Makihara - Dear diary boy: an exacting mother, her free-spirited son, and their bittersweet adventures in an elite Japanese school

Copyright 2018 by Kumiko Makihara

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design and illustrations by Wendy Vissar.

Print ISBN: 978-1-62872-890-3

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62872-892-7

Printed in the United States of America

A note from the author:

The names of many of the individuals and institutions have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved.

The Japanese language diary entries and other writing excerpts from Taro were translated into English by the author.

Contents

November 16, 2007

I have dreams every day. Scary dreams, fun dreams, all sorts. An example of a scary dream is I was in a war. I killed two people with a sword, but while I was struggling against a third, I lost and died and woke up two days later. In another one, I died and went into a grave, but a friend was already in it.

I dont want to see dreams like that ever again.

A fun dream is like this one. I was jumping up and down on a pancake and moving forward, and then I sunk inside one and got stuck. I came out by eating a pancake that didnt even have any syrup on it.

The Very Beginning

June 3, 1999

D OCTOR NATALIA GENTLY RESTS HER HAND ON THE BABYS chest.

Your new mama and papa are here, she says. The infant slumbers peacefully on his back in the metal crib, his arms outstretched and fingers curled into tiny fists. A piece of wire hangs over one side with a plastic rattle attached: his toy. The tall and slender doctor wears a silver-and-black-stone bracelet with matching earrings. Her dark brown hair is neatly coiffed in a short, fringed cut, and her nails are shaped and manicured. Im always struck by the elegance and sophistication I come across in these far-flung and poor regions of the former Soviet Union. Natalia slides her hand back and forth to slowly wake the child. He opens his eyes.

The entrance to Kokshetau is marked by a roadside signa steel structure of the citys name atop two blue triangular frames. To the left is a cemetery; to the right is the town, located in northern Kazakhstan. On our drive through the dusty streets to the maternity hospital we see large gray abandoned buildings with broken or missing windows. On the facade of a tall factory are the words B READ FOR THE P EOPLE in Russian.

We have lived with him for two weeks and relate to him as our biological son. We believe he also knows us as his mother and father, I say, in the Russian speech I have memorized for the adoption court hearing. Im so nervous that I have no control over my stiff body, and my words come out in a whisper. But the stenographer is typing. The judge sits with no discernible expression on her face.

A few days later we fly out of Kokshetau on an old Soviet plane that holds about twenty passengers. The rumbling is so loud that I wonder why we are still taxiing until I look out of the window and see that we are airborne. My two-month-old son is sleeping on my lap.

February 13, 2006

When I woke up in the morning, there was a strange letter to me inside my diary. Grandma had drawn a picture of a hungry Diary Boy. Diary Boy is a boy that looks like me.

Yaaay. Its a feast. Hooray!
Todays diary looks yummy!!
(The Japanese character for word repeatedly fills a bowl with diary book written across it.)

I

Before

November 1, 2004

I M THE ONLY MOTHER ON THE BUS WHOS NOT WEARING A dark-blue suit. There are six of us pairsmothers and young children. We pretend not to see each other. But I know. We all have one eye on our kid and the other on our rivals. Taro sits down without offering the seat to me first. And now hes swinging his legs back and forth. The School will be looking for polite and obedient children who reflect good parenting. Have the other mothers noticed our flaws? The competition is going to trump us. Should I have bought a new suit to dress like them instead of making do with this old gray ensemble that has been my go-to suit for all occasions? Its a pleated Issey Miyake blouson and skirt. Stylish and sophisticated, it suits me. But its not the neat and safe choice that everyone else made. As the bus winds through the urban boulevards, the other moms and kids look serene and confident, focused on their mission ahead of nabbing one of the coveted spots in next years first grade.

The bus pulls into a wide driveway, lined on both sides by towering elm trees, that leads to The Schools dark green iron gate. One by one, in silence, we get off and step into the gentle sunlight of the fall afternoon. Signs guide us to the auditorium where parents are ushered to seats. The kids are lined up and given hanging nametags to slip over their heads. My chest tightens as I watch Taro. A beautiful boy with delicate features, a fair complexion, and silky, chestnut-colored hair, standing so far away from me in formation with the other kids. Five years old and facing a fork in life. Today my beloved will either pass or fail the elementary school exams. As the children march off to their test rooms, we mothers suppress the desire to shout out one more cheer of encouragement to our tiny soldiers.