Under the Same Sky

Tottori Castle ruins, located at the foot of Mount Kyusho. Tottori Nishi High School, built on those grounds, is my alma mater, boasting a history of over 150 years.

Since it is a small town in many ways, I always pass by it whenever I return to Japan and visit my parents' home. Under a clear, sunny sky, the school building stands quietly, looking exactly as it did that day, at the base of a mountain about 260 meters high, where lush green foliage burns brightly.

My hometown, often mocked for being the least populated prefecture, the last place to finally get a Starbucks, having no expressways or Shinkansen, and being nothing but sand. I fondly reminisce about my younger self, who back then was so sick of having nothing and was desperate to get out to the city.

More than 20 years have passed since then. Every time I return home like this, what comes back to me are nothing but irreplaceable memories, sparkling with an innocence and single-mindedness that I can never reach again. For me, Tottori is like a treasure chest, packed with everything that makes me who I am today.


More than half of my high school life, as is likely the case for many, was occupied by club activities. Having started piano at age three and joined the city's children's choir in elementary school, I joined the brass band in junior high and high school without a second thought. Although I now live as a fashion designer in Africa—a completely different field, and even a different continent—the majority of my life until now was composed of music.


We were by no means strong, but our brass band practiced every summer, aiming to win a prize at the brass band competition. My partner was the baritone saxophone, the largest and lowest-pitched of the saxophones, and after becoming an upperclassman, I served as a student conductor as part of the leadership team. Before competitions and concerts, in addition to after-school practice, we also had morning practice, lunch practice, and training camps.


When I look back on my high school days, which were entirely devoted to club activities, there is one person I can never forget. That is Mr. Ikehara, who was my homeroom teacher for all three years of high school.


Mr. Ikehara, commonly known as Ikehara, was a Japanese language teacher who was probably in his 30s at the time. He had a solid build, likely from playing rugby, was of medium height, had previously worked as a newspaper reporter, had a somewhat dark complexion, and wore black-rimmed glasses. True to his role as a Japanese teacher, he was a man who gave an intellectual and calm impression.



I believe it was around the autumn of my second year of high school that I ran away from home once. Looking back, I can laugh at it as the folly of youth, but back then, I was quite serious about wanting to go bad.


My parents, who were self-employed, were working without rest from early morning until late at night at the time, due to debts forced upon them by relatives. Dinner was either whatever was in the fridge or sometimes just a cup of instant noodles. I, a sensitive high school student, often argued over trivial things with my parents, who were always exhausted.


In that bleak home, I cannot clearly remember what the cause was, but I had a terrible fight with my parents. My father, who had always been gentle and had never scolded me before, slapped me for the first time. Deeply shaken by that fact, I played the tragic heroine, shouting, "That's violence! I'm leaving this house!" and ran away on impulse. I packed a few days' worth of clothes and cosmetics into a bag, and then, out of spite, pulled the battery out of my mother's mobile phone and bolted from the house in my school uniform. The fact that I only took the battery is cowardly, but it is also a charming, childish trait typical of a teenager.


For the time being, I told a close friend about the situation and headed to her house. While I was relaxing in her room, her mother came in and said, "Ayumi-chan's mother just called asking if her child was here," and my blood ran cold. When my father called my mobile phone right after I ran away asking, "Where are you?!", I had impulsively said, "I'm at the Tanaka's house! Leave me alone!!" and apparently, they had started calling every household with the surname Tanaka in the now-defunct Hello Pages. I thought it was insane at the time, but now that I am a parent myself, I think I can understand how my parents felt that day.


In the end, I ended up staying for a while at another friend's house, who said I could come over because they had a spare room. As expected, my parents seemed to have come to school to look for me right away, and since I absolutely did not want to run into them, I stopped going to school. In the first place, I wanted to go to a music college, but since it was a college-prep school, I didn't see the point in seriously studying subjects I didn't need for entrance exams, like Math C or Biology, so I was desperate and thought I didn't need to go to school anymore.


One day, I heard through a friend that "Ikehara says you should come to school at least once," so I had no choice but to go. I thought he would just scold me and try to persuade me to go home—though I wouldn't—and so on.


When I arrived at school, I slowly slid open the sliding door of the staff room, which felt heavier than usual for some reason, and headed toward Ikehara's desk. Ikehara, noticing me standing behind him in silence with my head down, spun his chair around to face me, and after remaining silent for a while, began to speak quietly.


"What happened?"

"...I don't want to answer."
I answered in a small voice, still staring at the floor.

"Why did you stop coming to school?"

"Because I don't want to see my parents."

Ikehara crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at me.

"Where are you sleeping now? Is it a safe place?"

"...At Aya-chan's house. But please, absolutely do not tell my mother. I'm begging you."

At that moment, I thought, "Oh, no." Why did I tell him the truth? He would definitely tell my mother. What should I do? I absolutely do not want to go home.

In front of me, as I sulked, Ikehara touched his beard, still thinking about something.

The after-school chime rang out, painting over the silence.


After a short pause, Ikehara opened his mouth with a sigh.


"...All right. I won't tell her."

"...Really?"

"Yeah, I won't. But."

It was the adult's ultimate move: a condition. I braced myself, thinking he would surely tell me to contact my parents or come to school properly. However, the words that came out of Ikehara's mouth were unexpected.


"Just come to club activities."


I was let down. A teacher telling a student to come to club activities instead of class. Trying not to let my agitation show, I answered "Understood" with an expressionless face, and Ikehara added, "And one more thing. Bring your mother's phone battery tomorrow. She was in trouble because she couldn't make work calls." I replied "I'll bring it" bluntly and left the staff room. While muttering to myself, "He makes no sense," the words that I could still come to club activities and that it was okay to do music certainly lightened my heart.


For me at that time, music was my everything. If I was sad, I would play the piano. If I fought with friends, I would go to the music room and eat lunch alone. After club activities, I would stay behind alone to practice the saxophone, or take it home to practice. For me, living with the belief that music was my only place, having someone who approved of that was a small salvation.



From the next day, as Ikehara told me, I went to school only for club activities. Every day, I went straight to the music room in the evening and spent the same days as my club friends. I did basic training, part practice, and ensemble practice as usual. Sometimes I played the piano, and on the way home, we would take purikura together or stop by Mister Donut to chat about trivial rumors. One day, as time passed and I began to realize that I didn't know how to resolve the situation, I went back to get some clothes when my parents weren't home, and defeated by the comfort of my own room, my runaway drama came to an anticlimactic end.


Looking back now, I can't help but wonder if that was Ikehara's strategy. Did he think that if he could just keep the habit of coming to school, I would eventually start coming to class again? If so, I fell right into his trap, but I don't think that's the case. I feel like Ikehara just knew how much I was immersed in music and just wanted to tell me to do my best at what I loved and not to lose sight of the self I liked.

By the way, speaking of Ikehara, there is one more thing he said that I cannot forget.

In our high school graduation album, there is a custom where each class homeroom teacher writes a handwritten farewell message to the graduates. On the day the albums were distributed, I flipped through the pages with excitement, opened my class's page, and when my eyes landed on Ikehara's message, I couldn't help but scoff. It was too short, cliché, and on top of that, the handwriting was uncool, and it had no twist at all. I showed it to my classmates and made fun of it, saying, "Ikehara, isn't this pathetic for a Japanese teacher? Isn't it obvious that the sky is the same?"



That message, which I laughed at so much for being pathetic, still comes to mind from time to time even now that I am 40, bringing back those treasure-like days, making me return to my roots, and encouraging me.


Just as the me of that time thought my hometown was just a boring countryside.
Just as the me of that day didn't understand what kind of thoughts my parents had while working from morning till night.

That flat message, which didn't resonate with me at all at 18, has finally, now that I have become an adult and aged, begun to create depth, carry weight, and speak to me.

What those five characters evoke is the image of myself from that day, straight and reckless. The days I kept blowing the saxophone day after day because I wanted to win a gold medal at the competition. The days I practiced until my voice went hoarse, even while fighting with classmates, because I wanted to win the choir competition at the school festival. The days I studied hard for entrance exams until late at night without even eating because I wanted to go to Tokyo no matter what.


The fact that the sky I looked up at back then, when I believed that effort would be rewarded and kept challenging myself with all my might, is the same sky as this one I am looking up at somewhere in Africa today.
The fact that this sky I am looking up at now is the same sky connected to the sky that that child or that person is looking up at somewhere in Japan or the world, thinking they will do their best today.
No matter where we are or what we are doing, we are always looking up at the same sky.

I haven't seen Ikehara since I graduated. The reason I returned to Japan temporarily for the first time in three years last year, coinciding with the 20th-anniversary reunion, was because I wanted to see my friends from those days again, and because I had a faint hope that I might be able to see Ikehara.

I heard he is now teaching at another high school in the prefecture, so there is no doubt he is still in the area, but the fact that he didn't come to the reunion makes me strangely convinced that it's just like Ikehara not to be conventional.



Will I be able to see him again someday?

When that time comes, there is something I want to tell him.

Under the same sky, somewhere far away in Africa.
I am still doing my best at what I love today.

The sky I looked up at is endlessly clear.