What do the Hare of Inaba, Byakkotai, and the boar god Okkoto in the movie Princess Mononoke have in common?
On April 8, 2000, a girl was born full of energy but with red eyes.
What thoughts spring to mind when you see a white rabbit? Do you think it is pretty because it is so white? How about a human albino? What would you think if a person who is totally white—the skin, the hair, the eyebrows, and eyelashes—suddenly appeared in front of you? When people encounter someone or something at odds with their previous experience, I think they are predisposed to point an accusatory finger.
Because I look white, people said: “You look scary” or “You must have some weird disease.”
At the ceremony on the first day at kindergarten, I noticed that the hair of the child sitting next to me was black and so was her mother’s hair. My mother, sitting beside me and smiling encouragingly at me, also had black hair. But my hair was white. I loved my mother but she looked like a stranger in a different world.
At elementary school, I learned to hide my true self. Although at first I did not hesitate to show my hair, I gradually got into the habit of always wearing a hat. Sometimes I could not hide all my hair and people pointed at me and laughed at my white hair. I felt angry.
In the spring when I became a sixth grader, I died my hair black. As I grew older, I compared myself with others and came to hate myself. I went out hatless and because people stared at me less frequently, I felt a burden had been lifted from my shoulders.
In junior high school, I hated playing volleyball in PE class. Because of amblyopia, I couldn’t judge distance when the ball was on a downward trajectory. While my classmates played volleyball, I practiced alone, tossing a ball in a corner of the gym.
I played flute in a wind band at school. Sometimes, I was given a solo part. Unable to see the conductor clearly, I listened carefully to the sound of the other parts to judge the timing. When I was given a score and told to play flute on the spot, I couldn’t do it. But I derived great joy from my involvement in music and I continued playing the flute.
In my third year at junior high school, I applied for a scholarship at a private high school as a flautist and took the exam. I was rejected. “Why?” I asked through my tears.
My teacher told me the high school had rejected me because it would not be possible to provide a suitable environment for students with disabilities. I was not at all convinced by what I considered an unreasonable explanation. I was deeply disappointed that the criterion for acceptance was not my ability as a flautist but my disability.
I felt lost and confused. I went home and spent a tearful night.
When my friends passed entrance exams and were happy, I resented their success because they had what I didn’t have and I turned my frustration on my parents.
I once hurled a trash can at a window with all my might and shattered the glass. While it was snowing, I rushed out of the house and headed for the hills, coatless, wearing just a jersey. I had no idea what I should do and was only half conscious when my mother found me. She talked to me in her usual manner, “It’s snowing so hard, isn’t it? It’s so cold.” She took my hand and led me homeward.
On that day when I succumbed to despair and rushed out of the house, I felt my mother’s powerful support.
After joining the school for the visually impaired, during the first three years in the general department I became able to accept my disability. Having previously loathed playing volleyball, I became an enthusiastic player of floor volleyball. Our team participated in the national tournament three years running and won the fighting spirit award at the first National Floor Volleyball Tournament for Schools for the Blind held in Saitama.
After taking the entrance exam for the massage department, I let my hair, which had been dyed black, revert to its natural color, white.
I did so because spending time with visually impaired friends and teachers at the school led me to believe that I am at my best when I am myself.
In natural habitats, albinos’ chances of survival are slim because predators find them so easily. Likewise, people with disabilities tend to be shunned and discriminated against in society.
In the contemporary world, there are fashion models with albinism. My aim is to become a stylish masseuse who is always considerate to people. I would like to be a role model for albino children. Mindful that prejudice persists but retaining my aspirations and remaining true to myself, I want to change society for the better by reaching out in my own way.
“An angel was born to us.” My mother wrote these words about me, her newborn child. I want to be a white rabbit worthy of the sentiment she expressed.
Stand Out Fit In.
Snippety snip go the scissors in my hand…the muted tones of small talk with customers…subdued stylish background music…the fragrance of shampoo. I see myself smiling in the mirror with sharp eyes, a professional hairstylist dedicated to achieving the best style for each customer.
In those days, I was at the salon by eight thirty in the morning and worked until eleven at night. I was taking every opportunity to enhance my capabilities and train my three staff—showing them how to cut hair, how to shampoo, how to dye hair, and so on. I strove to establish the brand image of my hair salon, positioning it as a prestigious venue for discriminating customers. Through word of mouth, the business flourished and I had customers from as far away as Fukuoka and Aomori. Everything was going well and I was going to spend the rest of my life as a good-looking charismatic hairstylist. But fate had other ideas.
I was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa 15 years ago. The doctor told me that my vision would only last for another 10 years at most. I couldn’t believe what I heard and didn’t want to believe it. I was then the manager of the Ginza store of Yamano Aiko Beauty Salon. I gained that position through great efforts that enabled me to prevail despite stiff competition from numerous rivals. I was filled with a tremendous sense of job satisfaction. And just at that moment, when everything was going so wonderfully well, I was told that I would lose my eyesight.
“I don’t want to end like this. I want to have my own hair salon. I will be everything that I can be in the next 10 years while I can still see.” Dedicated and confident in the first-class technique and knowhow I had cultivated in Ginza, I decided to open my own salon, which I named SeptenS, inspired by my seventh sense.
My dream came true and I was working at full stretch but my rendezvous with fate was fast approaching. My family asked me if I was OK. My friends asked me: “What’s the matter with you? Is something wrong?” “Are you doing it on purpose?” Time after time, I summoned all my energy so as not to let them notice my growing difficulties. At work, I scrutinized the image in the mirror and tried to sense the hairstyle I was working on through my fingers so that I could achieve the desired symmetry. Scared that people would notice the decline in my eyesight, I put on a bold front, acting as though everything was fine.
On the way home from work, the dark streets in the evening posed a big challenge. “I can’t see but I can’t use a white stick.” I fell from the station platform twice and a truck once hit me. I was putting my life at risk every day. My number was up. The fateful day came.
The shutters come down with a clatter
I closed the shutters of SeptenS, trying to hold back my tears. I had no other option. The 32 years of my life in the beauty industry ended as the shutters came down with a clatter. All of a sudden, the time was up for SeptenS. “What’s happening to me? I’m scared! Someone, please help me? What can I do?” Although I put on a brave face, I was frightfully anxious.
I am now 52 years old, married and have children. What can I do as the head of a household? In despair and without a job, I have joined a school for the visually impaired where I meet other people who have also lost their sight and are in the same boat as me. We have become friends and encourage one another. “I’m not alone.” This conviction helps me accept reality while motivating me to find a way forward.
When I closed my salon, I was unable to tell the truth to any of my friends in the beauty industry or to the numerous customers who had come to my salon over the years. I regret that. I would like them to see me. My life has changed but I am essentially the same person. I would like to say “thank you” to everyone cheerfully. I am resolved to reopen SeptenS one day.
Of the five senses of a human being, I lost my eyesight. But I aim to acquire a seventh sense that goes beyond them. SeptenS will be brought about by abundant knowledge, experience, and the rich life of the mind.
Everyone, wait for me! This time round, I will treat you not with scissors but with my own hands as a masseuse.
Good afternoon, everyone. Most of you are strangers to me, but I wanted to break the ice by saying “Hello!”. The exchange of greetings is a great way of initiating communication to connect with family, friends, and people around you. Some of you may feel inhibited by shyness and find it difficult to greet people. Do you have any disability that prevents you from greeting people? I guess not.
Five years ago, I was diagnosed with a vision disorder. Until then, in my professional life as a care worker and a recreation instructor I had been dealing with the elderly and people with disabilities.
More than simply exchanging greetings, I tried to strike up simple conversations so as to cultivate relationships. “Hello. How are you doing today?” I made it a habit to greet people and exchange pleasantries.
What about people who have no disability and who have little opportunity to meet people with disabilities? Of course, if you see someone with a white stick, you know the person is visually impaired but, even if he or she seems to be getting into difficulty, you may be reluctant to ask, “Are you OK? Can I help you?” Why?
Someone without a disability may hesitate to talk to someone with a disability because they are unsure about the nature of the other person’s problem. But basically, they find it difficult to ask a stranger, “Can I help you?” Even small talk requires courage.
You may suppose that people without disabilities can do anything because they have no disabilities, and that they automatically help people with disabilities. But that often isn’t what happens in real life. In fact, many people without disabilities who see a person in trouble tend to dither. They spend so long wondering about what they can do to help that they lose the opportunity to talk to the disabled person, and then regret that they didn’t offer to help.
If someone talks to you or helps you, do you express your appreciation by saying, “Thank you”? The relevance of this question is by no means limited to encounters with people who have disabilities.
A person who talks to you may be anxious that you might think it is none of their business. But if you say “Thank you,” they will be encouraged to talk to people who are in difficulty. And if you are offered help, you may also be comforted by the knowledge that you are not alone but connected to other people.
I know from my experience that not everyone feels this way. Once when I talked to someone, I was rejected with the words, “Mind your own business.” This experience made me hesitate to talk to strangers.
But the courage that enables one to have fruitful encounters with people starts with the exchange of everyday greetings and the feeling of appreciation. For everyone, regardless of whether they have disabilities or not, this courage will lead to barrier-free minds. The desire to make friends, to converse, and to smile is inside us. It takes courage to take the first step toward satisfying this desire, but it is certainly a step worth taking. It isn’t easy to talk to a stranger. But, you have already made the first step with friends and family.
I had been living as a person without a disability and now I am living with a disability. I would like to speak on behalf of those without disabilities. “When it comes to interacting with people, whether or not you have a disability isn’t so important. The courage to reach out to people is in your heart.”
Thank you.
EN