A Turning Point

Students at the American School in Japan share personal essays exploring the theme of identity as part of their creative nonfiction class. Each essay is followed by a critical reflection by the student on the project, process, and their writing experience. These essays are presented unedited by TIE to preserve the authenticity and originality of the student voice. 

Those last couple months, I tried to convince myself that the inevitable was not going to happen. I shoved down even the slightest thought. I knew that if I lingered on it for too long, my emotions would unravel, slipping beyond my grasp. But as the days counted down it became harder and harder to keep a firm hold. I watched the home I grew up in slowly empty out, transforming into a hollow shell of what it once was. I distinctly remember the real estate agent coming in and putting in furniture that made the place feel foreign. 

The night my house was put on Zillow: seeing those pictures of my home, my home, put online for any random person to take – it was the feeling of something being ripped away from me. Like I had absolutely no choice that something of mine, something that I loved so dearly, was going to be gone in a matter of months and I could do nothing about it. It was like one of those nightmares when something is chasing you and all of a sudden you just can’t seem to run, no matter how hard you try. 

For some people, moving to a different country is a common part of their life, but for me, it was different. It wasn’t just leaving a place—it was leaving everything familiar, every routine, every relationship, every piece of the life I had built and understood.  

Landing in Japan felt like arriving in someone else’s story. The airport was a blur of unfamiliar sounds and symbols, bright signs in kanji and hiragana that I couldn’t decipher. I followed my parents like a shadow, too overwhelmed to do anything but put one foot in front of the other. 

*** 

The train map was overwhelming at first: a maze of colors and station names I could barely pronounce. Each line seemed to lead in a different direction, twisting and turning, disappearing off the edge of the map. The more I stared at it, the more it seemed like a puzzle I would never be able to solve. The kanji seemed like an entirely different language from the already foreign hiragana and katakana. I could feel the weight of the city pressing down on me, its sheer scale and speed, and I felt like I was constantly playing catch-up.

One wrong turn, one misstep, and I’d end up lost somewhere in Shinjuku Station, too far to retrace my steps. I stood on the platform, glancing at the signs, wondering if I was waiting for the right train. Every announcement seemed to blend together, and I couldn’t pick out a single word that might guide me. The trains rushed by, filled with people packed so tightly that I was always nervous that I would get crushed. 

But I decided to give it a try. I bought my ticket, carefully matched the symbols, and stepped onto the platform, feeling a small thrill of accomplishment just for getting that far. 

As the train sped through the city, I started to recognize patterns—the way the announcements came just before the doors opened, the rhythm of people stepping off and on. By the time I reached my stop, I couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of accomplishment. 

*** 

Around the time of my favorite season, you would see pumpkin-flavored delicacies everywhere. Pumpkin pies stacked one on top of another at the entrance of Price Chopper. Starbucks' never-ending pumpkin drink menu. Even the local bakery couldn't resist displaying rows of pumpkin scones, each topped with a generous drizzle of glaze. Every Thanksgiving, I would look forward to that one thing—pumpkin pie. 

The filling is rich and creamy, with warm spices of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger swirling together in perfect harmony. The buttery crust adds a slight crispness, contrasting to the soft, spiced custard. Each mouthful melts, leaving behind a sweetness with a hint of earthy pumpkin that feels both comforting and indulgent, like the taste of autumn itself. 

But when I moved to the unique country of Japan, and the hot humid weather eventually gave way to the crisp air I loved, I realized something was missing. Those very flavors I’d once taken for granted were nowhere to be found. That next Thanksgiving, after school, I searched far and wide for my beloved dessert. I wandered through local markets, hoping to find a glimpse of home in a pie, a slice, anything. But as the sun went down over the city, I knew my search had to end. 

That first Thanksgiving abroad felt incomplete, like I had left a piece of my tradition behind. I settled for apple pie that year, but the taste didn’t carry the warmth or comfort I longed for. Without my beloved pumpkin pie, the holiday felt strangely hollow, as though the season I once loved was happening somewhere far away, without me. 

*** 

“Wait, what?” Annelise froze, the nail polish brush hovering mid-air over her toes. “You’re moving? Like... moving-moving?”

I nodded, my throat tightening. “Yeah. To Japan. My dad’s job.” 

She stared at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she shook her head slowly. “That’s... so far.” 

“I know.” I tugged at the hem of my sweatshirt, avoiding her gaze. 

“When?” 

“Two months.” 

She sighed and leaned back against her bed, staring at the ceiling. “That’s, like... soon.” 

“I told you as soon as I found out,” I said softly, glancing at her. “You’re the first person I told. You always are.” 

She exhaled, her lips pressed together in a thin line. “I know,” she murmured, pulling her knees to her chest. “It’s just… two months isn’t enough time. How am I supposed to get used to the idea of you not being here?” 

I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t want to go,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at me, “I know you don’t. I just hate that it’s happening.” 

We let the silence fill the space between us, the kind of quiet that only comes with people who know each other so well that words aren’t always needed. For a while, we talked about everything but the move—the usual stuff, like school drama and her latest crush. It felt like we were holding onto something normal, something solid, before it could slip away. 

But eventually, the weight of it all caught up to us. She broke the quiet first. 

“It won’t be the same without you,” she said, her voice small and steady, like she was stating a fact. 

I swallowed hard, blinking back the stinging in my eyes. “I know.” 

*** 

I pointed to the sushi on the menu and confidently ordered, “I’ll have the maguro.” The waitress nodded and smiled, then disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with a plate. I stared at it for a moment—there was no tuna. Only a pile of tiny, wriggling octopus tentacles. 

I looked back at the waitress, then at the plate, and back at her. “Maguro?” I asked, my voice unsure, as though maguro might have somehow morphed into a sea creature while I wasn’t looking. She smiled again, like I was the one missing the joke, and nodded enthusiastically. “Hai, hai, maguro!”

I blinked, confused. I had just ordered the only word I knew for tuna, and instead, I got... whatever this was. Tentacles, staring back at me. 

I gave it a half-hearted poke with my chopsticks, like maybe I was supposed to want this. But no amount of polite prodding was going to convince me. This wasn’t tuna; it was an octopus’s existential crisis. 

A part of me wanted to politely ask for a new dish, but my Japanese was about as useful as a shovel in a desert. So, I did what any person in my position would do—I smiled, nodded, and prayed that somehow the tentacles would turn into tuna through the power of positive thinking. 

*** 

“Dean?” Koko asked as we got off the bus after school. 

“Of course” I said as I bowed my head and thanked our bus driver. 

We strolled along Yamate-dori, the bustling street alive with the hum of traffic, many popular restaurants, and of course the Don Quijote jutting out onto the street with bright lights and the theme song playing. We stopped inside our favorite fruit sandwich shop, where the vivid colors of strawberries and whipped cream peeked through soft white bread in the display case. With sandwiches in hand, we continued up the stone steps of the Tokyo School of Music, in which our cafe was nestled in. 

This had become a comforting routine for Koko and me—one of those rituals that felt like an anchor in the ever-moving current of Tokyo life. I often called her my Naka Meguro Twin, a nickname that reflected not just where we lived but also our friendship and how it evolved through our closeness. 

*** 

The crosswalk buzzed, and I stepped into the flow of people. Around me, the city pulsed—voices, footsteps, the metallic chime of a bicycle bell. A man in a suit brushed past, his phone pressed to his ear, while an elderly woman shuffled carefully with a paper bag tucked under her arm. 

I took a moment to look around me as my headphones were blasting Ivy by Frank Ocean and I thought of myself as so incredibly selfish and stupid. How could I not be grateful that I have the privilege of getting to live in the most incredible city in the world. I had grown used to the mindset of just trying to get through the next couple of years that I had forgotten to see what was right in front of me and enjoy it. 

The vending machines on every corner and the melody that played before the train doors closed. I noticed the small shrine tucked between two towering buildings, its red torii gate standing like a quiet sentinel of tradition amidst the chaos of the city. The scent of fresh taiyaki wafting from a street stall, sweet and warm, reminded me that there were delights here waiting to be discovered if I’d just paid attention.

How could I not see it before? For the first time in a long time, I took my headphones off. The city’s soundtrack—chirping cicadas, muffled conversations, the distant hum of traffic—was more than enough. 

*** 

The path winds gently beside the river, a quiet thread running through the city’s heart. Overhead, cherry blossoms bloom in soft clusters, their pale pink petals scattered like confetti on the ground. Lanterns line the way, their soft glow reflecting off the water, steady and warm against the cool evening air. 

I take another step, and the river flows on, unconcerned, as if it has always known.

Critical Reflection 

White Men Can’t Drum was one of the first pieces that I read for this unit and I really remember how I thought there were so many layers and it felt very multifaceted. It was right around the time we were learning about the X and Y axis for creative writing and I thought that Michael Ventura did a great job of painting these really descriptive scenes but then tying them to his Native American background. I also felt a little bit intimidated by this piece because it was long but still managed to use the cultural differences between Western and African musical traditions and drumming as a metaphor which was really well done. Specifically I think this piece helped me to learn to balance out descriptive scenes with reflection and also show me that I can add a lot of different elements as long as I could find a common thread. 

Another piece that I found to be particularly interesting was The Pain Scale by Eula Biss where she wrote about understanding pain through the 0–10 pain scale commonly used in medicine. I had never really read anything that was formatted this way but I genuinely thought it was super cool. I was thinking that I could try to incorporate an interesting form in a similar fashion. Even though it’s not the same, it helped inspire me to format my piece so that my “loss” sections were really long and frequent in the beginning and my “gain” sections were small but then I slowly transitioned it to be the opposite towards the end to try and physically show my change in perspective through the format. 

This essay was definitely more of a struggle for me than I was expecting. I really did not know what to write about and I did not have a clear vision of what I was going to do until I had written everything out. Once everything that I wanted to say was written on paper then I figured out a common thread and decided to do a kind of braided essay that used the theme of loss and gain and my change in perspective from pessimistic to optimistic. I was a bit worried at first because being in an international school where the students and teachers have moved around so often, that my essay topic would not seem traumatic or big enough but in my life I do think moving was the hardest thing for me but also one of the most rewarding as well. My biggest goal was to try to convey to the reader the scale of my feelings regardless of whether they thought moving countries was a big deal or not. 

One thing that I might have done differently if I had more time or restarted would have been to try not to split it up in sections. I would have wanted to try to just make it more of a continuous piece instead of breaking it up into so many different parts. I think I was struggling a little bit to find a way to transition them. In a way however I do like it the way it is now because the reader might not necessarily understand the whole process of my perspective shift until they finish it which I think makes it more interesting for the reader and allows them to think more critically.