which, the other door was locked, too.

“Baka Chun-sama!” I yelled in frustration and raced to find my teacher.