Oh how quickly one forgets what life is like from the eyes of a child.

Standing there in a speeding, swaying train, clinging desperately to his mother's leg as she grips the handle above her head--the handle that her child cannot reach even with a little jump.

How far he has to go, how little he feels, and yet, how quickly he wants to grow up.

But that race, that race to adulthood that he is running--that everyone has run at one point in their lives--is really a competition not worth finishing. Drop out now, if you can, because beyond the finish line isn't much.

Just sit down on the track, cross your arms, and stubbornly refuse to move.

Oh, if it were only that easy.

One cannot simply "not" grow up.

But, oh! How much more comfortable that train ride is when asleep on your mother's lap, face buried in the cotton of her blouse! How much better that is! Unaware of the evil in the world, existing only to play and cry and eat... existing to run and skip and make mistakes and not care about anything except only the most trivial of trivialities--toys and games, trees, flowers, dirt; the chirp of a bird.

The sun shines brightly on children for they know not how to make someone feel unwelcome, or uncomfortable. They know how to laugh, with minds empty as imbecile's.

Children are accepting, because they know no other way.

... and though every child that sees me stares at my hair and my white skin, the awe in their eyes is as innocent as Autumn rain.

Unfortunately, for me, when my fellow employees look at me at is not a look of awe or even of confusion--certainly not of acceptance on a level that could be considered anywhere near equal--but rather, it is a look that a child cannot give: it is a look down, a look down from above and it says "you are not welcome."

Is it normal after working one month at a job, to be completely alienated from the other staff members? To be completely petrified of stepping on someone's toes? To be worried sick that you might do something wrong, even if that wrong is not smiling big enough?

This problem was supposed to be solved, or at least, buried.

But apparently my hair, my appearance, the superficialities of my being are still hot topics in weekly meetings at the junior high. Apparently dreadlocks tarnish their precious private school's images.

What will the parents think?

Well, I can't say for sure, but thankfully solstice can be found in the children, who adore me in a way that can't possibly be reciprocated properly--though I try.

Their smiles say it all, and their eyes say the things that can't be said.

Those smiles and those eyes save me, they protect me from everything evil at that fucking school, everything horrible that tells me: Go home, go back to America--you are not wanted here.

That message, unfortunately, sticks with you.

You here it once and it follows you. To the train station and the Sushi shop. To all the restaurants and to all the convenience stores. The unshakable feeling that you are pissing everybody off just travels with you like a scar that won't heal.

It never used to be this way.

I never used to feel intimidated here.

But, those smiles, those eyes, those incredibly ambitious attempts at English--they save me.

"I love you," they said to me yesterday.

"I love you."

Do you know what that means?

It's ok, you don't have to.

"I love you, too."

Silence for half-of-a-breath, then a gasp, a giggle and a blush. Then laughter and the sound of footsteps skipping down the stairs, the sound of skirts in the wind, rushing out the doors to their next class.

Why must everything matter so much?

Why must everything have so much meaning?

Coming to Japan was supposed to be a test of my ability to adapt culturally and linguistically, not a test of my personal resolve to keep a hairstyle.

... and yet, the more the pressure me, the more they are pushing me away.

How badly I want to speak to them, in Japanese.

How badly I want to be their friends as all the prior interns with no "hygiene problems" have been.

How badly I want to have long talks with them about their families, their passions and the ticking things inside their hearts that make them get up every morning.

I only came here to talk to people, to meet them.

And yet... they provide not even a shred of opportunity. A chance was never given, even from the beginning.

Those who seem so preoccupied with me, who seem to want to do nothing but bring misery to me, are the very people who I want to speak with, to say "hello," and "I love you."

Because truly, I am but a child myself, even though I can reach the handles on the train--I am but a child, staring out of a pair of large, brown eyes.

And though I am the tallest on the train, constantly bumping my noggin on hanging advertisements, I am but a child, sitting arms crossed in the middle of the race track.

I refuse to run any further, I refuse to continue growing up.

Note: I want to apologize for constantly dwelling on this topic and really telling you nothing about Japan, but this little situation has lately been permeating nearly every aspect of my daily life, and I can't seem to write about much more.