Lookism: What Am I Even Doing?

CHERRY (2)

CHERRY: THE LIFE OF A FIGHTER

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Fate has a mysterious way of putting us where we need to be. Oftentimes we'd find ourselves walking down a sure path. We'll tell ourselves that it's where we need to be and there's no other way to go. Even if we fight against it this is our destiny.

But then sometimes, that same fate comes along and drags us along a hidden weathered path stuck between thick trees. Stones pierce our feet and wood splinters our skin as we move forward. We drag ourselves with such desperation that we leave a trail of red clear enough for everyone to follow.

I guess I should call myself lucky that my change of fate wasn't so ugly. It was much quieter than that. I was dragged somewhere that not even the trees could see. As I walked, my blood was burned as soon as it hit the ground so no one could follow. And I continued walking until I came to my new destiny.

Past the searing heat of the sun, I landed on the shore of a sandy beach.

Was it the work of some higher being? Was this the afterlife? Was it a statistical inevitability? I don't think I would ever know but there is one thing I decided. I've been raised in a way to recognize a blessing when I see one. I sat on that shore and stared up at the sky then fell on my knees to cry.

Because in the very end, we are all human.

And we all fear to die.

In 1945, the US Military took over an area of land from a silk factory which was bought in 1936 by Isono Farm. This land was named the "Johnson Air Base" and later in the 50's, houses were built for the American Army.

Finally came 1978 when the American Army returned the area back to Japan. You'd think that this place would become monetized for its classic American aesthetic; With its white picket fences, long houses with flat roofs, and small yards. Instead, this copy and paste area was turned into a slum where people lived for cheap.

Driving into Johnson Town for the first time was like living through a bad dream. A dream of endless running and frantic turns that led you to the same dead ends. It didn't matter how fast you ran, wherever you went, there were the same white buildings where houses didn't separate from shops. And it ended with you going insane.

The only way you could survive was by noticing the small details. Like the signs decorating the doorways or up front. Store doors were kept open throughout the day with their names posted in bright letters. Goods spilled from their insides as they stacked up on the long walls.

Houses were littered with cigarette butts, empty alcohol bottles, matches, and cars whose hoods were left half exposed to the sun. You know who belonged where by matching their face with the damage to their homes. The lady who walked every morning belonged to that house at the corner of the street with the busted door that never closed properly. The high school smokers lived in the house with a cracked window taped up with cheap duck-tape.

Groups of people gathered the first day we moved in. They watched us from afar to examine the American tourists who bothered wasting money to put bars on their windows and build a tall fence around our small home. Unlike the others, it was disconnected as it stood at the end of this dystopian fantasy.

My grandma told my parents that the land here was cheap and American so they were quick to put money down. Especially since people in America forced us to decide between two sides. The one of the growing dreams or beside our people. A battle that was never really won in the future. Something I knew for sure since this America is set in the past from the one I grew up in in my previous life.