• The Irony of Aishiteru

    There really wasn’t anything special about this day. But I, as you should know, have always had an extensive imagination, and invented all sorts of subtle psychological reasons for why he did what he did. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. I wanted to pretend that it was more than that: that he had some real meaning in that smile, that maybe he loved me as much as I loved him.

    Since kindergarten, we knew each others names, yet it meant nothing. For me, that changed in Middle School, and suddenly, I convinced myself that I was a skateboarder (I had a very good imagination, remember). That was why I wore DC wristbands everyday. I made it my daily goal to say hi to him, and to maybe, if I was lucky, strike up a conversation with him. I don’t know think I ever reached that goal.

    My Latin teacher sent me a note from him once. We used dry-erase boards from class to class. The top of mine had all sorts of foreign markings on the top. “I think he was trying to write in Japanese to you,” my Latin teacher shrugged with disinterest. The scribbles made me blush in delight. I dreamed that he had attempted to write Aishiteru. That means “I love you” in Japanese. My friends said he had tried to call me after class, but I didn’t hear. It was ironic, I suppose. Yet I was too shy to go find him later. Always too shy.

    The end of the day was coming, so everyone sat in their seats and chattered. His voice called me from across the room. “May! Guess what? I can count to ten in Japanese!” Startled by the sudden conversation, at me no less, and the grin across his face, I couldn’t help but watch him in awe. In that moment, I wished more than ever that I could spill out a stream of Japanese words back to him. Maybe he’d keep smiling at me. Maybe he’d even like me back.

    Now did he see these moments the way I did? When he talked to me, was it because I was a friend or because he wanted to be more than that? I still don’t know, but I wish I did. Sometimes, I think about him again, and wonder what would have happened if I told him I loved him. Would he have liked it? Would he have gotten as far away from me as he could in our tiny school? If I could go back there now, with the confidence I’ve gotten, would something different have happened?

    If he knew it or not, he gave me confidence. He was the one that asked me to sing a song, or that looked at what I was drawing. He made me want to show what I was thinking, be who I was, sing my own song. He made me proud to speak in Japanese, even if others laughed and told me to speak in English. He reminded me to be me. But it was only until he was gone that I realized that. Ironically, it was after we separated schools that I had the confidence to whisper to paper, Aishiteru.