Madoka

Brought to you, once again, by memories of high school.

I share my birthday with some fairly groovy people. There's my future ex-fling Sean Altman and concert organizer extraordinaire Lexi, of course. And there's also Japanese illustrator Madoka Yamakawa. I'm neither Japanese nor illustrative, so how did I come to know someone who is?

I had the good fortune to meet Madoka when she was an exchange student at my high school during my senior year. She stayed at the home of one of my cronies, TB. To say that she had an interesting experience would be putting it mildly, and probably far too generously. This poor young woman was transplanted from urban Japan — Tokyo? I forget — to rural western South Dakota and pretty much left to fend for herself. Her host family, the Bs, lived on a sheep ranch about 20 miles from civilization, if you can call my hometown civilization. Unless you're really, really into wide-open, wind-shredded spaces in shades of beige and brown, the area is just plain harsh. I don't know what the exchange program was thinking when they plunked her down out there, I really don't.

Of the four kids in the B family, one boy was away at college, one boy was in junior high, and the only girl was still in grade school. The only child Madoka's age was my buddy TB. TB, while exponentially the smartest kid in our class, was not necessarily the most social, despite having spent a year as an exchange student himself (on an Australian sheep station, which he considered a cruel irony; it was just like home, but with Vegemite). At that time, TB was a 17-year-old guy who had not asked for yet another younger sibling, especially not a girl who shared none of his interests, especially not one who barely spoke English and who definitely did not drive.* He did not appreciate being drafted as her babysitter and chauffeur. He didn't blame Madoka herself, since it had not been her idea, and he wasn't mean to her, but neither was he a hovering big brother figure.

TB's new sister arrived at the end of summer, just before the start of school, and he was instructed to introduce her around. Social life in our town consisted primarily of driving around to see who else was out driving around and of wandering to the nearest movie theater in the next town over, 10 miles away. So that's what TB did: brought Madoka into town to pick the rest of the gang up to go see a movie. We managed to cram at least six corn-fed Midwestern youths, plus one petite Asian female, into TB's red Tercel, but it wasn't pretty.

Madoka was jet-lagged and shy. The rest of us were strutting seniors, smug about . . . well, everything. We talked at her nonstop all the way to and from the theater — we saw Short Circuit — instructing her about what and who was important and what and whom to ignore. I don't recall her saying more than a few words all night.

Despite this nerve-jangling introduction, Madoka gravitated toward the girls in our group, and we, having known one another since preschool, were happy to have someone new and interesting to talk to. Once she found out that she and I shared a birthday, we were bonded for good. Madoka played the flute, so she sat near me in band. Though I played the oboe most of the time, I was a member of the flag corps during marching band season and recall accidentally knocking her in the head with my pole one morning as we went out to the football field to practice. She cried and so did I, I felt so bad. She forgave me, though.

Madoka auditioned for the fall play (Up the Down Staircase) because Lisa and Helen and I were all drama nerds, and she generously perceived us as being popular. She was painfully self-consciousness at the front of the classroom. Nervous and sight-reading in a foreign language, she flubbed a line reading and fled the room sobbing, "I have failed! I have failed!" Two of us went to the girls' room after her while the third stayed behind to petition the teacher/director for a role for her, but not one that would force her to speak English too much. Pang, the director, had completed his mental cast list already, of course, and Madoka was already on it. She worked hard on her single line and delivered it quietly but correctly on opening night, later flushing with pride during the curtain call.

Upperclassmen at our school enjoyed open campus privileges, meaning we could leave the grounds during our free periods. I lived just a block away, and since MTV had recently reached our area, my house became the natural gathering spot during free hours and after school. Madoka developed a major infatuation with Steve Winwood and sang along with "Higher Love" every time it came on. She wasn't especially interested in the Atari 2600 video games we liked to play, but she did enjoy the rowdy chat of those waiting their turns with the joysticks.

Madoka had school spirit, something the rest of us felt we'd outgrown long ago. She seemed truly to admire the homecoming court, of which Helen was a member, and cheered enthusiastically for sports she'd never encountered before. The rest of us played along so she wouldn't be the only one, and you know, it was kind of fun. I think I went to more school events that year than all other years combined.

Madoka also made a serious effort to learn the social ins and outs, frequently quizzing us about who was popular, why or why not, and whether she ought to start hanging around them. These were thought-provoking questions for the rest of us, since we had instinctively known who the "in" crowd was since we were still jumping rope at recess. I don't recall Madoka dating during her year with us, but I'm sure my mother remembers whether she went to the prom or not, and if so, with whom and what she wore.

Anyway, senior year flew by, we said tearful graduation-day farewells, and Madoka returned to Japan. I received occasional cards and Christmas gifts, but we lost touch. But recently she has revisited her host family and our little berg in the middle of nowhere. She stopped at my family's house, naturally, to chat with Mother Media and show off her handsome husband and adorable daughter. They exchanged e-mail addresses, and Mom has been forwarding me Madoka's notes and photos for months. She's living in Washington, D.C. now, after attending art school in Italy and working for a Tokyo television company, and has a second beautiful child.

I'd been meaning to write back to her but never took the time to put together a long, proper, newsy letter. When I received a birthday greeting this year, however, I finally got off my butt and wrote back. It wasn't a very coherent letter, starting with the present and alluding to things past, but it's a start. I honestly mean to keep in touch with her this time. With e-mail so handy, there's no excuse not to. I have no idea what we might have in common these days, but a birthday is a start.

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* In South Dakota, you can get a learner's permit at age 14, and everyone does. The country kids have usually been driving around their parents' property since their feet could reach the pedals anyway. The first kid in a rural family to hit 14 is automatically drafted to drive the rest into town for school, which he or she does in a beat-to-crap American-made sedan until graduation, whereupon the sedan is passed down to the next oldest to continue the tradition. A car is a necessity, and a teenager without a driver's license is simply unheard of.

Photos today? YES

Today around the world: July 29 is System Administrator Appreciation Day in the U.S. Geek power!