Youthful Low-Voice Life

When I was in junior high school, I once made a point of living my life with a low voice. In our class anthology, there was a section for "What is your type?", and the person I liked at the time had written "someone with a low voice" there.

It's cringey. Even thinking about it now, it's just too cringey. People often say that youth is bittersweet, but for me, youth was like a green onion. It wasn't sweet or sour, just intensely bitter. I'm going to write about one of those bitter episodes now. Now that I'm an adult, I want to believe that this bitterness serves as a spice that gives my life depth.

*

At the time, I was a short junior high student. Even though I was jumping around desperately every day in a basketball club with strict training, my growth spurt was later than everyone else's, so I remember being near the front of the line when we were ordered by height in class. In short, I was a little kid whose voice hadn't even changed yet, but while at school, I always forced myself to respond in a low-pitched voice.

In my head, I imagined a dandy, sexy voice like Mr. Kawashima from Kirin. However, that was just how I pictured myself, and looking at it objectively, I think it was quite awkward. For starters, I looked way too much like a child. Kuro-chan is an old man with a high voice. I was a child with a low voice, so I was Shiro-chan.

To me, that Shiro-chan, the person I liked would often call out, "Mikeda-kun, what time does the basketball club end today?" And for some reason, I would often see her on my way home after club activities ended.

I would be called out to, and then we would exchange a few trivial words. This was enough conversation to make an adolescent boy misunderstand. I was fully carried away, thinking she was interested in me, and I started looking forward to talking to her. During club practice, I would think of topics to entertain her, and if I could see her, I would try my best to talk to her. Of course, in my (intended) casual low voice.

However, my tearful efforts were in vain, and the romance came to an easy end. One day on my way home from cram school, I saw her walking hand-in-hand with a senior from the basketball club.

When I think about it, it's a simple story. She was waiting for the basketball club to end because of the senior, and I was just a classmate in the same class she was greeting. It wasn't that her type was "someone with a low voice," but simply that the senior she liked had a low voice. I was trying so hard to force a low voice without even realizing such a simple equation of love. I feel so embarrassed.

The night wind was cold. I wrapped the three-meter-long scarf my grandmother had knitted for me around my neck several times and went home, hiding my face. When I received it, I thought, "Grandma, you knitted way too much," but for once, I was grateful for the length. The scent of winter drifted through the gaps in the yarn.

*

To share a little postscript, my misguided efforts ended up being useful in an unexpected way. I was assigned to the bass part for that year's choral competition, and my class was able to win by singing Spitz's "Sora mo Toberu Hazu" (I Should Be Able to Fly). Of course, it wasn't just my own strength, but I feel like my feelings, carried on my low-pitched singing voice, must have resonated with the judges in some way.

There is no such thing as a useless effort. Even if it doesn't lead to results, I learned that the flower of that effort might bloom somewhere else. With the miracle of meeting you, I should be able to fly.

By the way, as for another episode from my junior high days, there is also the story of when I told a girl in my class, "I can read people's minds, you know...", but I haven't been able to enjoy that as a bitterness of life yet. The green onion is too spicy.