[original: nonfiction] Teacups
Jul. 16th, 2013 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
perfectworrytitle: Teacups
genre: nonfiction
community:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
therealljidol
prompt: Exhibit B: Week 5: it's not tacky if you wear it well
word count: 954
rating: G
summary: Conversations, in two languages, with family, friends, and teachers about my father's death.
"Buy me a Simmons Mom mug," says my mother, pointing at the college bookstore website on my computer screen. "Put it on the shelf next to Daddy's so we match."
"Ma!"
Relevant to this discussion: my dad died ten years ago at the end of this month, or eight years before we had this conversation while trying to spend the last of my bookstore scholarship after graduation. When I started college, I bought a Dad mug for my father's ashes. Most of them had been scattered in the ocean, but some we kept: a tiny jar buried under the sapling tree in front of his childhood home; a tiny jar next to his parents' tombstone; a tiny jar for me, for my sister, for my mom. My mom kept ours and hers in the curio cabinet, next to my grandmother's Hummels and away from the curious paws, after the cat ate all of the flowers from my dad's funeral.
"Ma," I say again. "Don't."
I buy the mug anyway.
*
"What kind of person is your mother?" Okaasan wa, donna hito desu ka?
We're learning type one adjectives in Japanese class, two months into my first semester of college. My professor asks my roommate, Kate, to describe her mother using one of our new vocabulary words, and I'm just thinking oh please don't alternate, because I'm next, and this could get uncomfortable quickly.
"She's very, uh, busy." says Kate. Haha wa, uh, isogashii desu.
Now it's my turn.
"What kind of person is your" - I cross my fingers under my desk - "father?" Donna hito desu ka, otousan wa?
Oh, come on.
"He's very, uhm. He's very. He's … quiet." Outosan wa totemo, uhm Otousan wa totemo. Totemo shizuka desu. My own voice is barely above a whisper. Kate gives me a sympathetic look.
"He's quiet?" Shizuka desu ka? repeats my professor, no doubt thinking I said one word but meant something else. New vocab and all that. At least I haven't asked anyone if they feel as gross as they look, like that one kid who sits two rows back from me.
"Yes," Hai. I say. "My father's… dead." Otousan wa… dead. I don't know how to say what I need to in Japanese, so I switch back to English.
"Well," says my professor, saa…, trailing off in a politely Japanese way, and then turning to another student beside me and asking, "What kind of person is your mother?" Okaasan wa donna hito desu ka? as if nothing happened.
Good man. I always liked him.
*
Except when I didn't.
Another few months pass, and I'm sitting outside of sensei's office in the history department, swinging my feet and desperately cramming object counters: one test, shiken o i mai; two books hon wo ni satsu; three cups of coffee, couhii wo san hai. If he asks how many pets I have, I'm just going to say, a lot, takusan and hope that's good enough.
"Leslie-san."
My professor sticks his head out the office door and I jump up, almost forgetting my backpack in my rush to get this over with. Kate looks slightly shaken, but we give each other a smile and a thumbs up.
"Ganbatte," she says, which almost means "good luck" but really means "do well or else."
I nod and follow sensei to my doom.
We get through most of the questions. In my panic, I flat out forget my phone number, in English and in Japanese. But I recover by rattling off all of the object counters he quizzes me on, including "I have six pets," petto wo ro ppiki, "and a little sister," to imouto ga imasu.
By now I'm feeling confident, so of course he throws this one out at me, reading off of his list without even thinking about it: "What does your father do for a living?" Outousan wa, shigoto ha nan desu ka?
I look him right in the eye and I say, "Nothing." Nanimo.
I don't even bother being polite about it. He should know better by now.
"What does your mother do for a living?" Okaasan wa, shigoto wa nan desu ka?
"She works in a bank." Haha wa ginkou de hatarakimasu.
I got an A that semester.
*
"Anna-san."
It's my other roommate's turn. I grin and give her a thumbs up, tell her "Ganbatte," do well or else, and get the hell out of there.
Funny story: the first time I ate dinner with Anna, months before my final exam, I dumped my root beer all over her and I thought this could have been a beautiful friendship. When she didn't immediately decide to stop talking to me, I blurted out this gem of wit and charm: "Let's get all of the awkward out of the way. My dad died before I started high school."
(We still live together, six years later.)
Now, I'm just thinking about a bag of gummy worms waiting for me in the bookstore. I've got some cash left on my campus card and I want to spend it, so I grab the gummy worms and wander around. My last exam is a take home test, but my brain feels like mochi. I'm almost finished anyway.
Next to a rack of ID holders that won't do me any good if I want to use my card in the vending machines on campus is a display of mugs: mugs for alumni, mugs for grad students, mugs for mom and dad. I think I could put some of my dad's ashes in there, keep it in the curio cabinet with the others, the ones he used. It's tacky, but this is my dad we're talking about.
I buy the mug anyway.
genre: nonfiction
community:
therealljidol prompt: Exhibit B: Week 5: it's not tacky if you wear it well
word count: 954
rating: G
summary: Conversations, in two languages, with family, friends, and teachers about my father's death.
"Buy me a Simmons Mom mug," says my mother, pointing at the college bookstore website on my computer screen. "Put it on the shelf next to Daddy's so we match."
"Ma!"
Relevant to this discussion: my dad died ten years ago at the end of this month, or eight years before we had this conversation while trying to spend the last of my bookstore scholarship after graduation. When I started college, I bought a Dad mug for my father's ashes. Most of them had been scattered in the ocean, but some we kept: a tiny jar buried under the sapling tree in front of his childhood home; a tiny jar next to his parents' tombstone; a tiny jar for me, for my sister, for my mom. My mom kept ours and hers in the curio cabinet, next to my grandmother's Hummels and away from the curious paws, after the cat ate all of the flowers from my dad's funeral.
"Ma," I say again. "Don't."
I buy the mug anyway.
*
"What kind of person is your mother?" Okaasan wa, donna hito desu ka?
We're learning type one adjectives in Japanese class, two months into my first semester of college. My professor asks my roommate, Kate, to describe her mother using one of our new vocabulary words, and I'm just thinking oh please don't alternate, because I'm next, and this could get uncomfortable quickly.
"She's very, uh, busy." says Kate. Haha wa, uh, isogashii desu.
Now it's my turn.
"What kind of person is your" - I cross my fingers under my desk - "father?" Donna hito desu ka, otousan wa?
Oh, come on.
"He's very, uhm. He's very. He's … quiet." Outosan wa totemo, uhm Otousan wa totemo. Totemo shizuka desu. My own voice is barely above a whisper. Kate gives me a sympathetic look.
"He's quiet?" Shizuka desu ka? repeats my professor, no doubt thinking I said one word but meant something else. New vocab and all that. At least I haven't asked anyone if they feel as gross as they look, like that one kid who sits two rows back from me.
"Yes," Hai. I say. "My father's… dead." Otousan wa… dead. I don't know how to say what I need to in Japanese, so I switch back to English.
"Well," says my professor, saa…, trailing off in a politely Japanese way, and then turning to another student beside me and asking, "What kind of person is your mother?" Okaasan wa donna hito desu ka? as if nothing happened.
Good man. I always liked him.
*
Except when I didn't.
Another few months pass, and I'm sitting outside of sensei's office in the history department, swinging my feet and desperately cramming object counters: one test, shiken o i mai; two books hon wo ni satsu; three cups of coffee, couhii wo san hai. If he asks how many pets I have, I'm just going to say, a lot, takusan and hope that's good enough.
"Leslie-san."
My professor sticks his head out the office door and I jump up, almost forgetting my backpack in my rush to get this over with. Kate looks slightly shaken, but we give each other a smile and a thumbs up.
"Ganbatte," she says, which almost means "good luck" but really means "do well or else."
I nod and follow sensei to my doom.
We get through most of the questions. In my panic, I flat out forget my phone number, in English and in Japanese. But I recover by rattling off all of the object counters he quizzes me on, including "I have six pets," petto wo ro ppiki, "and a little sister," to imouto ga imasu.
By now I'm feeling confident, so of course he throws this one out at me, reading off of his list without even thinking about it: "What does your father do for a living?" Outousan wa, shigoto ha nan desu ka?
I look him right in the eye and I say, "Nothing." Nanimo.
I don't even bother being polite about it. He should know better by now.
"What does your mother do for a living?" Okaasan wa, shigoto wa nan desu ka?
"She works in a bank." Haha wa ginkou de hatarakimasu.
I got an A that semester.
*
"Anna-san."
It's my other roommate's turn. I grin and give her a thumbs up, tell her "Ganbatte," do well or else, and get the hell out of there.
Funny story: the first time I ate dinner with Anna, months before my final exam, I dumped my root beer all over her and I thought this could have been a beautiful friendship. When she didn't immediately decide to stop talking to me, I blurted out this gem of wit and charm: "Let's get all of the awkward out of the way. My dad died before I started high school."
(We still live together, six years later.)
Now, I'm just thinking about a bag of gummy worms waiting for me in the bookstore. I've got some cash left on my campus card and I want to spend it, so I grab the gummy worms and wander around. My last exam is a take home test, but my brain feels like mochi. I'm almost finished anyway.
Next to a rack of ID holders that won't do me any good if I want to use my card in the vending machines on campus is a display of mugs: mugs for alumni, mugs for grad students, mugs for mom and dad. I think I could put some of my dad's ashes in there, keep it in the curio cabinet with the others, the ones he used. It's tacky, but this is my dad we're talking about.
I buy the mug anyway.
