I'd Hate to See That Mosquito

            I slept in today.

            This was intentional.  I slept in late enough to give myself a grand total of 7 combined hours of sleep for the past 2 days.  In other words, I slept in till the last possible second, threw on a pair pants (shorts were still drying), a shirt, and ran out the door.

            Ran.  Literally.  I wouldn’t have caught the bus on time if I had walked.

            Sure, I realized that there was something on my thigh that was bothering me.  Fingering the area, I felt a slightly upraised section.  I marked it down to a mosquito bite.

            Throughout the day, I continued to check on the bite.  One upraised section, only about half an inch or so.  Nothing outside of that.  I couldn’t fathom why I was still noticing some discomfort – admittedly, only some - as I usually have a decent pain tolerance.  Mosquito bites don’t usually even register as a sensation, much less continue to register throughout an entire day.  I chalked it up to boredom.  The more bored I am, the more I notice the little things.

            Around 3ish, the students left.  I had the choice of prepping for tomorrow or just farting around.  Naturally, I decided to stroll to the bathroom and see this mosquito bite first hand.

            W. O. A. H.

            It wasn’t a mosquito.  See attached photo.

            See that dark thing in the middle?  It’s a hole, possibly a bite mark.  The edges of the hole are swollen.  THAT’S what I mistook for a mosquito bite.  The reason I didn’t realize it was the epicenter of a much larger swollen mass is simple – the swollen area is as large as my entire hand.  When trying to figure out what hurt, I wasn’t grasping my thigh with my entire hand.  I was just feeling around with a finger. 

            Oh, and the color of the hole is black.  If I squeeze it hard, very dark blood comes out.  But the color of the wound is too opaque to be called even a dark maroon.  It’s black.

The diameter of the swelling goes from the bottom of my palm to the tip of middle finger. The diameter.  Of the whole circle.

What caused it?  Dunno.

Did I mention I have a decent pain tolerance?

I'm considering submitting these two stories to magazines interested in article with "unique perspective/angles" on life abroad.  As this thought gives my stomach quite a topsy-turvy feeling, comments and editorial suggestions are very much appreciated.

Sougo

            Sougo, a boy of four, has hair the color of a deer’s mane.  In warmer climates, such as Singapore, his skin also mimics the shade of a deer.  His eyes have the same hue as the noses on Prancer and Dancer.  He is autistic.

            For the past five minutes, he has been picking at his name, sewn neatly into the bottom of his bookbag.  “C’mon, Sougo”, I gently prod him, “Time to get changed.”  Sometimes, this prompts him to unzipper his bag.  Today, it doesn’t.  He continues to unravel the yellow thread from the black canvas.  “Sougo,” I try again, shaking the bag for emphasis.  When the thread he is touching begins to shake, he looks at his shoes.  Tugs the left one off.  Then half on.  Then off.  I reach for the bag’s zipper myself.  Today isn’t one of his more responsive days.          

            Perhaps I should say that the school thinks he’s autistic.  His mom says otherwise.  Soon after he entered Konohana Gakuin International, one of Singapore's elite Japanese preschools, his quirks were quickly apparent.  The Japanese teachers politely didn’t notice.  His English teachers did.  Talk quietly spread throughout the small school until encho-sensei (the principal) decided to sit in on a class.  Then two.  Then more.  After months of observation, he couldn’t deny his suspicions any longer.  Sougo’s mom was called in.

            As I undo the zipper, Sougo moves a few feet away, toward the classroom door.  His movements are so subtle, they should be patented.  Often, you don’t realize he’s doing anything more than shifting weight – which he also commonly does – until he’s moved away from you.  Now, he is banging his forehead and hands against the door.  I pull out the rest of his clothes, chiding him gently.

            I call Sougo’s name, but no indication is given that he hears me.  I toss his shirt at him gently, its hem lightly sweeping his backside.  Again.  On the fourth try, he turns around to face me.

            More accurately, he faces my direction.  He gaze is directed somewhere over my right shoulder.  It moves from the right shoulder to the left shoulder to in front of my toes.  He bends down.

            His mom took him to a Japanese clinic.  The next day, a note was attached to his communication book.  The doctor had determined he did not have autism, but a strong character. 

            I encourage Sougo to stand.  When he does, I mimic the motion of raising my hands above my head.  I hope he’ll follow.  He doesn’t.  I pull his arms up, then release.  They fall part of the way down, his left arm raised at 3 o’clock, his right at 10 o’clock.  It’s the best I can hope for. 

            Later, the mom mentioned that the doctor hadn’t been from the clinic at all, but her own personal psychologist.  Much later, it was wondered if she had even brought him to the psychologist or based the note on her own beliefs.

            From the far side of the room, I hear a voice calling through the attached bathroom.  “Sensei, Rena-chan poo-poo’ed.”  The students are K1, first level kindergarten.  They have been through N1 and N2, the two years of preschool (“n” standing for “newborn”).  As such, it has been deemed they are now old enough to wipe their own butts after poo-poo’ing.  A sensei is still needed, however, to check if all was wiped well.  If not, the sensei must do the wiping.  I smile.  Koide-sensei, my Japanese coteacher, is closer.  Her task. 

I grab Sougo’s shirt and pull it up.  It entwines with his arms and head, requiring minutes to untangle.  As I untangle, he rocks back and forth.  Through the shirt, I can hear him humming.  Finally, it comes off.

            He wobbles slightly to the left.  I am only at the beginning of folding his shirt when he wobbles to the right.  By the time the shirt is folded, he has a large lego in his hand and is banging it against the floor, each hit accompanied by the sound of “ga” from his mouth.

            “Sougo,” I call for his attention, turning him towards me.  He resists, then faces my direction.  Again, his eyes first go over my right shoulder, then left …

            I don’t usually help him change.  Our classroom consists of three teachers – Koide-sensei (the Japanese teacher), myself (the English teacher), and Abby-sensei, the assistant teacher.  An assistant because she’s a full-time student, her teaching degree not yet fully earned.  I secretly suspect Abby-sensei is already a better teacher than me.

            Usually, Abby-sensei helps Sougo change.  He’s the only student who needs help.  All the others can change on their own, though they occasionally ask for help removing a shirt or putting on a sock.  They ask for help because they like having the teacher’s sole attention for a moment.

Usually, I watch Keitaro.  He can change fine, but his changing time is invariably interrupted by inclinations to punch, kick, slap, and bite the other children.  Last year, he explained to his teacher that he wanted to be strong like his daddy.   He could tell his daddy was strong because his daddy beats up his mommy.  His mommy assured us this wasn’t true.  Encho-sensei, the principal, doesn’t believe her.  But he does believe it’s a matter to be handled at home, not school.  the issue is purely a domestic one.  Domestic, adjective.  Definition: to be handled at home.

Meanwhile, Keitaro alternates between beating up his classmates, pleading for attention, and bawling whenever he believes he’s about to get in trouble.  It’s not unusual for him to have bruises.  When his mom brought his two year old sister along for a meeting, she also had bruises.

            Keitaro isn’t the only chronic kicker in the class.  Every day, when seated at his table, Sougo repetitively kicks the back of Hanako’s chair.  Hanako endures, her posture regally straight throughout the long periods of kicking, displaying more patience than many adults.  All indications suggest she’s simply accepted the fact that her chair comes with its own percussion system.

            I hold up the Outdoor Uniform shirt, the one Sougo needs to change into.  He stares at the ceiling, limbs loose.  I pull the shirt over his head.  He turns around in the direction of the bathroom.  If he makes it in there, he can spend up to ten minutes on the toilet.  I hug him, stopping him from moving.  He squirms.

            When Sougo’s mother comes to PTMs (Parent Teacher Meetings) or Parent Observation Days, she remains far away from the other parents, not wanting to hear anyone point out her child is different.  It’ll be difficult to ignore this year, as he’s so far behind.  He often doesn’t retrieve his pencil case or open his folder when told to.  He doesn’t write on the worksheets unless a sensei places the pencil in his hand and guides it for him.  When the other children draw pictures for art, Sougo scribbles.  Sometimes, on the paper.  Sometimes not.  He also consistently gets up to go to the bathroom and forgets to come back.  The other children have begun to comment, “Sougo can’t do anything.”  Discussions are underway regarding how to make this less obvious to the mother this Observation Day.  I’m uncertain why we want to.

            Sougo has stopped squirming.  Back turned towards me, limbs limp, body weight angled forward.  If I release him, he’ll fall.  He is staring at the ground, lips moving, feet pawing at the ground like a racehorse.  Indistinguishable noises are being emitted.  I maneuver his left arm through the hole, then his right.  During the whole procedure, he has not looked at me once.  He never does.

            That’s one thing I can’t understand.  I understand the concept of denial, but after four years of never being looked at directly by your child, don’t you wonder if something is wrong?

            I straighten his shirt out as he continues to hoof.  “Good job!” I declare, grabbing his Outdoor Uniform shorts with one hand, holding him upright with the other.  He doesn’t respond

            He’s almost never spoken to me.  The other children will.  They use their small English vocabulary, or lapse excitedly into Japanese.  Sometimes, they just gesture.  The only time he’ll speak to me is during Outdoor Play, when he sits in a toy police car.  I’ll grab the back as he tries to move it, forcing it to stop.  “Sougo, no go?” I ask.  “No!”, he’ll declare, “Sougo go!”  Then we race down the cement, me pushing as fast as I can.  He also knows my name, Dawn-sensei, which he declares throughout the day to show his love for me, even at inopportune times.  One of those inopportune times was when his mom asked him the cause of his back bruises, achieved by writhing on top of legos for a long period of time.  His answer?  “Dawn-sensei!”  Other than these moments, Sougo has never spoken to me.  Not in English, not in Japanese.  Not even a single gesture to ask for more food on his lunch tray.  He’s never tried to communicate with me.

            Koide-sensei says he speaks to her sometimes.  He spoke to her yesterday.  She saw him in town.  He was being pushed in a stroller while his younger sister walked beside him, unaided.  He said “little truck”.

            And that’s another thing I can’t get.  It must be almost impossible to deny your child has handicaps when you spend four years without him ever looking you in the eye.  But… when your child’s younger sibling is more advanced?  What excuses do you make?  Or are you past making them?

            “Sougo,” I ask with a wide, friendly smile, “are you ready to change your shorts?”

            He continues to look over my shoulder.

One thing that never fails to amaze me about this backpacking trip is the amount of middle-aged men who expect me to sleep with them.  Please notice the phrasing.  Not "hope for", not "wish".  "Expect".  As if it simply fails to occur to them I might object.

I'm at the end of my allocated backpacking budget.  I've decided that instead of spending my last dollars on scuba diving, volcano climbing, and whatnot, I'd spend it on a week's stay at the beach.  Quite literally, that is where my room is located - on the beach.  Five feet from the water.  I have a view of the ocean on three sides.  I've been doing nothing but lounging around on various hammocks, reading books and filling out crosswords.

As you'd expect after being somewhere for a week, I've gotten on casual speaking terms with the staff - and even the owner.  It turns out he owns another resort a few kilometers away, known as The Tree House for the very simple reason that the main cottage in his resort is, yes, built on a tree.  The other day, as we were exchanging the usual "Hey, whats up?", he told me he was heading to The Tree House.  "You can come along if you have nothing better to do," he added casually.

Side note:  Being invited along at random is actually quite common on this trip.  Filipinos, far more than Westerners, are shocked at the idea of traveling on your own.  I've lost track of the amount of times I've been asked the following questions (in order) "Where's your companion?", "Don't you have a boyfriend?", "Aren't you lonely?", and my absolute favorite, "Your mom LETS you travel alone?!?!".    To them, traveling is a group event.  Doing it solo is incomprehensible and exceedingly dull. 

Even Westerners don't fully get it, either.  I'm constantly asked if I wish to join in on even the smallest activities - a walk to the store, a jaunt to the internet cafe.  The scuba dive shop I used in Boracay would even ask if I wanted to tag along to various resorts which they had to pick customers up from.  "If you have nothing better to do," they'd add.

In this case, the entire point of spending a week on a beach IS to have nothing better to do.  I hopped along.  He immediately showed me the famed Tree House, told me to relax, and left.  Half an hour later, he checked on me, curled up in my book.  "Hey, do you want to spend two nights here?", he asked, "No charge.  The place is under renovation, but it's going to open soon.  I just want someone to spread the word about the resort to other areas."

Secluded, gorgeous, and free?  Sure, I'll take it.

I won't bother you with details about the rest of the day.  Short version is I popped in and out of town.  When I was in the room, someone would occasionally invite me along to whatever they were doing - like eating lunch.  A little after sunset, the owner knocked on the door again.  "Let's sit on the veranda and enjoy the twilight."  In his hands were rum and coke.  It seemed impolite to decline.

We sat there for about an hour.  Luckily, he seemed content with sitting in silence, as my thoughts were racing ahead, forming a million ideas of things to do about the future.  Unluckily, he seemed to occasionally want skin-to-skin contact.  The first two times he gently put his hand on my knee, my legs skittered away.  Nothing subtle about it.  If the bench we were sitting on were a globe, he'd be in America and my legs would be in China.  I told him how much I deplored being touched when he asked if I had a Japanese massage when I was in Japan. The third time his hand aimed towards my knee, I managed to catch it mid-air - an impressive thing to do in the ink-black night - and place it back on his lap.     Soon, I did what every girl throughout the ages has done when not wanting to deal with roaming hands any longer - I suddenly became extremely exhausted.  "Sure, sure, no problem," he said when I explained my sleepiness,  "You go to bed.  Let's bring these things back to your room."  He grabbed the coke and told me to get the rum. 

As he walked in to place the coke on the table, he closed and locked the door.  Um, EXCUSE me!  I certainly hope that's to keep the mosquitoes out during your three seconds in this room.

Before I could comment, he stripped off his shirt.  "So, do you want the left side or the right?" 

Hope - a thing that crashes and burns.  "I.  Want.  to Sleep.  Alone."
"Oh, don't worry, no expectations," he assured me loftly, "I only want sleep.  So, left or right?"

No expectations?  Cool.  You can sleep in this bed with no expectations or hopes.  I'll sleep in a different bed - in a different room - with no fears or worries.  Deal?

The next few minutes involved him explaining there were no other empty rooms in the newly renovated resort and me explaining that I'm perfectly willing to sleep outside.  I replaced non-verbalized phrases of  "You dirty rotten scumbag" with subtler "Sorry, I guess I didn't understand".  A few replacement phrases later,  he came upon a new, revolutionary idea.  "So, I guess I should go to my room?" He headed for the door.  Life lesson #418:  Problems are solved much more efficiently with polite yet insistent confusion than with anger.

When his hand got on the knob, he stopped and turned around.  He would've craddled my head with both hands if I hadn't jerked my head back, looking like one of those solar-powered head bobbers in the midst of a nuclear explosion.  He stared beseechingly into my eyes.  "Are you sure you won't regret this?", he implored.

Hmmm.... let me think.  Am I going to wake up in the middle of the night, longing for the middle-aged body of a stranger "with no expectations" next to me?

 "I'm sure", I confirmed.

In the morning, a messenger was sent to me.  Overnight, the empty renovating resort became overbooked.  They no longer had space for me.

Two days later, when he returned my eyeglasses, he asked if I had time to receive a Japanese massage.