I believe that most people are victims of their fates. I have always chosen mine. Of course, we can only choose what we will do and who we will be. Our lives form along the interfaces between ourselves and the world, by which I mean that we may architect our own destinies, but we cannot choose the ground on which they must stand. Please know that I speak with all due humility in light of my own upbringing's privilege and luxury, but I have had my moments of choice. I have felt those times at which one decides to become a new person, to live in a new world. I remember them with unusual specificity. I have seen and heard and done things that threw the features of the world into stark relief, and in those fragile, fleeting moments of clarity, I have made choices.
I can remember the moment in which I made my first choice very clearly. He laughed. Mother was angry, but Father laughed. I cannot blame him. Even as a small child, I had come to them dozens of times to announce what I would be when I grew up, but that time, that one time, I meant it. It was not the sound of my own proclamation that cemented my certainty but that of Father's laughter. That was my moment of truth. By all objective measures, he was very successful. He was an honorable man, provided well for us and multiplied the family fortune. In that moment, I resented him not for all the advantages he had, advantages he would pass on to me, but for what he did with them, with all that opportunity: the same thing as everyone else. I would do something that he never could, something astounding, something beautiful, something that would burn an indelible scar into the memories of everyone who met me. I chose to become a living, breathing work of art.
It may seem odd that I should consider the mastery of traditional arts to be an act of rebelliousness. In a family like mine, the measures of success are all very clearly defined, and a geisha registers low on most of them. The profession is appropriately respected of course, but it is considered something that other people do. There is a separation. They dress it up as courtesy, but in the end, there will always be a separation between those who burn the incense and those who buy it. For me, that separation started as a vent.
The au pair thought I was asleep. In fact, I had removed the vent cover from the heating duct in my room and crawled in. My parents were hosting a party that night, and I wanted to see what it was like. I was able to move easily through the ducts; I was very young. Doing so silently took some care. When I finally reached a vent from which I could see into the parlor, where all the guests were, dinner had ended. There were two geisha and a maiko at the party. The apprentice was dancing.
All of them were beautiful. They all wore the traditional makeup, though the geisha would not have been required to do so. In hindsight, it must have been a very prestigious event. The two geisha played shamisen and drums while the maiko danced. She wore her obi in the dangling style and only wrapped her sleeves twice around her arms so they still hung very nearly to the floor. She moved slowly but elegantly, perfectly. Her every action, every motion, every shift of her embroidered silks interlocked with the music in a viscerally detailed explanation of the legend she performed. One of the geisha sang. I wish I could remember what dance it was, but I have thought of it so often that the memory has almost completely worn away.
At that time, I did not even know what they were. I told my parents I wanted to be a dancer like the painted lady at the party. Mother started by excoriating me for sneaking out of my room, but she eventually got around to her disapproval of my decision. When she said I would not be permitted to learn any such dances, Father cut her off, adding "unless you earn absolutely perfect marks in school." He didn't even look up from the morning paper while Mother glared at him.
Of course, perfect marks were very simple as a small child. As I got older, I came to think of school as a game, and I always run up the score. That was the price of my freedom to choose, and it seemed a small price to me. Not until many years later did I begin to appreciate the gravity and courage of Father's decision. It remains the only time I have ever seen him directly contradict Mother. She never forgave him for it, but she complied.
I went to the hanamachi every weekend, every day once I was old enough to ride the train alone. I was by far the youngest woman, the only child, there. Father must have pulled strings for me even to be allowed inside the teahouse. I studied for more than a year before Kazaharu-sensei accepted me as an apprentice. Even at that age, I could tell that her peers disapproved, but they didn't dare say so. She was and still is the best. She believed in me.
She was disappointed by my decision to attend university in America, but she did not disown me. She even allowed me to earn my erikae, my debut, before leaving. I was, truthfully, far better than all the other maiko, but Kazaharu-sensei required me to be perfect. I was perfect. I thought the decision to study abroad was my own, but in hindsight, it was Mother's. For years, she dropped very subtle hints suggesting that only the most brilliant women could learn to be successful in more than one culture. In hindsight, she was hoping that I would not debut and would never go back to the hanamachi. She played me like a shamisen. That was the first time I managed to avoid a major decision by choosing both paths.
I never used my trade name or rank in America, but I needed to practice. I started by performing at festivals and giving exhibitions on campus. Very quickly, I started receiving requests to perform at private events. Collecting the honoraria felt like a way of keeping score, and it was nice to have plenty of spending money without relying on my parents. By the time I started law school, I was able to pay my own tuition.
I chose law school mostly out of disappointment with my peers (perhaps I should call them my contemporaries) in business school. It was simply too easy. I prefer a challenge, and being admitted to the bar in two countries certainly is that. I did a lot of extracurricular reading on Japanese law. I even read the minutes of the Diet. Politics fascinated me. I could infer some of the intricacies from the Diet minutes. It looked like a very complex game to me. I enjoyed studying it.
I liked the man who was Prime Minister at the time. He seemed very sly. I could tell he was setting up economic reforms with very small measures that he snuck in carefully over years. He never took on the establishment directly. He was patient, and he was winning.
I agreed to a performance at a hotel in New York for a very generous fee, not knowing he would be there. I generally tried to avoid performing for people who might be able to tell I was a real geisha. The party was ancillary to a United Nations event, so there were many dignitaries there. I managed to avoid him for most of the night. When I finally did meet him, I liked him.
He looked like he was about my father's age. He had graying, almost shoulder-length hair that cascaded down around his face, the trustworthy face of a politician. He was immaculately dressed, of course, but he was also very polite in a very skillful way. He managed to speak to me with appropriate respect without acknowledging my rank, knowing that I had chosen not to perform under my trade name. He also seemed very kind and earnest. He asked permission to have his picture taken with me, and I agreed.
I spoke to his staff photographer to make sure the picture would be framed appropriately, leaving empty the position that belonged to his wife, who did not make the trip with him. I also asked him not to publish the photograph. He kept it on a credenza in his office. It took more than a year before someone recognized me and my parents found out. Mother had nothing nice to say. Father went to see the picture and agreed that it was tasteful. If he had known the rest, he might not have been so lenient.
It happened quickly, seamlessly. When I went to the powder room to neaten my regalia after my final dance, the Prime Minister's personal aide was there as if by coincidence. She was an older woman with gray hair up in a bun and a very conservative, black suit. She had the look of a grandmother who might either sneak you dumplings before dinner or wash your mouth out with soap for speaking disrespectfully.
"The Prime Minister was very impressed with your performance of the Furumachi Niigata Odori," she said, looking down into the sink as she washed her hands.
"I was very impressed with his amendment to Consent Resolution 37."
