His Smile

Marlene Nishime

February 24, 2011

RD2

It took me thirty minutes to erase all of my mementos of him. Only thirty minutes. The email messages, long online chats, e-cards, and phone messages all vanished into nothingness with the click of a button.  Pictures of us were pasted into digital folders that were organized chronologically. There were only three folders in the two and a half years we spent in each other’s company. He never liked taking pictures, and in the end, I was glad that he didn’t. [THESIS] As I went through these old images, I found myself pulling out memories, both good and bad, that I didn’t know I still had, and wasn’t sure if I still wanted. [THESIS]

 I went through each photo, remembering how we used to smile. It was almost surreal to think that his small beady eyes will never look into mine the same way again. His half-smile half-smirk when awkwardly posing for these pictures made me giggle after the shutter button released. He went through several stages in the time we knew each other, but I will always remember him the way I want to. Black bowl-cut hair parted in the center to hide his expressions from the side, a round nose that could easily distinguish the difference between a good Japanese meal from the other, and a tall lengthy stature that walked with subtle confidence. He was kind to the eyes, yet deceiving to the voice.  He could gaze into me with such admiration, yet stare at me with such disappointment, all while rehearsing the same lines over and over again, “Everything is okay.” I couldn’t help but believe him every single time he said it. Coming back to my reality, I took a breath, rubbed my forehead, and continued deleting these moments. 

There were times in our relationship when I wished I could have seen through him. The phone calls he would make to other girls, telling me they were his good friends from high school, the fights he would get into at school with other guys because there would be some random quarrel about them being jealous of him. He would tell me one day that he had to leave for some time, and that he wouldn’t be back for a month or so. I would ask him if he would call me or write me, but he would always give hesitation before replying, “ I’m sorry, but I can’t. They won’t let me”. Somehow, through all the times we spent together, I was okay with that. I looked back now and thought, how could I have been so relaxed about these situations? I let him get away with too much. Maybe it was his smile that persuaded me everything would be okay, and that he really is leaving for an important trip. He did have a strange and clever way with words that would always somehow put me at ease with every situation he gave me. Though thinking about how oblivious I was to everything he had said, I now know what he was actually doing.  Still, I put it on myself to let him hurt me, and so I can’t give him all the credit for this heartache. 

There was one instance in particular that I am to this day embarrassed about. We were flirting with each other at a local diner. He grabbed my arm and we began arm wrestling across the table. Both of our waters, filled to the brim, sat symmetrically between the outside of my arm and the salt and peppershakers against the wall. His was the same on his side. I leaned forward to try to fight his fist against mine, all while gritting my teeth and laughing at his cringed face. I must’ve gotten out of control because before I knew it, I had knocked over his water, spilling it across the table and soaking both of our laps. He immediately let go of my hand and stared at the mess we had created. Cold water dripped off the table and ice slid across the table counter. “I’m so sorry!” I kept repeating to him, but he just looked at me and muttered, “This is so embarrassing…” I tried cleaning it up myself but the napkins were already ten times heavier from soaking in the water. The waitress came over and helped clean it up for us. We both apologized to the waitress, who was completely fine with it, and was just glad that it wasn’t coffee or anything else that would otherwise cause harm to us. When she left, he didn’t look at me. Instead, he gazed away from our table and rested his head on the palm of his hand. “We are never doing this again,” he mumbled. I was relieved he didn’t make a scene about it, but I was also ashamed that I had embarrassed him. The fact that he kept saying to me with his soft voice how this was his favorite diner and how he couldn’t ever come back here again from embarrassment didn’t help my conscience. Lunch was a quiet one, and afterwards, he walked ahead of me instead of next to me. I knew I was a clumsy person, but I didn’t know it would affect us this much. I began to think that maybe he’ll never accept such a flaw from me. I ran to him with my short, stubby legs, and apologized that it would never happen again. With a long sigh, he forcefully pushed out a breath of, “Don’t worry about it.” There was no eye contact given, just a brush of his hand against my arm that had ruined our date. 

After cleansing my computer from this era of my life, I proceeded to my backpack where I kept all my gifts from him-- meaning the one, tiny little keychain he gave to me while we were strolling through the city. It was nothing romantic, but definitely meaningful, for it was the first time he gave me something of his. This tiny trinket, no bigger than a thimble, was from what he called “Evangelion”, a Japanese anime show I’d never seen before. Mine was yellow, and his was white. He told me that he wanted me to think of the good times we had when I looked at the trinket.  I thought that was a little cheesy of him, and a bit sad considering we were reaching the end of our relationship (and we both knew it), but I went with it anyway. He took my hand and smiled the most genuine smile I had seen from him yet. I really felt at the time that he was happy to be with me, yet we weren’t doing anything extraordinary. It was the first time in years where he apologized to me for the way he was. He didn’t try to get out of anything by making excuses like he usually did. He didn’t try to explain that it was his lack of a better childhood or that it was “in his nature” that was the cause for his coldness and rash decisions.  In fact, he didn’t say anything after that. He just walked me, hand in hand, back to my dorm, with the most genuine smile I had ever seen.  

I still cannot understand why his smile meant so much to me, and why I decided that night to keep the trinket safely hidden in my backpack instead of tossing it into the garbage. Perhaps I felt bad that no matter how much he feared being alone, he would always remain alone for as long as he continued his vicious cycle of swinging between different women at a time. Perhaps I wanted to remember that no matter how hard I tried to forget these moments of him, he would always be permanently embedded in my life, and so I may as well keep the one good memory we had. Still, I think to this day how pathetic it was for me to give into his coldness that day I spilled the water, and how I should’ve left after that. I should’ve realized at that moment that I shouldn’t be with someone who couldn’t have a sense of humor about situations like that. And it wasn’t until I found my own real love that I discovered all of this. It wasn’t until I began making new memories with someone else that I realized how much of a low self-esteem pushover I was. And now, as I look through my emptied folders and my empty backpack, I see that I can’t use them anymore. As much as I want to, and as much as I’ve been meaning to, I can’t replace this backpack with new memories. I can’t erase this hardheaded, stiff man from my life. No matter how much harm he did to me, I could never forget that awkward smile of his, the one that wasn’t sure whether or not to face up or face straight. Every time I think about this, I can’t help but smile back at him. And then I look at myself and I say, “Everything is okay.”

Open Your Eyes

Marlene Nishime

03 Feb. 2011

FD1

My sophomore year of college had just concluded when I found myself back home in the silent suburbs of Cerritos. I had made a goal for myself to explore my area in an attempt to learn more about it. Though Cerritos was old news for me, I felt as though I was old enough to explore a much more mysterious and foreign land-- Los Angeles. Having my driver's license for a few years now, and a newborn confidence to venture on my own, I decided to get together with a few of my old high school friends and take a few trips out to the area, the city of entertainment as they called it.  My most memorable experience was visiting the Los Angeles Film School for a prospective student campus tour.  [THESIS] It was here where I discovered that even though I was Los Angeles County born and raised, it was Honolulu that best suited my life, and that it was where I humbly belonged. [THESIS]

I embarked on my journey with my good friends, who supported me by sitting in the back of my blue Kia Rio and listening to some soft rock while egging me on to drive a little faster. The sun's light grazed my car's hood, reflecting off the delicate clouds that lightly decorated the sky. KTLA news predicted 80 degree weather and a small breeze-- a perfect day to drive into L.A. I had always dreaded taking my fragile and beat-up car into that place, where traffic seemed to make us all mindless ants trapped in a never-ending line, and danger could come from any of the thousands of people sharing such a tight space on the road. With music occupying our ears and the air conditioning blowing past our smiles, we excitedly drove through the freeways with ease. 

An hour put me onto the Santa Monica freeway, where the layer of smog revealed the tall, blue buildings welcoming us to the heart of L.A. Coming off the freeway, I had my friend Drew navigate me through the small, dilapidated roads until we found ourselves in the midst of Sunset Boulevard, the street where Hollywood happens. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes pushed traffic into an aggressive, but slow race to the end of the street. Parallel-parked cars covered the curb where pedestrians crossed from every direction. People crowded themselves around street performers of various talents, juggling basketballs and taking pictures in character costumes. Old building signs were pasted everywhere-- wax museums, album stores, old theaters, tattoo parlors. Colossal advertisements were stamped across sky-high buildings, each selling something different from the other. Movie posters multiplied on walls like rashes on skin. The music in my car became overpowered by the honking of car horns and the shouting of people outside our windows. Finally, after lingering in traffic for 20 minutes, Drew nudged my shoulder and signaled me to look to my right. I leaned forward and looked up to smile at our destination-- the Los Angeles Film School.

Stepping out of the car for the first time since leaving Cerritos gave me a sense of accomplishment. The fresh feeling of finally arriving for my campus tour, and 15 minutes early too, subsided after I took my first breath in to smell L.A. smog. I had forgotten about that.  

Tall glass lined the walls to the building, where only a handle differentiated the door to the rest of the first floor's exterior. Walking in, we were greeted by faculty and staff. The receptionist gladly took my name. Immediately after receiving my name tag, the people in black "Los Angeles Film School" shirts proceeded to ask me countless questions about my life-- where I was from, what school I went to, what I was studying, everything. I am from Cerritos, I go to the University of Hawaii, and yes, the one in Oahu. I am a double major in the art and film program, and no, we don't use actual film. After some small talk with them, it was time to begin our tours. We visited various rooms with specific purposes. The sound editing room was filled with sound boards said to be worth thousands. Giant plasma screens were mounted in the front of the room, suggesting that the teacher used it for lectures instead of white boards and projector screens. The ceiling was tall and constructed in a way to produce the "standard sound quality for professional ears". It was the first room yet I was already in awe.

Moving through the hallway, the tour guide rounded us in a circle and answered any questions we had.  Soon after, a tall, stout white man interrupted us and introduced himself as the Vice President of the school. He then gave a long, drawn-out speech about film and how we will only succeed in it if we allow it to consume our lives, and how attending this school is the best option for becoming a successful filmmaker. He boasted about the state-of-the-art technology used in his building, and how only the prestige are given the privilege to use it-- prestige meaning the students who can pay the money of course. 47 thousand dollars a year is what it would take to be a part of this large family. I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to afford it, but it was still a good option to have in case I felt that the film school at UH wasn't enough for me. After he left, we proceeded deeper into the school, where the outside light had dimmed down and only soft yellow lights guided us through the rest of the building. Eventually, we came to a heavy set of double doors, which when opened, revealed a state of the art sound stage. 

The tour guide pleasantly helped us through the dimly lit space, where we found ourselves in the middle of a small home, artificially made for the purpose of filming a house scene. We were free to explore the set. Looking up were lights set perfectly in position, metal bars crisscrossing each other to help stabilize the heavy-duty equipment. Outside the fake windows were fake posters of a landscape simulating an outside world. Pastel-colored tablecloth matched the wallpaper, which complimented the white paint lining the edges of the kitchen and living room. The set was decorated by the inch, with painted stairs disguised as wood, and even a fake cat sleeping on a small cushion.

Finally, we reached the school theater, where the tour guide screened some of the students best films made at this school. I suppose my expectations were a bit high, because after seeing two of their "best films", I found myself surprisingly disappointed. Even though the production value was substantial, I was surprised to hear that a story so weak in meaning and the acting so faulty (in my opinion) budgeted at around 60 thousand dollars and made it into the Los Angeles Film Festival. I mean, really? For the resources given and the prestigious staff members, I was almost confused as to why a film with little or no point to it was praised by these filmmakers. To me, there was nothing cinematic about it besides the slightly professional look of it. I walked out of the theater in disbelief. I had to ask myself, was this what I really wanted?

Before leaving, I met with my designated counselor to talk about my prospects in joining the school. Tall and spunky, my counselor's diva look and attitude gave an enthusiastic punch to my stay. She went over funds, how I would be given absolutely everything I needed to become a filmmaker, and soon after graduation they would guarantee me a job 90% of the time. She assured me that every student is taken step by step through the process of becoming a successful artist, and that the school would support them all the way. Though this seemed like a good thing, I couldn't help but wonder, how are students learning about the real world if they are constantly being babied into the industry? How are they learning to work for their crew if they are already given everything they need from the get-go? Why are their films still no better than my school's films, when they are paying more than twice the amount we are paying for school?

It was then I knew in myself that I didn't want to be here. The resources, the professors, the state of the art technology, all things that were equally enticing, just didn't match the expectations I had to becoming the filmmaker I wanted to be. It was here I learned that no matter how much money I invested in schools to make my career, it was never going to happen, at least not like that. I had spent my whole year at UH convinced by my peers that our film program was too under-budgeted to make us good filmmakers, so poor that we didn't have a studio of any kind. I was told that our school is a joke, and we only pretend to be the filmmakers that we'll never be-- all this because we didn't have enough equipment, enough staff, or enough students to build a solid crew. And this, I was told, was the reason why our films would never be good enough to screen outside of Hawaii's islands. Yet here I was, sitting in one of the most prestigious film institutions in the country, and the films they vouch for are no better than ours besides their high-budget look. This city, so busy trying to move up in their lives, so tangled in the thought that money creates success, suddenly disgusted me. The majestically tall buildings, the lively streets, the luxurious architecture of the school, it was just a commercial pulling me into thinking I could be a part of it all. 

Though I went to the campus tour in search for self-confirmation that I could “do better”, I left with a sense of content for my home institution. Instead of turning in an application for the film school, I thought back at my experiences in Hawaii and realized that I was happier knowing that I worked creatively with what I had. I wanted to feel like I made a name for myself by the films I created, not through the reputation of the film school I attended. Even though I was in the heart of filmmaking, it didn't mean that I couldn't make comparable films back in Honolulu. In fact, I almost wanted to make a film in Hawaii just to show myself that Hollywood wasn't a filmmaker's only option. Besides, I think I will be much happier and humble working my way into the industry and building my own success in this little corner of the world that I now call home.

Log of Completed Activities

__x_ Jan. 10- First Day of Instruction. Log in to our class blog, our Laulima discussion forum, and your hawaii.edu mailbox. Become familiar with these instructional media. Carefully review the information in our class blog, especially the syllabus (click on the tab at the top of the page) and schedule.

__x_ Jan. 11- Intro to Paper #1. Read the “Guidelines for Paper #1″ by midnight.

__x_ Jan. 11- Laulima Discussion: Who Am I? Post your response by midnight.

__x_ Jan. 12- Begin setting up your personal blog for all class papers. Click here for instructions. Alternately, see the “Blogger” links in the right sidebar in our class blog. To begin, complete the initial setup. You’ll be able to add finishing touches as the RD1 due date approaches. If you need help, post a request in the “Q&A About My Blog” forum in Laulima.

__x_ Jan. 18- Complete readings for Paper #1

__x_ Jan. 21- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Ehrlich and Legler.

__x_ Jan. 26- Laulima Discussion: Discuss essays by Gilb and Whitehead.

__x_ Jan. 28- Review Draft #1 (RD1) due. [50 pts] Read the guidelines.

__x_ Jan. 31- Submit three RD1 evaluations. [50 pts] Read the guidelines.

__x_ Feb. 3- Final Draft #1 (FD1) due [100 pts] Read the guidelines.