This actually happened to me—for just one day.
I was seventeen years old, visiting Japan. I’m half Japanese on my mother’s side, but I was born and raised in the United States. At the time, I was staying with family in Fukuoka, and one of my cousins decided to take me along to her high school for the day.
It was an all-girls school.
This was the 1970s, and things were much more proper back then. The school was traditional and disciplined, very different from American schools. Aside from a few teachers and administrators, I was the only male in the entire building.
I also stood out physically. I wasn’t even six feet tall, but I was still a full head taller than everyone else. That alone made me impossible to miss.
However good you might imagine this experience was—it was even better.
Not in a weird or inappropriate way, though. It was more innocent than that. For one day, I was the center of attention everywhere I went. It was the only time in my life I ever felt like a rock star.
Groups of giggling girls gathered around me, practicing their cute, heavily accented English. They asked me questions, laughed nervously, and spoke through their hands the way Japanese schoolgirls often do. Everything about me seemed fascinating to them.
I knew how to use chopsticks.
I knew a little Japanese.
I could even fold origami cranes.
Anything even slightly Japanese—but coming from someone who was clearly American—felt magical to them. And anything American felt even more so.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a more fun day in my life.
That said, I’m sure if I had stayed longer, the excitement would eventually have faded. Things would have settled down. But honestly, with that much attention every day, real schoolwork would have been almost impossible. I probably would have graduated knowing very little.
But I would have been happy.
A fool, perhaps—but a very happy fool.
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