Category: Memoir

Mom spent lots of time getting me ready for the first day of school.  The night before, she pressed my shirt and laid my skirt on the tatami, making sure all the folds were perfectly straight.  She shined my shoes and polished them with cloth.  Then, she sharpened a few pencils with a small knife.  Her movements were even and efficient.  I was very happy to have a box of beautifully shaped pencils.

At school, I noticed that some of my classmates used small gadgets to keep their pencils sharp.  With a few gentle twists, the pencils would look as good as new.  Out of curiosity, I asked to try them on my own pencils.

I showed mom the result of my experiment after school.  She was furious, saying that I ruined the pencils.  She said they looked as if a dog had chewed on them.  I was totally confused.  To me, the pencils looked beautiful.  However, judging by mom’s reaction, I sensed that there was something evil about using pencil sharpeners.  I didn’t touch them again.

Years later, already an adult and having observed some of my friends sending their children to school, I finally realized, instead of pencils, what I ruined was mom’s dream of getting her child ready for the first day of school.  She had wanted all the beautiful things to come out of her own hands.  She held the dream so close to her heart that it was almost a secret.

Mom grew up poor.  She told us that she had to get up early every morning; make breakfast and pack lunch for herself.  Before she was tall enough, she had to stand on a stool to reach the stove top.   she would hike over the mountain to her school.  Coming home in the evening, she had to help with chores: collecting firewood, growing vegetables and feeding pigs.  Her drive to seek a better life pushed her forward.

Mom often told us that we should learn to appreciate everything in life.  She said that our good fortune was the result of other people’s sacrifices.  Mom taught us to always give thanks.

I never asked mom about that day.  I carry a deep remorse for having ruined one of mom’s dreams.  I try my best to show my appreciation, not only to mom but also to everyone in my life.

It’s “back-to-school” time.  Parents are helping young children picking up new clothes and supplies for the new school year.  College freshmen are out in force piling up dormitory necessities.  Although decades have gone by, my first “real” school day is still fresh in my memory.

My new uniform felt a little stiff.  My perfectly shined black shoes contrasted strikingly with my new white socks.  (Well, black shoes and white socks were common requirements for all students.)  My canvas bookbag was as big as my upper torso.  But, it was almost empty except for a pencil case and a handkerchief.  By the end of the day, I would have picked up a few textbooks—things that made me felt grown-up and proud.

My school was within walking distance from our house.  I had been there a few times: taking entrance tests, interviewing with administrators because of my under-age status and hand-delivering documents with mom.  But, on the first day of school everything was different.  The front gate was open.  There were cars, rickshaws and people. . . lots of people.  I was already a bit apprehensive meeting new people.  The hustle and bustle made me even more uneasy.

My classroom was in a small one-story building behind the first row of classrooms and offices, on one side of the courtyard.  There was only one other classroom in the same building.  In addition to the courtyard, there was also space behind the building for outdoor activities.  There were bamboo timbers for climbing, swings, seesaw and monkey bars.  AND, there was a small concrete bunker!  It was a large pipe, half buried underground and covered by dirt and vegetation.  It must have been constructed during the last world war and left abandoned.

My teacher was young and soft-spoken.  Her last name was 時, same as “hour” or “time.”  I didn’t know anyone of that name.  Her shoulder-length wavy hair made her face seem slim.  After introducing herself to us, she started instructions right away.

I cannot recall what I learned that day.  But, I remember being puzzled by the people that came to pick up my classmates.  They all looked very young.  Soon, I found out that they were the parents of my new friends.  It was the first time that I realized that my family was different.

That was the beginning of my decades of student life.