to yourselves. And just to remind you: we’ll take the paint and wire, pliers, rope, and banner, one by one, to Masutabe’s and Narushima’s places beforehand. I want everybody to wear black that night. No leather shoes. Whatever we have left over—empty paint cans, extra rope, and so on—we’ll take back with us. Yamada and I will call the newspapers.”
Then, using red paint on the white cloth, I wrote “Power to the Imagination.” It felt great.
Three days before the big event, Iwase came to our classroom to tell Adama and me he wanted out. In the deep shade cast by the glaring summer sun of Kyushu, he told us, with tears in his eyes, that the idea of a barricade just didn’t agree with him. “I’m sorry, Ken-san, I’m sorry, Adama. I’ll help set things up, and I’ll help with the festival, but I don’t like this barricade stuff...” The gist of what he was saying seemed to be that there wasn’t any serious political motive behind it, that I was just doing it to look like a big shot. This really got me down, and I confessed as much to Adama when Iwase left. “What’s the difference?” he said. “Who needs politics? We’re doing it because it’s fun, aren’t we? Ken, if it’s fun, that’s enough.” Even so, I could tell he felt as bummed out as I did.
And then July 19 arrived.
POWER TO THE IMAGINATION
I had to leave my house at eleven, and that wasn’t easy to do. My mother and little sister and grandparents were all asleep, but my father was still up. He was watching the “11 P.M.” show. Every night since this program began, he’d been staying up past his bedtime.
Our house, like most houses in Sasebo, was built on the side of a mountain. The only ones on the narrow strip of level ground belonged to the American military and a handful of people who’d got rich catering to them in one way or another.
With my father still awake, I couldn’t risk going out the front door. The house stood on a slope, and the back door opened onto one of the long, narrow flights of stone steps that linked all the roads in the neighborhood. My room was on the second floor. First I had to tell my father I was turning in for the night. I knocked on the door of his studio.
“Goodnight, Father dear.”
I guess you know I didn’t really talk to him that way. What I actually said was, “Hey, I’m goin’ to bed.”
He’s sitting there getting his jollies watching the bikini girls on the “11 P.M.” show, but he turns in his chair and fixes me with a solemn sort of look. “Already? Why?” he said, and started telling me about how when he was in middle school before the war he used to stay up studying till 4:00 A.M.; but then he stopped short, remembering what was on the TV screen probably, and, clearing his throat, said, “Ken, I don’t want you doing anything to upset your mother.” My heart stopped. Did he know what I was up to? No, he couldn’t possibly, but... I don’t want you doing
Then, using red paint on the white cloth, I wrote “Power to the Imagination.” It felt great.
Three days before the big event, Iwase came to our classroom to tell Adama and me he wanted out. In the deep shade cast by the glaring summer sun of Kyushu, he told us, with tears in his eyes, that the idea of a barricade just didn’t agree with him. “I’m sorry, Ken-san, I’m sorry, Adama. I’ll help set things up, and I’ll help with the festival, but I don’t like this barricade stuff...” The gist of what he was saying seemed to be that there wasn’t any serious political motive behind it, that I was just doing it to look like a big shot. This really got me down, and I confessed as much to Adama when Iwase left. “What’s the difference?” he said. “Who needs politics? We’re doing it because it’s fun, aren’t we? Ken, if it’s fun, that’s enough.” Even so, I could tell he felt as bummed out as I did.
And then July 19 arrived.
POWER TO THE IMAGINATION
I had to leave my house at eleven, and that wasn’t easy to do. My mother and little sister and grandparents were all asleep, but my father was still up. He was watching the “11 P.M.” show. Every night since this program began, he’d been staying up past his bedtime.
Our house, like most houses in Sasebo, was built on the side of a mountain. The only ones on the narrow strip of level ground belonged to the American military and a handful of people who’d got rich catering to them in one way or another.
With my father still awake, I couldn’t risk going out the front door. The house stood on a slope, and the back door opened onto one of the long, narrow flights of stone steps that linked all the roads in the neighborhood. My room was on the second floor. First I had to tell my father I was turning in for the night. I knocked on the door of his studio.
“Goodnight, Father dear.”
I guess you know I didn’t really talk to him that way. What I actually said was, “Hey, I’m goin’ to bed.”
He’s sitting there getting his jollies watching the bikini girls on the “11 P.M.” show, but he turns in his chair and fixes me with a solemn sort of look. “Already? Why?” he said, and started telling me about how when he was in middle school before the war he used to stay up studying till 4:00 A.M.; but then he stopped short, remembering what was on the TV screen probably, and, clearing his throat, said, “Ken, I don’t want you doing anything to upset your mother.” My heart stopped. Did he know what I was up to? No, he couldn’t possibly, but... I don’t want you doing
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