against the current
borne back ceaselessly into the past.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
“My pop wants me to be an aerodynamic engineer, like him.”
I’m looking at David Nakamura—one of our top students—and I’m wondering why we keep doing this to our children.
It’s not like the Auden poem where an average boy from the farm tries to please his folks by attempting the exceptional—David is exceptional and would probably make a very good engineer—but he’d probably also suffocate from boredom.
“What do you want to do?”
“You’ll probably laugh, Mr. Henderson, but I’d like to be an English Professor at university.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Well, look at the courses I’m taking—Math, Physics and Chemistry—and I’m at the top of my class in all of them.”
“But are you happy?”
He smiles—a big white-toothed smile. David’s a bright and good-looking boy, but I don’t see him smile that often.
“Happiness is relative, don’t you think?”
“Relative to what?”
He sighs and the shadow of a frown crosses his face. “Relative to what my parents expect, I guess.”
I nod. “You feel an obligation then?”
“Well, yeah—my pop’s real successful and he brags about me to all his friends—says I’m going to follow him in the business.”
He might as well have said, ‘Duh, don’t you get it Man? —A guys gotta do what his folks want him to.’ But David’s not that kind of kid—he’s very respectful, and unfortunately, very burdened.
“I’d like to talk to your folks on Parents’ Night.”
He shakes his head. “It won’t do any good—my pop’s got his mind made up.”
“Ordinarily, I’d accept that David, but I’ve got to ask you—Whose life are we talking about here—yours or your pop’s?”
He sits back and gives a huge sigh. “Okay, Mr. Henderson—I guess it’s worth a try—but don’t get your hopes up.”
I look at David slumped in the chair opposite and know he’s talking about him, more than me.
“I’ll scope out courses available in English Lit in the universities you applied to—and I won’t lose heart. I suggest you do the same.”
He gets up and shakes my hand like a man. “Thank you, Mr. Henderson. You know how much I appreciate you.”
I smile and watch him as he grabs his books and heads back to class. He tries to blend in with the other students in the hall, horsing around, blowing off steam—but he’s already a man in a sea of youth.
For the next week, I’m at a conference and when I return, Mrs. Wyebrew, David’s English teacher, waylays me in the hall.
“Hey, Kent—Did you hear about David Nakamura?”
My heart starts racing. “No what happened?”
“He was in my English class and we were discussing Hamlet and suddenly he burst out crying—had some kind of emotional meltdown right in the middle of my class.”
I turn ashen.
“I didn’t know what to do—I tried to console him—I sent for you, but you were away.”
The guilt begins. I feel partly to blame. “Did you call the office?”
“Yes. The VP came and escorted him out and then the paramedics arrived and took him away—It’s all very hush-hush.”
“I can imagine, knowing the Nakamura family.”
“If you see David or talk to him, tell him not to worry—I’ll send home assignments—that is, if he’s up to working on them.”
“I’ll relay the message,” I tell her.
I phone home, but there’s no answer—the call goes directly to voice mail. I leave a message anyway.
By Parents’ Night, there’s still no word from the Nakamuras. I meet with dozens of parents and end up staying until ten p.m.
Just as I’m preparing to leave, there’s a knock on my door and a well-to-do couple walk in.
“Good evening, Mr. Henderson—I’m Andrew Nakamura, David’s father and this is my wife Elisabeth. I know it’s late and you must be tired, but could you spare a few minutes to talk with us?”
They’re very gracious—articulate, well dressed and good-looking. I’d have guessed they were David’s parents if I saw them on the street.
“Please come in, Mr. and Mrs. Nakamura—I was hoping to have a chance to talk with you.”
They come in and sit opposite me. Mr. Nakamura discreetly closes the door.
“I’m sorry to hear about David—is he feeling better?”
“Ah yes,” the father replies, “It was most unfortunate, but David is recovering.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“David asked us to speak with you—he doesn’t want to talk about his problem with us—he said you’d know.”
“I think I do know what’s troubling, David, Mr. Nakamura. Do you mind if I ask if you had an argument with David prior to his breakdown in class that day?”
The man purses his lips. “We had a disagreement about something trivial—about power.”
“Power?”
“Yes. I was telling David about planning for his future and how financial security would provide him with power and he interrupted me—he said, knowledge is power, Pop, not money. I was very surprised.”
“Why were you surprised?”
“David never answers me back and certainly doesn’t interrupt me. I’m afraid I was harsh with him.”
“Do you mind if I ask what you said?”
He colours a little, but commences to tell me. I told him, you are an inexperienced boy. You don’t know what life is. Wealth is power—without power, you’re a nobody.
He answered me back. He said. I want to use words, Pop—I want to learn about books and literature—I care about life, not money.
I got angry. I told him—words are for girls—it’s a waste of time talking when you could be doing things. Do you want to end up educated enough to know what you lack, but powerless to give your family what they need?
He stormed off and didn’t talk to me—and then this happened.
Mrs. Nakamura dabs at her eyes with a Kleenex.
“David wants to teach English Literature at university, Mr. Nakamura.”
His eyes grow large. “But there is no money in that.”
“He might have to struggle at first—Tell me, Mr. Nakamura, did you have to struggle at the beginning?”
He remains silent. Suddenly, his wife speaks.
“We did struggle at first, Mr. Henderson. We lived in the village in a second floor walk-up.”
She looks off into space as if visualizing the past. “I remember,” she laughs, “we couldn’t afford a fridge—we had to put the butter and milk on the widow sill to keep it cold, and brush off the snow in the morning.”
Her husband is drawn into the memory. He begins to remember and smiles, “The cream would rise to the top of the milk bottle and pop the cap off.”
“But you made it through, didn’t you?”
His face goes stern again. “We did, but it was very difficult.”
There’s a long pause. “Yes, I see. That must have been very hard on you both.”
“Oh no,” says Mrs. Nakamura, “those were the best times!”
She looks up and sees her husband’s stern face and retreats back into herself. She casts her eyes down, staring at her folded hands in her lap.
Mr. Nakamura sees his wife’s reaction and softens a little.
“They were good times,” he admits.
His wife looks up and gives him an uncertain smile.
There’s another long silence and I notice a small tear in the corner of his eye. He wipes it away and sighs.
“They were the best times Elisabeth—I wouldn’t trade them for anything.”
She brightens up like the sun appearing from behind a cloud. “Even for our big house and our gated community?” she asks timidly.
“Even for that. All I wanted was for you—and then, David, to be happy.”
“But we are happy, Andrew. I’m afraid we will drive David away—and then what will we have—a big empty house?”
He raises his hands as if offering a prayer and then lets them fall limply.
“Perhaps, I have been too stern.”
“Will you let him follow his dream? He’s all we have, Andrew.”
The man appears to struggle within himself.
“What can I do? It’s his life—not mine—if it makes him happy, then I’m happy.”
She beams with pride and joy.
Seeing her face, he relents. He begins to smile broadly. “Ah, to hell with it—like Basho says—My store house having burned down, I can now see the light of the full moon.”
“Do you see the light now?” she asks staring at him, expectantly.
“I see the light in your face—and the need of my son. I’m not a fool—I know when I’m wrong.”
She reaches out and gently takes his hand.
He turns to me, “Thank you, Mr. Henderson for helping me see the truth.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Nakamura—but I don’t see what I’ve done.”
“You believed in my son—you make me ashamed of my lack of trust.”
Then, he looks at his wife. “You took the time to listen to our fears—the fear wasn’t his—it was inside of me.”
I smile as he gets up to shake my hand. “You know, Mr. Nakamura, Shakespeare said, it’s a wise father who knows his own son.”
“Ha-ha, a very good saying, Mr. Henderson—but I would add, it’s a wise father who knows himself.”
“That’s another good maxim,” I laugh.
I watch the two of them depart—join the other parents in the hall, already enjoying their newfound freedom they think they’ve given their son.
Frost wrote a poem about paths in life that can be taken. The Nakamuras just embarked on the less traveled one.
I think of another dreamer whose road diverged—who chose returning to a single focus over a myriad of other possibilities.
"Do you want to end up educated enough to know what you lack, but powerless to give your family what they need?" The father does have a point, it's unfortunate how the monetary system of today's society has restricted us from growth. I am glad your story had a happy ending though and the man can pursue his dream instead of doing what his father wants him to do. Did you write this your self? Nice work! :)
thank you, @generation - it's based on an incident that occurred when I was teaching :)
good
thanks