Snow Days

もう一度布団にもぐる窓の雪 Once more I crawl beneath the comforter. Snow at the window TH 1956

Unfortunately for me, there is not enough snow on the window sill to justify more time in bed, as Dad imagined back in 1956. If there were a few more inches on the ground, a few more clouds threatening to disrupt traffic, then there would be a chance for school to call for a snow day. But that seems unlikely at the moment. The ground outside is white, but I can still distinguish the lines separating the sidewalk from the lawn, a telltale sign that there is barely an inch of snow on the ground.

Born and raised in sunny California, I often wondered what it was like to look forward to snow days as a kid. Would I meet my friends for a snowball fight? Could I make a snowman in my front lawn? During the winter months, the only precipitation we saw was rain. And you cannot do anything with rain.

But it did hail once; I think I was in the 7th grade. Now, the upper stratosphere over LA could reach freezing levels, surprising us occasionally with a smattering of hail that usually melted on contact with any earthly object. But this 7th grade hail was different--at least for a few moments. I was bored, as usual, trying my best to entertain myself by printing words in the margins of my notebook. I printed in a faux-gothic style the word "Fickle Finger of Fate", a phrase I had picked up from Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. I have never been accused of being artistic, but I have always liked texts, not just to read, but to look at. Script, fancy print, even signatures have always caught my attention, and I fancied myself a competent copier of them. At the moment, I was admiring my latest artistic rendering of the "Fickle Finger of Fate" when I heard screams and cackles from the outdoor second floor hallway.

Immediately drawn to a new distraction, I rushed outside and saw pointing to the ground. I pushed my way to the chest-high wall and looked over the ledge and was shocked to see a ground that was completely white.

"It's snowing" was the refrain streaming out of everyone's mouths. But one of the teachers, obviously more knowledgeable about things meteorological, set us straight. "It's hail," she said. "It's probably cold enough for it not to melt right away."

She was very matter of fact in her attempts to quell our excitement, but her words went unnoticed. The ground had turned white, the Earth seemed to have bumped off its axis.

"Its snow," I thought, even though I knew it was hail. I wanted to run downstairs and grab a handful of my first fistful of snow. I wanted taste it. I wanted to make a snow angel. But our teacher herded us back into the classroom, assuring us the "hail" would still be there when school let out in another thirty minutes. But when the school bell rang at 3:20 PM, the hail had turned to rain and the school ground had returned to asphalt black.

* * * * *

It's now 4:44 AM and I can still see the outline of the sidewalk outside. It has stopped snowing and the likelihood of a snow day seems as remote as ever. I wish it would have snowed a bit more so I could enact what my Dad composed some fifty years ago. But as I peak through the blinds of my second floor bedroom window, I remember the feeling that my first "snow" aroused. I find it pleasant and perhaps a bit reassuring that now, having grown up to be a teacher, I can still find the prospects of snow exciting.

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Scout Buddies

A few months ago, I received an email from an old friend... Well, friend may not be the exact word, but I would like to think that we were more than just acquaintances. JU was a member of my patrol in Boy Scouts, and we were together in Karate and the same private high school. But what I believe to be our true bond was getting drunk together in Tokyo. I mean, getting shit-faced on sake in Takadanobaba is truly a bonding experience.

As usual, the following is as true as I remember it--we all remember things in our own way and memory should always be held up to scrutiny. If it is inaccurate in anyway, I hope that JU will point it out to me. In any event...

JU and I went to the same elementary school, Maryknoll, near Little Tokyo, Los Angeles. He lived in East LA as I did, but in another area near where 4th Street turns into 3rd Street, so we never rode the same school bus. Since he was two years younger than me, I didn't really get to know him until he entered our Boys Scout troop. Back then, our troop had a membership of around 50--I'm guessing actually--and we were divided into patrols, each patrol consisting of scouts from basically the same area. The westsiders made up the Bear patrol--BK might want to verify that. Those from Monterey Park were represented by the Rising Sun Patrol--formerly the Beavers, but we had to change the name. The Cobra were from the Boyle Heights area.

I lived in the Belvedere area of East LA and found myself in the Firebird patrol with people I barely knew: Yonai who was two years older than me, Piki who was one year older. Yonai eventually dropped out and Piki was promoted to Assistant Scout Master, so I became patrol leader for a group of fellow Eastsiders named Kuch, Banzai, Yonai's younger cousin, the Ezaki twins and JU. A classmate, Rhubarb, was also in our patrol, even though he didn't live on the Eastside. He lived in Eagle Rock where no one else lived, so he got stuck with us. We were not necessarily a motely crew, but Yonai the elder, and others from an earlier generation ensured that we had a reputation of being slackers and screw-ups.

But that reputation was not necessarily a bad thing. Those of you who have read NLUTE know that I considered myself a GLOB (good little Oriental boy), so a reputation as a slacker had its appeal. Perhaps, however, more to the point, few had any expectations of us, so we could slack off and no one would get on our case. Once we had a physical fitness night and each patrol had to perform a set number of exercises, including a 50 yard dash, chin-ups, and push-ups. Since the patrols came in various sizes, the competition between patrols would be limited to only a few members, but each member had to participate. So the weekend before we got together to decide who could do the best in each group. I was not the fastest person at school, and my short legs made the matter worse, but I was about as fast as anyone in our patrol. When we tried to do push-ups, I recall Banzai not being able to do even one. I thought he as joking and slacking off--and if you are thought to be slacking off amongst a bunch of slackers, then that would be REALLY bad. But he was seriously push-up impaired. If I met him now, he'd probably kick my ass, but back then, he could barely do one. We did not fare very well.

However, when we did perform, people were actually impressed. Once, we had a drill contest between patrols and we actually tried to come up with a marching routine that would look kinda cool. We were supposed to march in formation and split into two different groups and then mesh together at the end. As you might imagine, in the middle of the competition, one group took a left when they were supposed to take a right, and we were all screwed up--almost like the Stanford marching band. But for some reason, at the end of the routine, we all ended up at the right spot. Personally, I was pissed as hell and couldn't wait to tell them they had fucked up. But as we stood at attention and saluted Imu, the Assistant Scoutmaster, he nodded as he jotted something down on his clipboard, muttering "pretty good." We ended up in third place with a routine we had messed up.

I have a number of other memories from my Scout days, but I would be deviating from the purpose of this post: JU. As far as I remember, he was a good kid, a solid member in our patrol. I say this without a hint of sarcasm. He was athletic, sharp and willing to work hard, which might explain why he's a lawyer now. But when I met him in Japan a number of years later, he left me with a different impression.

To be continued...

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First Slow Dance

Jogging Memories of my First Dance

No, the title does not reflect my lunch--Burger King. It is the initials of a person from whom I recently received an email, an acquaintance from the past. It is somewhat fascinating and to a degree weird when someone you barely knew and had virtually forgotten about randomly contacts you. I guess the longer I'm online the greater the chance of this happening. This is what he wrote:

O-man, I recently stumbled on your blog while I was surfing the net. I must know you but I can't recognize your photo or the background info I have seen. I have only read a small portion of your blogs but it looks like you were born in 1955 and went to Maryknoll. I was born in 1955 and graduated from Maryknoll in 1969. So you should have graduated Maryknoll in 1968, 1969 or 1970. Looks like you also went to Loyola High (the only Jesuit high school in LA in the 70's). I went there from 1969 -1970. You write some funny stuff and bring back great memories for me. So who the hell are you?!!!!

It's good to know that my secret identity is still intact. Only those with an O-man secret decoder ring know the truth. In any event, I was surprised to learn that BK had found me. I had previously heard from another friend that he had become quite successful as an attorney and now enjoys influential standing in LA. I, of course, emailed him and he revealed how he found me. I can't believe anyone would be doing a Google search on the Roger Young Auditorium and JA dances. I didn't think ANYONE remembered it, let alone do a write up for some newsletter. I am absolutely flabbergasted. At first, I thought it was the entry on eating grass, but I later figured out it was about my days as a Glob (good little Oriental boy).

Anyway, I remember BK as one of the weststide guys in the class above me. Thoughts of him bring back memories of when he was in the 8th grade and I was in the 7th, specifically one memory when we had a joint Halloween event in the clubhouse at Maryknoll. It was, for us, a special event where the upper class (8th was the highest grade at our school) introduced the younger class to the intricacies of "mixers." I was only 12 years old and it was my first real taste of male-female group socialization. Or more simply put, my first dance party. It was held in the afternoon between 1 and 3 PM on Halloween; the windows were covered with black cloth to give it that evening look, making it even more exotic for me. I looke forward to dancing to songs I had heard on the radio and hoping to be as cool as the teens on shows like "9th Street West" and "Soul Train"--no one watched American Bandstand for dance tips, believe me.

As you might imagine, we were stuck in cliques, usually split between the cool and the uncool. I, of course, was inclined toward the uncool. I mean, how else could you explain my thoughts of desperately trying to figure out how to avoid embarrassment? Who should I ask to dance? Would she say yes? What if she turns me down? It all seemed like such momentous questions back then. Of course, this line of questioning took on special meaning when the topic of conversation turned to slow dancing. No one would dare say it, but I know that the only thought in my mind was: What would it feel like to have my body pressed up against another body distinctly different from mine? As you might imagine, I was pretty excited.

I was partial to Top 40 fare, such as "Midnight Confession" by the Grassroots and "People Gotta Free" by the Rascals, but the cool kids more or less controlled these affairs, and we were subjected to a heavy dose of soul music, which of course was not a bad thing. After listening to a few songs, I actually danced--I'm not sure if a simple side-step actually constitutes dancing these days--to "Tighten Up" by Achie Bell and the Drells from Houston, Texas, and found it quite exhilarating. So this is what dancing is all about! I thought. Moving your body to the rhythm of music with a girl as a partner, exhibiting yourself before a group of your peers. Today, I might describe it as a tribal ritual that prepares the participants for some level of physical bonding. But back then, I'd just say it felt groovy. Suddenly, there was the crooning of Smokey Robinson.

I did you wrong, my heart went out to play And in the game I lost you What a price to pay, I'm cryin' Oooo Baby, Baby.

My friends and I glared at each other, silently gesturing with our chins, egging each other to go out and ask someone to dance. By the time one of us had gotten the nerve up, the song was over--I mean, tunes were only a little more than two minutes back then. But one of the cool guys came by, bragging about his little adventure. Oh man, those titties were so soft. Kinda small, but... Hahahaha. Who should I dance with next? Hey, put on another... And he faded away as he flitted off like the butterfly he was.

It didn't help when we saw someone in the corner making out. It was BK. There he was, facing the corner with someone's hands all over his back. Woah, are they, like, kissing? Here? When the voices around them rose to a loud murmur, he turned around quickly to reveal he was all by himself. All he had done was wrap his arms around himself, rubbing his own back passionately, giving the impression that he was making out. We howled in approval, even as Sister Patricia rushed over wondering what all the commotion was about. Of course, there was nothing, really.

As Jr. Walker and the All Stars sang "What Does it Take?" I was screwing up the courage to ask someone to dance the next slow song. When I heard the telltale strikes of the snare drum and the short strokes of violins of the introduction, I just had to ask someone to dance. I strode over to a group of girls sitting down in a row of chairs against the wall and asked one of them. She acquiesced. We got to the dance floor just as the Delfonics started to sing.

Many guys have come to you with a line that wasn't true and you passed them by. Now your in the center ring and their lines don't mean a thing why don't you let me try...

I didn't really know what I was doing. I mean, practicing regular dance steps in front of the TV was doable. You didn't need a partner since dancing didn't really involve touching, but to cuddle. I was lost. I put my arm around her waist and she put her arms around my neck, and we kinda rocked left and right as we took small steps that moved us--naturally it seemed--in small circles. As I imagine it now, I probably looked awkward, but that was the last thing on my mind. The butterfly was right. They ARE soft. That's all my little mind could think about.

Well, "La-La-Means I Love You" was another really short song--two minutes and eleven seconds?--so it was over all too soon, which was just as well for a guy with only primitive, tribal thoughts on his mind. Amazingly, and perhaps rudely, I can't for the life of me remember who I danced with. This was a signal moment in my life--the first time I actually held a girl in my arms--and I can't remember who it was. All that remains in my mind is the sensation of softness. I can almost recreate the situation in my mind right now, and this in itself allows me to imagine one particular girl. But this is just the idle imaginings of a old man.

I had the opportunity to dance one more slow dance, this time with an 8th grader--Patsy?--and this was a point of pride, as my friends later reminded me after school. Y'know, the older woman? Hahhahaha. Anyway, at home, a younger friend dropped by to ask me if I wanted to go trick-or-treating with him, but I declined. I suddenly felt too old, too worldly for such childish activities. I had touched a girl in a sexual way; not that we had sex, of course, but the sensations aroused could not be described in any other--albeit innocent--way.

I hadn't thought about my first dance in a long time, but the email from BK opened a floodgate of 38-year-old memories. BK wrote that he doesn't really remember the incident above, and I wouldn't be surprised if I have gotten the particulars wrong. But someone did act like he was making out, and in my addled 50-year-old mind, it is inexplicably linked with BK. Either way, it's just an innocuous memory that was amusing to recall. Dude, thanks for jogging it for me.

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