苦しい まつり おどり

I think more than anything I cried because my feelings were hurt.
From the get-go I didn't know what to expect coming into this dance. When Mr. Kawanishi asked if I wouldn't dance with his grandchildren at the festival, I had initially pictured me holding hands with some little children and boogeying down on some community gymnasium floor.
After the practice, I saw that it was something I really did want to be good at. I practiced. I didn't have a lot of resources or time available- I only had one hour of instruction and I am not particularily good at dancing. But I wanted to be good enough to go in with the others and be part of this tremendously interesting culture. I was feeling iffy in my gut about going with the Kawanishis. Some of their comments made me feel a bit hesitant but the event itself was too good to miss. When I asked what to wear they offered a red yukata and for a few nights I staggered to their house after long, busy days and tried it on. At the dance practice two nights ago, I practiced until my body was terribly sore, the good kind of sore that I wanted to work off of. It was so much fun.
Today I was anxious- had a couple of moments where my stomach tightened up too much and my heart was going too fast for no reason. But I practiced in front of the mirror, tried to get the hang of that darn Soran. I went out shopping and tried to buy the absolutely correct garments to go under my Yukata. I should have realized I was setting myself up, but how was I to know? I thought I was going to be thrown in sink-or-swim, and I prepared accordingly.

I went to the Kawanishis and was ushered off to their workplace to get changed. I met their daughter, who was going to do my hair for me. I don't really put mine up all that often so I was grateful to her for agreeing to do so. While she did, her children talked with me and it was a nice casual feeling. Her girls insisted I was sailor moon, and this is where things began going unfavorably for me.
I was ushered to a mirror to look at my hair, and honestly, I cannot think of a less flattering style. Two 3-foot long ponytails on either side of my head stuck with little girl's ponytail holders, all done up in beads and ribbons, bangs plastered back to bring out the full moon-quality of my unforgivably round cheeks. I tried to put on a brave face but at that point I think my stomach sunk into the floor. I said that I'd never worn such a 'cute' hairstyle, that it was a bit too young for me, tried to hint, but the daughter and her friend were delighted, as were the children (the younger two were wearing the same style, which on them, looked perfectly adorable). I thought they were joking. I thought I was going to get my real hairstyle after.

While all of this was still sinking in and I was realizing the entire town was going to see me like this, apparently the hairstyle i was promised, I was taken to the next room to change into my yukata. I was asked to disrobe while there was still a boy in the room, behind the shield of the raised Yukata. Later on Mr. Kawanishi was also in the room when I was being dressed and made a comment about feeling like he should be paying to watch. I'm not joking. I could be mistaken, but at the time that was what I heard.
The camisole I'd carefully picked out after questioning three store clerks turned out to be totally unnecessary and they had me just flip my current green tanktop around so my neck would be bare. All of the women watched me while I was changing. I was patted in some places I rather wouldn't have been, but I suppose I'm getting used to that by this point, and was so distracted with thinking of my hair that I stood stock still and let them really squeeze me into this setup. I should note the older lady putting me in this Yukata was a darling and I wish I hadn't shown her the face I did. She didn't deserve it. On the front of the Yukata went a rolled up towel to help diminish the curve of my breasts and make it look like I hadn't got any (discussion about the size of them, despite what you might think, made me feel awful- any pride i have in them is private and sharing thought of them with a whole room of people is rather humiliating) and then two or three other ties forced as tightly as they could be. It was too tight, but I dealt with it. I wanted to please them. Everyone was delighted. Mr. Kawanishi told me, "See, you aren't a boy". I was distracted trying to think of a way to get them to change my hair without insulting their daughter. Uncomfortable is not a strong enough word to describe the situation.
Maybe this doesn't seem like such a big deal, but I think it really did hurt my feelings that these strangers thought of me as the kind of person who should wear such a goofy hairstyle. My hair is a large part of my identity to me. If it looks good, I feel good about myself, regardless of anything else. I thought the point of wearing the Yukata was to bring myself dignity ( I was quickly realizing that it was actually unusual for people to go into the dance in a yukata ), but here I had a style that no elegant clothing could ever counter. There was no way to seem even vaguely like an adult this way. The only role I could play would be the fool.
Long story short, it became so difficult for me to breathe that my legs and hands became weak and I began to cry. I tried to hold it back, but between the pain in my innards, the shame of my ridiculous hair, and my own shame at crying, I cried harder, which caused me to begin hyperventilating. I was asked, "Is it painful? Can you not breathe?" To which I began replying, "I can't breathe" (which also means "oppressively painful", I feel I should mention), but they all seemed pretty ok with this. I asked if I could sit, trying to think of other ways to drop the hint that I really wasn't alright. Everyone was gathered and looking at me. There is nothing I cannot stand more than being looked at when I am crying.

I eventually ended up crying and hyperventilating for roughly 15 or 20 minutes, to the point I was sure I would vomit. My error was waiting for someone to take care of me instead of pulling a Gaijin Smash and just undoing stuff myself. Eventually when I didn't stop crying and completely stopped talking (mostly because I couldn't string two words together or understand what was being said to me with any great clarity), they took me out and loosened things a bit, which helped, but I was already hyperventilating and the looser tightness was still too much. They brought me water and were sympathetic, but weren't showing signs of letting me out of the thing.
Sobbing uncontrollably and still in the mollifying pigtails I was driven near to our dance group's meeting place. I kept my head down and my face covered with a tissue, but in this town there are no other people with golden-brown hair or quite so much of it, so I knew if I was spotted I would be recognized.
I was in despair. I cried and cried. I wanted to dance, but not like that. Like that I wanted to go home, out of sight. Near the station we sat while people walked around the car. I cried harder.
Finally my breathing started to stabilize and I was able to speak a little. I told them the ponytails were hurting my head and they loosened them a bit, and I cried a while more at the thought of going out like that. It may seem stupid to make such a big deal of such a harmless gesture, but my heart was broken by it. They didn't mean any harm, I know, but I was harmed. For constantly belittling myself I do have self pride. Maybe if they had been trying to hurt me I would have been fine- I'm good for a fight. It's the kind that's unintentional that I can't protect myself against.
I knew if it weren't for the hair I could go out and dance. So I finally just said, "Can I please take this out?" Time was getting close and I think they were losing patience with this flabby white girl who couldn't put up with what every other Japanese woman does. I was repeatedly told, "You can't dance if you're crying, right? Enough with the tears. Stop crying, ok?"
Hair arranged, able to breathe, and pride slowly rebuilding itself, I left the car with my noise-makers and went to join the group. I received another small blow when we were lining up and I found out I was at the very end- behind the children so small they could barely focus long enough to use the noise makers at all. Without much experience and no one to look on ahead of to mimic, I knew there was no chance for me to look like I knew what I was doing. While we danced, I spent as much time babysitting as awkwardly fumbling through the moves. But i did well in certain places, and I was better when I finished than when I started. I am sure if I were around skilled dancers I could have picked it up better. Maybe not beautiful, maybe not perfect, but I could have done it.

Despite all the pain and tears, the dancing itself was so fun. I wish I could say, "If only I hadn't been part of the dance", but the dance itself was worth it. Not when I was floundering behind the scattering and distracted tiny children, not while hurriedly eating a rice ball during the break while I was gawked at, or worrying if my yukata was closed properly since it had been loosened so much, but for brief moments when I performed those uniquely oriental dance moves with my own hands and feet with a big smile, I felt dignified. Even though nothing was expected of me but to be an overgrown and amusing infant, I captured a few moments of the group culture for myself. For all of my shortcomings, I did do well at points. Nothing was expected of me, and that hurt, but I did my best anyway, and that felt good.

Afterward I received one final blow when I told Mrs. Kawanishi I thought the other members of the troupe looked very cool in their long all-white coats and pants and she said, "You could have worn that, but you said you wanted to wear a kimono. But it's good you wore a kimono, right?"
I was stunned. I was not aware there was another option. If I'd known I could have looked like a badass, been more unified with the adults of the group, and wore pants instead of squeezing my guts out and feeling like a pathetic loser, it wouldn't have been a hard choice. I told her, "It was interesting. But It would be good if I weren't so weak, wouldn't it."
Her answer, predictably, was "That's true. It can't be helped."
My stomach still hurts from the lengthy hyperventilation, regardless of whether or not it was my fault. Maybe I am a weakling, because I would rather be around sympathetic nurturers than these women who think so highly of 'strength'.

Tomorrow i'm going to be wearing Yaroi armor and carrying a spear at the culture center. As long as they don't put my hair in pigtails, I think I can handle any degree of abuse.