Student of the Month February 2014 Featuring: Ellen Takemoto
University of Hawai‘i at MÄ noa
Copyright © 2014 by the Board of Publications, University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa If you are a student and would like to feature your work in Student of the Month or an instructor for a creative writing course and would like to submit exemplary University of Hawai‘i student work to Hawai‘i Review’s Student of the Month, please send submissions to our Submittable account at bit.ly/submit2HR Contact us at hawaiireview@gmail.com
A Note on the Series:
Our Student of the Month series features on our website stellar student writing and visual art from the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, the institution where our roots dig deep. In print for more than 40 years, our journal has been an established voice in the Pacific and beyond for decades, featuring work from emerging writers alongside literary heavyweights. The Student of the Month series is our latest effort to expand Hawai‘i Review’s reach in local and far-reaching literary communities. For the fourth installment of the Student of the Month series, we are thrilled to feature the following creative nonfiction writer: Ellen Takemoto. We are super excited about this piece, “Ancient Stepping Stones,” which is the first piece of creative nonfiction to be featured for our Student of the Month initiative! We at Hawai‘i Review are especially grateful to Madoka Nagado, PhD student in English at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, for connecting us to Ellen and her work. As a writing consultant and student writer at UHM’s Writing Center, Madoka is the reason Ellen decided to submit her work for our consideration. Madoka made the following comments about Ellen and her creative nonfiction: I met Ellen Takemoto who regularly made appointments to see me at the UH Manoa Writing Center to discuss drafts related to her courses. Her writing immediately stood out to me for its poetic quality and rhythmic expressiveness. It prompted me to ask if she had ever tried her hand at creative writing. Surprisingly, she said no. “Only when asked,” she discreetly answered. Ellen shared with me her passions for writing and many other subjects during our meetings. She is a caring mother, a practitioner of Japanese tea ceremony, and a musician, highly skilled with the traditional Japanese bamboo flute, the shakuhachi. She holds a black belt in judo and practices kendo. In what spare time she has, she energetically dedicates to volunteering in her community. During one of our meetings, I found myself holding a copy of Hawai‘i Review, asking, “Ellen-san, do you know this? Why don’t you submit . . . ?” We are so glad Ellen did. Enjoy! —The Editors
Ancient STepping Stones
Photo Credit: Ellen Takemoto
T
here is a river near my temple that was once filled with glittering rainbow fantails and fire-red crayfish. The Japanese school students knew that they were not allowed to go
beyond the back of the temple where a tall gate stood, however the temptation of adventure was no boundary for me. I was never caught climbing over the fence leading to the magnificent waterfall and river where ancient stepping stones kept me from falling into the ponds. My days alternated between the river and temple grounds. Like a pioneer on a mission, my nimble feet journeyed through the vast echoing temple corridors. Every mysterious door led to stuffy closets. Dusty storage rooms were filled with stage equipment of yesteryear that was brought back to life by a child’s world of imagination. My propensity for uninhibited risk taking also led to the study of fine-tuning window and wall-climbing skills. One route that I charted led to the various levels of the temple rooftop. 4
Outside, the Zen garden was also off-limits to children. As explorers map new discoveries, I unearthed the sacred landscaped garden and found comfort in a hollowed-out manicured bush for secret quarters. My shadow became well acquainted with every crack and crevice of the temple grounds. One day I got ahold of some matches and started a little bonfire in the tea ceremony area. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead when I heard footsteps of a priest coming my way. I dodged under the tea preparation table, and awaited confrontation. The pair of big black shoes walked by and the flames went out, and so was my attempt to play with matches ever again. Religious services were followed on a smaller scale on the temple playground. When creatures such as crayfish from the river came to their life’s end, I conducted private funeral services as somber Japanese school children squatted in silence huddled near the great Bodhi tree. We would have an interfaith ceremony as I recited a memorized Buddhist sutra while my friend led the Lord’s Prayer. On weekends my temple bustled with delicate shades of kimono-clad people who floated about like angels during tea ceremony class. The sense of mindfulness filled me with deep spiritual tradition and focused especially on one thing—the sweet mochi! I yearned for zazen class. The first step was to bow with gratitude, and then select the cushion for sitting on that weighed a ton. Squirming little voices assumed full lotus position, hushed by a priest sliding across the room with a long wooden paddle held up high for dozing children. In seated meditation, we sat with backs straight facing the wall in neat rows. Zazen enchanted me. It was a bridge to the ancient ones.
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Taiko beats penetrated rhythms through the summer night air that drew crowds from all over the island for bon dance. We dressed up in happi coats and wore our best rubber slippers for all-night dancing. Glowing lanterns hung high around the tower, beckoning ancestors to the cultural party. The annual bon dance offered nourishment for hungry spirits with steaming S&S saimin and hibachied bbq on sticks. As dancers fluttered their fans in cadence to songs of the old plantation days, I wanted the departed ones to know that we were all okay here. Glancing toward the long shave ice line with growing new families, where they once stood, was proof enough. Judo became a way of life for me. For a seven year old, it was a bore to do hundreds of basic falling exercises that seemed to go on for hours on end. Many seasons passed when tankobu bruises in different shapes and color variation often did not have time to heal, a sign bearing the desire to take judo to a higher level. Refining detailed techniques took years until realizing the beauty in the spirit of judo was about concentrating not only on the body, but more importantly, the mind. Fujiki Sensei dually served as priest and judo teacher. I followed him everywhere like an opihi, and he was my rock. One day, he disclosed the news about returning to his family temple in Japan. It sounded like a million miles from here. I tried to be brave and asked if he would come back. But to my dismay, he whispered, “no� and walked away without any more words. By the time I was nine, wonderful endless discussion about the ideologies and essence of Zen teachings filled my free time with other priests. Eventually, each sensei over the years, returned to their family temple. Even the very kind, oldest woman priest who spoke to 6
me with her gentle smile, took ill and passed away. The other female minister was a solid figure. Ichinose Sensei was tough, and Hawaii-born. But even her life came to an abrupt end. Burglars intruded the temple. While she protected the donation box, they used the hammer that normally would sound the temple bell to kill her on the spot. My hero was gone forever. I often slept over at a priest’s family home tucked behind the temple. Night sounds were peaceful with the moonlight shining through the window blinds. I would wake up early to the temple bell that called the priests together. For those moments, I pretended to be the littlest priest and joined in-line where journeyed ones awaited their morning blessing. The temple was a home for my spirit where the inevitabilities of life and pangs of loss became part of changes, naturally occurring in the shifting realities of the world. Wonderful opportunities offered a solid foundation steeped in tradition and culture, molded and shaped my formative years. It has been over thirty years now, and the fantail and my ancient stepping stones are no longer there, however, the temple bell continues to ring on.
Ellen Takemoto was raised in Honolulu and spent her career as an advocate for abused and neglected children in Hawaii. Currently she is a master’s candidate at the University of Hawaii at Manoa studying public administration. She uses the university’s Writing Center to improve her writing skills and finds it now a regular hang out. She says Madoka, who is a tutor at the Writing Center, encouraged her to enter an article to the Hawai‘i Review. With the belief and persistence of Madoka when she did not believe in herself, Ellen offers a glimpse of a child’s world of imagination. This is her first published piece. 7
www.hawaiireview.org Hawai‘i Review Staff, 2013-2014 Anjoli Roy, Editor in Chief Kelsey Amos, Managing Editor Donovan Kūhiō Colleps, Design Editor No‘ukahau‘oli Revilla, Poetry Editor David Scrivner, Fiction Editor
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