Here we are, birthday
When I turned 19, precisely at 11:35pm on March 25th in 2010, I accidentally punched my friend in the face. We were standing on the grass outside our house at college, beneath a very large and knobbly tree. It was cold and we could see our breath. Screams escaped our lips when the small digital numbers on our flip phones changed from :34 to :35. I threw my arms up and hit her right in the nose. Our joy quickly turned into shock (or pain), then to relief, which then transitioned to laughter; pockets of sound leaving us in pairs.
I miss that seamless transition.
One of the most absorbing things about transitions has to be the portraits we keep to try to preserve them; ‘little nothing moments’ that acquire meaning. A photo of two of my close friends in Sendai speaks like this. The picture was taken in my apartment just before the start of someone’s birthday party—though I don’t remember whose.
On the left, one friend wears a lopsided party hat that looks like it would fall off were it not strapped so securely under her chin. The hat is shiny and pink, adorning her forehead like that of a unicorn horn. She sits in seiza1, a beam of light from the lamp across the room tries to reach her chest but doesn’t. The sunglasses she wears have black and white spirals on the lenses, giving her a glazed look; the appearance of someone who is curiously (and gently) peering into the secrets of time as she peers into the face of our distracted friend next to her. He takes up the bottom half of the frame, slightly to the right of center. This friend is lying on his back; a pointed green party hat resting on his stomach, untouched and not yet where it’s supposed to be; his phone held up to his face as he texts.
I wish I could find this photo in its original form. There are versions of it that are layered over with text, but these copies are too altered to be representative of the real moment that occurred in front of me seven years ago.
When I was in my single digits, celebrating my younger brother’s birthday in September became a specialized hobby; a way to acknowledge transition through another being. With the help of my mom and grandparents, I planned an array of elaborately-themed parties for him, each one centered around his favorite thing that year: the color orange, amphibians (with a chief focus on frogs—some that are still stuck to our bedroom ceilings), and cats. We aimed to create seamlessness, initiate celebration and coherency—sustain it, if possible. These parties were always a surprise. I’d make everyone hide, then scream at the young boy traipsing through the front door of the house. Every year, he seemed to be contentedly and quietly perplexed by the whole affair.
Two weekends ago, I turned 31 in the passenger seat of my significant other’s car. The sky was grey and he was smoking tobacco from a pipe when he told me to stop overthinking. I felt myself shrink at the phrase, as one does when they feel misunderstood. I looked at the clock. Our argument was uncomfortable, but the small digital numbers on the dashboard were familiar. It was 12:32 pm JST, which meant it was 11:32pm EST. Counting down to my minute of birth is something I always do, bringing in age like New Years Eve, this time, alone even though I wasn’t. Two minutes left. I said, knowing my significant other didn’t really understand exactly why this was important. Perhaps I would transform into something new and different when the numbers moved—rearranged themselves. Maybe I would burst out of a chrysalis and suddenly grow wings.
No, 31 is just as delicate and wild and as ruled by gravity as the others.
That afternoon we sipped coffee and shared the mildness of the moment, only to misunderstand one another once more and spiral back into details that were deemed neither relevant nor fair by both parties. There seemed to be no solving the relentlessness of our disagreement until evening, when he brought me to his hair appointment. Just outside the doors of the barbershop, we both calmed down. Once inside, I sat on a bench next to a bookshelf filled with shingeki no kyojin2 manga and the kind of green succulents you’d expect to find in a barber shop. The two middle aged barbers were gentle and welcoming. They asked me how long I’d lived in Japan, and what to do about my boyfuriendo’s3 hair. I told them: eight years, I really didn’t know, and it was up to him.
Watching my significant other relax beneath the hot, steaming white cloths made me relax too. It was soothing. We kept sharing glances in the mirror, catching each other’s eyes and smiling until the barber asked us not to; a sharp blade held firmly in the barber’s right hand, and a smile on his own face, just beneath his mask. The other barber with the long, grey beard handed me a tray of chocolate and coffee. It was past 9pm, but I drank the whole cup with fervor and calm. Swallowing each drop. The bitter taste of the black coffee is a taste my significant other doesn’t like; he prefers the softness of lattes, and I can understand why. I looked up at him in the mirror once more as I took a sip. This time I was careful not to smile. So was he. Another birthday, here we are, rotating inside and outside of self to understand the things we taste.
A traditional Japanese sitting position in which one’s legs are folded beneath them, kneeling, while the body rests on the heels, or soles of the feet. Depending on the nature of the setting, the position alters slightly. The kanji for seiza, 正座, literally translates to “proper/correct” and “sit.”
Also known in English as Attack on Titan.
boyfriend or ボーイフレンド.
little nothings 1 - 7
little nothing 8
So beautiful! Who’s that unicorn head, I wonder:) Looking forward to what’s coming next.
What a moving and honest description of everything--transitions, relationships, lives, birthdays...Thank you for sharing