Seventeen and Home-less

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. 

"Everyone, welcome our new student from Japan, Skye!" Ms. Vega announces, her voice slicing through the excited chatter of my new classmates. 

I stand at the front of the room, breathing in the unfamiliar air of my new world. A bright, blinding smile tugs at the corners of my lips. This was the moment I've been waiting for. 

Back in Japan, my friends had described school in America as magical. Like a dream. A place they wished they never had left. 

"They let you play games all the time. And the teachers give you snacks!" they'd exclaim, eyes wide open with enthusiasm and voices full of nostalgia. "You're going to love it," my best friend had promised. "You'll feel at home right away." 

And now, here I was. 

The smell of crayons and pencil shavings filled my lungs. Paintings made by my classmates covered the walls, and the back corner was filled with board games, toys, and art supplies. The colorful tiled carpet stretched out in front of me, a grid of bright squares where new faces sat quietly, smiling. My cheeks warmed, a mix of nervousness and excitement. 

"Everyone, it is time to pick your Jenga partners!" Ms.Vega announces. The room explodes into motion. Sneakers squeak against the polished floor. Laughter rises. Shouts fill the air. Hands tug at shirts, and feet race in every direction. The liveliness in the room is electric. It's contagious. So this is what they were talking about. These kids have energy! 

I scan the room, my pulse quickening and my palms shaking with anticipation. Who will pick me? Who will be my first partner? The possibilities seemed endless. Unable to contain the thrill rushing through my body, I start bouncing on the balls of my feet and find myself jumping up and down. 

And then, I see him. 

Across the room, he sits quietly on the rug, legs crossed, with tan skin and an athletic figure. A Real Madrid jersey clings to his torso, the white fabric with black accents gleaming under the light. My eyes widen. That's my team. 

I could already hear the conversations we were going to have. We'll talk soccer, debate about the best players, and play together during recess. We were going to become best friends. I could just feel it. 

The chaos whirling around me starts to melt away. Time slows. My classmates, buzzing with movement and yelling, vanish into thin air. Their voices fade into muffled murmurs before disappearing entirely. I fell into a world where only he and I existed. 

He turns. His head shifts just enough, and our eyes meet. 

My heart stops. 

The noise and movement crash back in, jolting me back into reality. Immediately, I dart my gaze away, hoping he didn't notice me looking. At the same time, though, I was wishing that he did. 

"Ryan, how about you partner with Skye?" Ms. Vega calls out. 

I feel my stomach drop. I wanted to be with the boy in the Real Madrid jersey. 

But then, he stands. The boy with the Real Madrid jersey was Ryan. YES! My luck couldn't have been any better. 

But he pauses. Ryan begins scanning the room, his eyes drifting toward the small group of kids without partners. What was he looking for? Why wasn't he walking up to me? Suddenly, his eyes pop open, and a smile spreads across his face. 

"I'm with Ruby," he declares confidently. 

Wait, what? He wasn't partners with Ruby, right? Did he not want to be with me because he noticed me staring? Had I messed up my only chance to make a friend? A best friend?

"Feel free to join any group you want, Skye!" Ms. Vega announces, utterly unaware of the distinct exclusion. 

I walk through the sea of judgemental eyes, each pair narrowing and full of bitterness. To my left, a tall, blonde-haired girl with a pink Barbie headband giggles, whispering something to her friend. Her eyes scan over me, then roll back as they lock with mine. I can almost hear her words: "Look at this Japanese kid! He doesn't belong here." 

I glance to my right. There's Ryan again, staring directly at me. He sneers, and I look down, eyes glued to my feet. Had my friends in Japan been lying to me about all of this? 

I turn around and look at Ms.Vega. She says nothing. She just watches. I wonder if she's seen this before. The look of resignation. Invisibility. 

I stand there, waiting for something to happen. But nothing does. 

* * * 

"GOAL!" 

I sprint to the corner flag with my teammates, grinning at the faces I have known for only minutes. Tomoki, I think his name is, had just scored his third consecutive goal, putting us at a five-point lead to close the match. 

He leaps, pumping his fist in the air, and shouts, "Let's go!" 

"Hat trick!" I call out, catching my breath. 

Everyone stops. My teammates glance at each other, holding back smirks. "Did you hear that? He said 'hat trick'!" someone whispers, their tone a mix of amusement and ridicule. 

My face burns. Why are they laughing? Isn't that what it's called when you score three goals? I smile nervously, hoping they'll think I was in on the joke.

The whistle blows, and we head toward the sidelines, our cleats crunching against the artificial turf. There, we lined up to bow to the parents and spectators, a gesture of gratitude in Japanese culture that was new to me. 

Somehow and someway, I find myself in the dead center of the group, right next to my coach. The late afternoon sun blazes across my skin, illuminating me to the audience. Goosebumps arose. 

3,2,1, arigato gozaimashita! I chant silently, over and over. 3,2,1, arigato gozaimashita! My hands clench and unclench at my sides, damp with sweat. Don't screw this up. 

"Three…two…one…," my coach begins. 

I glance up, sneaking a look at the crowd. Generations of Japanese faces stared: babies in their mothers' arms, fathers standing with their arms crossed, and grandparents sitting on foldable chairs. The weight of expectation began to press down on my shoulders, but I stood upright. 

My gaze shifts to the right, drawn to my grandparents. There, they sat formally, back straight, left hand on their lap, and right hand pointing the camera directly at me. My grandmother smiled, but the firmness beneath it shined through. 

I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn't budge. My heart pounds against my chest, asking for this moment to end. 

The final shuffle of cleats on grass ripples through the line of our team, and I take one last deep breath. We stand as one, shoulders aligned, heads straight, all waiting for the command. 

Then, the silence hits. 

“Arigatogozaimashita!” I blurt out, chest puffed, loud and sure. 

No one else speaks.

I peek to my sides apprehensively, moving only my eyes. A pair of narrowed eyes lock onto me, the tension in their cheeks and clenched teeth unmistakable. Another set of anger-filled eyes flickers toward me. Their gazes pin straight into my soul one by one, silently scolding me. Then, they repeat after my coach, their voices perfectly synchronized. "Arigatogozaimashita," they echo, the way I should have done. 

The moisture evaporates from my mouth. 

The clapping starts, polite but tingled with awkwardness. Immediately, I hurried toward my parents, desperate to escape the embarrassment I had just caused myself. They wait, arms open, their smiles warm and full of understanding. I leap into my dad's wool sweater, its comforting scratchiness pressing against my humiliated face. The familiar scent of old wool wraps around me, filling my nostrils with the sensation of home. Tears pour down fast and hot, soaking into the brown fabric and leaving a dark trail behind. My grandparents approach, and I feel a gentle pat on my shoulder. "Don't worry, Skye, the only thing that matters is that you said it," my grandfather says softly. 

I know they were just trying to make me feel better, but deep down, I knew they were disappointed and embarrassed. I was a letdown. I couldn't even correct the most straightforward phrase of my culture's language. Maybe I don't belong here. 

* * * 

Skye sat down, exhausted after his thirteen-hour flight from Japan to the United States. Seeing a mouth open, he sighs, knowing the questions will start flooding in. 

"So, what's Japan like?" someone asks, igniting the fire. 

Here we go again, he thought.

"Do you have automated and heated toilets? Is that a real thing?" another kid chimes in, wide-eyed at me. 

"Do you even have burgers and fast food restaurants there?I thought Japan was all sushi and noodles," someone else adds. 

"And don't you have to slurp your food to show it was good?" 

Skye smiles politely and nods, pretending to be interested in answering their endless questions. But inside, he wished they would see him as more than an outsider. More than some exotic creature. He hoped they'd look past his culture, past his race, and recognize the person standing right in front of them. Instead, he keeps up the act, but inside, there is only one thought: Is this all I will ever be to you guys? 

* * * 

I step onto the train, quiet and nearly empty at my stop. Soon, though, this tranquil space will transform into a tumultuous hive of suits, school uniforms, and backpacks hung over shoulders. I scan the car, searching for the least crowded spot for when the rush begins. All the good seats are taken, leaving only a few middle ones in the car's center. Not ideal, but far better than standing, suffocated in the pack of jostling bodies. I take my seat and plug in my earphones. 

The train stops at a few stations, the doors hissing open to let in small waves of new passengers. The car begins to fill, the air thickening with the scent of pressed fabric and traces of smoke clinging to their suits. The seats are taken one by one. Finally, the last one is taken. 

Actually, not the last one. The seats on either side of me remained unoccupied. Maybe it's my lucky day. A spacious ride to tennis practice didn't sound bad. Not bad at all.

Soon enough, passengers begin to cluster in. A young Japanese schoolboy walks in the car without a care, earphones in, glued to his phone. Without looking at his surroundings, he slides into the seat to my left, sinking in, guided by muscle memory. I exhale softly, grateful to no longer appear to be hoarding three seats. 

When we finally pull into Shibuya, the atmosphere shifts. A tide of commuters surges onto the train, turning the space into a push fest. Every last inch of standing space is claimed. Every seat is taken—except the one to my right. 

I peek at it, confused. Was there something wrong with it? Is it stained? Is it broken? Does it smell? I look back at the crowd standing just centimeters away. Surely someone would still sit here, even if the seat is dirty or broken, right? I tuck my legs together, making myself as small as possible, hoping to seem approachable. 

Still, the seat remains empty. 

An older man weaves through the crowd, slowly but surely. His eyes catch the vacancy beside me. He steps toward it, crouches down, and I catch my breath. Finally, I'm not singled out. His gaze shifts, locking on mine. I crack a quick smile and go back to my phone. I scoot slightly more to the side, making more space. But he doesn't sit. I look up and see his face, expression hardened, and standing up. It was as if he was angry at me for sitting down. It was as if I was the reason he couldn't sit there. 

I stare at the empty seat, my stomach sinking as the realization hits me. It's not the seat they're avoiding. It's me.

Reflection 

The story that stuck with me the most from this unit was chapter one of United. I was immediately drawn in by the dialogue-based introduction, where the author’s rising worries contrasted sharply with her husband’s careless, monotonous response. Inspired by this approach, I began my piece with a question posed in dialogue. I intentionally left out prior context to immerse the reader directly into the scene and spark their curiosity about what might happen next. 

What stood out to me the most was the meticulous attention to detail throughout the entire story. The author's vivid descriptions brought every moment to life, from the moments leading up to the therapy session to the therapist’s facial features. All of these seemingly small details created a sense of completeness, making it feel like the narrative didn’t miss out on a single part. 

I also thought that her use of dialogue and reflection effectively heightened the tension throughout the piece, making it more intense. The arguments composed of pure dialogue, combined with her raging internal thoughts, made the scenes incredibly suspenseful to read, and I loved that sensation. 

I drew inspiration from these two techniques and tried to incorporate them into my own writing. One example of this is in my third piece, where I solely used dialogue to convey my message. Another example is in the final scene of the first piece, where I am walking through the ‘sea of judgmental eyes’, and facing internal conflict. Using dialogue and internal thoughts effectively was challenging at times, but I am pleased with how much more dialogue I was able to incorporate during the editing process. 

The first piece assigned during this unit, “Three Spheres”, was another story that I really enjoyed reading and that helped me discover new approaches to writing. What stood out to me was how the author suspended key moments so effectively, keeping the reader on edge for an extended period. For instance, instead of simply describing the patient opening the door to the interview room, the author takes us through the hesitation—how she began unlocking the door but stopped halfway, questioning herself. She even dives into the look on the patient’s face, sad that the patient doesn’t see herself in the therapist while the therapist sees the patient in herself. I applied this technique by incorporating suspended key moments throughout my story. For example, I extended the tension when I messed up the Japanese ritual in the third piece and captured the moments of awe and anticipation when I saw someone I thought could be my new best friend in the first piece. My goal was to engage the reader as much as possible in the most significant moments, and I am happy with how they turned out. 

Something that I found I was comfortable with throughout the process of writing and editing was using different lengths of sentences. I think I did a good job of knowing when to have short, punchy, and long, flowing sentences. Occasionally, I had singular, short sentences as their own paragraphs to leave an amplified impact. 

Initially, I had planned to end with a reflection, talking about my experience of not fitting into either of the two worlds I am a part of. However, I realized this might limit readers' ability to draw conclusions. Instead, I chose to weave more internal reflections throughout each piece, balancing the plot (x-axis) and the reflection (y-axis).