Mari Nakamitsu
24 February 2011
Creative Non-Fiction
J. Shimabukuro
The Side I Knew
He was just a kid at heart. There were senseless stories, games, made up words and immature jokes. An endless trail of laughter wherever we went. He was my first friend. It is now that when I look at him in faded photos of my youth I see a different person. I see a person different than the one I viewed as a child. Though I never looked up to him as a person to become when I was older… wait, that’s a lie. I admired; and still do; his compassion and trusting nature for people as well as his creativity and ability to understand. I never forgot that person. Though for a while it was buried deeply within me. The scent of sweat and motor oil followed him and his hands were always covered in paint. The only things that he liked more than motorcycles was airbrushing and spending time with me. Beautiful amber, gold and pink sunsets captured upon strands of cotton to enchant the eyes. Each work of art etched with careful, brown hands, dry from years of craft. That was the person I remembered and cherished the most not the person that I grew to know.
My hands gripped the rubber and steel as the powerful engine roared beneath me. I felt free, frightened and powerful at the age of 7. How could I feel too scared? My protector was behind me, reassuring me and cheering me on. Dangerous? What can I say? He was a real kid inside. I roared off (or what it seemed to me) down the desolate parking lot, gravel spinning and flicking to all sides beneath tires. I pulled on the brakes and tipped to the side, my leg barely holding up the bike and me. A hand reached out to my shoulder and the weight of the heavy steel lifted off my leg. There were smiles and “you’ve done great” along with loads of other praise. I felt as proud as could be, knowing that I tried something and did great. Though I had ridden with him and his wife (my other pal) since I was 2, I had never done it on my own. Only after I had learned to ride a 2 wheeler proficiently was I allowed undertake a feat such as this. I was happy; he always understood and knew what to say.
After those kid times of him constantly being there I slowly started to see him less and less. While I was getting older, I had other friends to hang out with outside of school but on the weekends I wondered what happened to him. I still saw him from time to time. At the beginning it became from every other day to once a week, then once every other week to once a month to once every few months to not at all. To this day the last time I saw him was at my graduation, 2 years ago. Though this time it was because he physically cannot see me. I finally knew the truth when I got to high school and when the visits really became infrequent. Instead of a source of happiness and security for me, he became a source of disappointment and anxiety. I wondered what he was doing, if he was alive, and how selfish he was being. Watching “Intervention” did not especially help either, superficial and stupid as it seems. I was always interested in things like that, documentaries and the like. Maybe I watched because I understood the feeling, maybe I watched to understand more of why. I always said I would take care of him, I felt as if I had failed in life. I always came second to the substance. I stayed angry for a while. Though when I saw him on the football field as a came down the steps from graduating high school I did not feel mad, I could not feel that way. He was still my friend, he was still the person that was there for me in life. Most of all I had to thank him for keeping me on the right path, from being curious and straying from what I really wanted out of life. Doing what he had done to my family was too painful, something I was not willing to take the risk for “just to try it”. In some study I found that those teenagers who did not experiment were found to be “maladjusted people”. If that study is right than so be it. If that study is right then we all should be maladjusted because there are those (in increasing number) that fall through the cracks; where it is not just an experiment any longer but a way of life. One of my most trusted companions fell through and tore through the hearts of all those involved. It was not fair, but nothing in life is.
Now looking at things this way, I am glad that things turned out the way that they did in my life. He is safe now, locked up, but safe. Hopefully he can turn around though he is older now. I have gotten over my anger and sadness. Now when I look at those pictures I choose to see the person I remembered him the most as. I look back and remember all the good things he taught me to do. I remember that without his examples, positive and negative, I would not be the person I am today. Everything in life makes you stronger. He had a warm heart and he always meant well. Everyone has their weaknesses and strengths and I learned from his. But most of all what I understood about him was that he was giving and kind. It was warm out and getting dark, his hand was at the edge of my bicycle seat, then pushing me off and cheering me on. I trusted him. I knew he would never let me fall and he did not let me down. I learned to ride that day. I look in his eyes and see purity and trustworthiness, the side I knew long ago, the side I know is still somewhere in there.
