In the morning I left a voice message for my mom and sister about the system of silence that pervades the entirety of Japanese culture. How, in any and all events, even in ones specifically designed for people to talk openly, the guardrails are always in place, and even if true communication is made, acknowledging it afterword is taboo or somehow a dishonor. One may express themselves, if there is no other option, yet that expression exists forever more inside a vacuum, allowed to be, but never to be seen or heard beyond that. For the Japanese its normal, even as it crushes them everyday of their lives they keep it going, while the average Westerner is obliterated by it instantly, and does not recover even after having accepted it for what it is.
I headed for the airport and flew to Okinawa with inspiration and joy in my heart. I landed and immediately was blown away by just how tropical the islands are. Its truly hot and humid here, the flowers are next gen. That was how the city felt and the people were far different as well, much more open and outgoing, just warmer in general. Which was funny because I had more than one Japanese person up north shake their collective heads at the southerners.
“Not Japanese.” They said. If that’s the case I’ll take it, I was getting frostbite from the chilling behavior of the northerners, I could go for a change of pace.
The hostel I stayed at was a multi-floor baseball diamond shaped building butressing a river which had clearly seen things which can never be unseen, and it showed in the face of everyone within the vicinity. Like a visual trauma que, the area itself was a living scar of what this building is and had been since god knows when. Each floor was seeped in sin baked into it by the heat of the tropics. A story wrapped in an adventure lost to the everyday attempt to forget the reason you exist there, and for the purpose of keeping Japan in a constant checkmate since the end of the war.
You see, Okinawa was a special case for ending world war 2, as it was the place America and the allies first landed, and used it as a base to attack every inch of the Japanese mainland. It was also completely owned and operated by America long after the war, which is why the northers say Okinawa is not Japan. It would not take me long to see what they meant, and although I accept their point of view, I see much to like about them in general compared to the northern variants.
On the other hand I also noticed that there is definitely a different aura for the land and people here. Okinawa was once its own kingdom, now its nothing but permanent open wound for not one nation, but three. A theme park of suffering and sadness for the conquered and the conquerors alike. If only people could see that such wounds are all around us, in every stretch of land, etched deep within every human heart.
I met a girl in the hostel who needed help weighing her bag.
“You think this is more than 7 Kilos?” I lifted it.
“Yes.” She sighed. She was flying Jet star and they don’t play around with the weight game. I saw them running guests down in the airport to shave ½ a pound from each bag.
The girl told me about her MIT professor and a famous student he had which were in the Anarchist realm, always interesting to hear about all the different groups that are doing things their way to reach the same end. She also told me about a cool hostel on the northern end of the building she enjoyed, and since the hell pit we were in was full I booked a few days there instead. By the looks of things on Google maps there’s very little going on there, being remote as it is, but its beautiful.
I found a Star Bucks and got a jet-black tall cup with a sugar donut. Jacked, unable to stand still I set out on the town and explored the main strip front to back before landing in a Mos Burger where a soy burger and fries awaited me, anything to cut the caffeine crazies crawling through my skin.
Mom sent me a bunch of pictures from my dad who passed away from cancer in 2006, almost 20 years ago. It blows my mind that he’d been dead longer than I knew him. It’s the kind of thing that you can never understand until its already happened to you for a long time. For time is the key to the feeling. Like a spice in and of itself for experience. I wrote a little message to my father in my journal, it reads.
“Dear dad, I love you so much. I’m so grateful for all you did for me, and with me. You’re a great man. You deserved better from me. I am a strong man because of you. I’m a free man because of you. You’re in my heart, always, your son, Daniel Maddox.” I’ve never written anything like that before today, and I feel at peace with my father in ways which I never did before. I suppose it says a lot about my growth, anyone who knew me in the dark ages of youth would find even such an admittion tantamount to self-betrayal, given my hatred and anger in those days.
In truth I’ve worn a mask not of my own creation for so long that taking it off feels just the same as tearing of my own face, but I began this process long before, and just like quickly removing a band aid to avoid the slow pulling of flesh from flesh, I’ve accustomed myself to the removing of falsity from my being. To the point where now, even with all I know is still before me to learn and grow, I feel more myself than the mask I created to shield me from the world. My experiences with my father prepared me to endure any pain, both physical or mental, it is only the emotional damages which has taken me this long to address, having never developed the skills to face them before.
My life is the sum total of all other lives. Yet no lives total more than those of my parents and siblings. To you, I give thanks. For you, I live thankfully.