I Held a Transformation Pen in My Heart Even During “Crises”

“You can’t be the Red one because you’re a girl.”
This was what I was told when I asked to play the protagonist, Red, during a hero-themed game with the neighborhood boys when I was in preschool.

Even today, transformation hero shows with female protagonists are common. However, back then, if you were a girl in a sentai team, you were pink or yellow (sometimes light blue). You were the protagonist’s sidekick.

The times were different back then, and even when I was told those opening words, I accepted them without question, thinking, “I see. I guess I can’t be a sentai protagonist because of my gender anyway.”

Then came the arrival of Sailor Moon. At the time, I was in the middle class of preschool.

First of all, I loved the personality of Usagi Tsukino, who was the protagonist but not at all reliable. On top of that, there was her costume: long hair, a miniskirt, and boots—not exactly practical for combat, but novel and stylish. And above all, the scene where she transformed into a warrior using a transformation pen that looked like lipstick was cool, a little bit sexy, and I was glued to the screen every time. Just like that, I was completely whisked away to the moon every week.

I became obsessed with playing Sailor Moon, wrapping a colored furoshiki cloth around my waist. Tuxedo Mask stole the hearts of all the girls in my generation.

I thought that maybe, one day, a cat walking down the street would say to me, “You are a Sailor Guardian,” and I even felt a sense of responsibility, thinking, “I have to find my fellow guardians!” That was how deeply Sailor Moon had permeated my childhood life.

Even after entering elementary school, I still loved Sailor Moon just as much. However, as you might expect, no cat walking down the street told me, “You are a Sailor Guardian,” and in fact, the first semester was about to end without me making any real friends, let alone finding fellow guardians.

Then, the incident occurred on the Friday just before summer vacation.
“We will have a fun party next Monday,” the teacher said, and continued, “You can do it alone or in a group, but please prepare one performance each.”

The room froze in an instant. Or so I thought, but that was just my imagination; I was the only one who had frozen. The suggestion of “alone or in a group” was actually cruel. If it had been decided from the start that we had to be in groups, maybe a kind child would have been considerate enough to include me.

What should I do?
Fun party—I cursed that name.

While I was thinking about that, groups were forming all around me. I had completely fallen behind. This is bad.

Looking around in a panic, my eyes landed on a boy who was standing all alone just like me.

A true savior!

I hurried over to him.
“Do you want to do a performance together?”
My voice came out louder than I intended.

“Sorry. I want to do a magic trick by myself.”
No way. It was an immediate refusal. Unlike me, he was an “intentional loner,” even though I had assumed he was a comrade. All was lost.

After that, when I was alone, I could see the teacher looking at me from time to time. I should have just said, “I’m in trouble,” but I didn’t want to be thought of as someone without friends, so I picked up a book from the classroom library in the corner and kept up the act of saying, “I’ll be doing a reading for my performance.” At that moment, I at least wanted to be an intentional loner.

Even when I got home, I remained depressed. What should I do? I couldn’t bring myself to invite anyone at this late stage, and that was all I could think about.

Monday arrived.
The other children finished their performances one after another. One group did a quiz, another read a picture-story show. The boy who had been an “intentional loner” successfully performed his magic tricks and gathered cheers of “Wow!!” from everyone.

And finally, my turn came.

The eyes of my classmates were all fixed on me at once. Because of the intensity of my nervousness, I felt like I could feel my heart pounding.

I will sing.

I suddenly announced that and handed the cassette tape to the teacher. The classroom started to get a little noisy. Then, the prelude to “Moonlight Densetsu” began to play. At that moment, the room fell silent.

Once I started singing, I was absorbed. Although I was nervous at first, it was the opening theme of my favorite anime. I could even picture the visuals in my head.

This is a musical.
I am singing a solo part.

Thinking that, I even felt a sense of pleasure. Even though I’ve been a soloist throughout my entire school life.

After the song, I received a big round of applause from my classmates. Honestly, I don’t know how I appeared in everyone’s eyes. My three-minute solo performance, following my sudden declaration that I would sing, might have been incredibly surreal.

However, for me, those three minutes were a treasure—three minutes where I sang my heart out with pride. Even now, in my late thirties, it remains a precious memory that I recall like this.

That weekend, it was the Sailor Moon anime that gave me strength when I had been feeling depressed ever since I got home.

It wasn’t the heart-pounding battle scenes or the exciting transformation sequences that I always loved, but on this day, it was the ending theme that gave me so much energy.

From the middle to the end of the music, the protagonist, Usagi, starts running. Even though I had watched the footage over and over again, as it overlapped with the lyrics, I began to feel brighter.

The end of this song concludes with “standing tall and dignified.”

Everyone has their own hero in their heart. In my case, that was Sailor Moon.

I don’t actually think I can become a real Sailor Guardian like I did when I was a child. However, when things are tough or when I feel like giving up, I am saved time and time again by this memory in my heart.

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This is a past article, but it’s about my favorite hero. Please let me participate in this project.

Click here for the second-grade elementary school episode