Though raised in the United States, I am the eldest son of a Japanese mother and French father and have the sort of refined Eurasian looks which have served me well in poetry workshops. It was in one such workshop that the student next to me drew my attention to my beautifully-tapered fingers: "Each is like an exquisitely-carved ivory netsuke," she commented.
I remembered this after I'd been teaching English to Japanese businessmen in Kyoto for 16 months. The job had its moments, like when one fellow began speaking reverently about his "great uncle's decorative pond full of crap" (he meant carp), but the pay wasn't as great as I'd been led to believe and the classroom smelled like ammonia. One day while pretending to listen to Mr. Nobu Tanaka conjugate the verb "to swim," I glanced down at my hands. "Surely," I thought, "I can do more with these delicate gifts than erase chalkboards."
It was then that I began my journey into the very heart of Japan. For I had vowed to become a geisha. Not only Kyoto's first Eurasian geisha, but its first male geisha as well. This leap of double daring was to alter my life forever.
Few men appreciate the pain entailed in plucking hair from their knuckles. I am one of these men. After plucking my knuckles, I then waxed the back of my hands and forearms (ouch). What spurred me on was the knowledge that the rest of the geisha community in my district of Kyoto was adamantly set against my joining their ranks.
I've always thrived in the face of adversity and the few conversations I conducted with geisha convinced me that they possessed no qualities absent from my own character. I was also taller and seemed to have better posture than most.
No geisha ever forgets their first kimono and I was no exception. A glance at myself in the mirror in the richly-brocaded teal and crimson garment sent my heart racing. With my hair adorned with ornaments and done up in the style of a young geisha in the momoware style (meaning "split peach"), I was utterly transformed. My magnificent kimono was bound with a stunning obi (or sash) and my countenance painted a striking shade of white. Not to be too M. Butterflyish about it, but I looked ravishing. After using the restroom (note to self: in future visit the bathroom before donning kimono), I tottered out into the streets of Kyoto in the tall wooden shoes worn by apprentice geishas, prepared to conquer the world.
Being a man, I'd been unable to find a geisha to mentor me, but felt secure that I would soon progress from apprentice to full geisha under my own steam. The "gei" of "geisha" means arts and the word "geisha" actually means "artisan" or "artist." It was here that my poetry workshops at NYU and the Learning Annex paid off. Much of my poetry (particularly my early work) had centered on water, stone, and wood. Coincidentally, much Japanese poetry is also about these elements. Since water, stone, and wood are found in my verse, in Japanese poetry, or in both, they comprise the set-theoretic union of the two. Mathematically, this is expressed: Eric's poetry U Japanese poetry.
As a geisha, I had to master Japanese flute (I'd played recorder briefly in eighth grade), a small drum known as tsutsumi and an incredibly annoying stringed instrument called shamisen. I've never been musically inclined, but I knew my future male clients would be interested in one thing only: how I poured tea. And though I don't want to puncture the rice-paper screen of my modesty, let's just say that I do a damn fine tea ceremony.
For I grew up at the side of a Japanese mother who had the equivalent of an American Ph.D. yet was trapped in a drafty house in northwest Connecticut while my father was away on business ten months per year. During frequent snowstorms that wreaked havoc on our television reception, we had two choices: to drive by William Styron's house to see if he'd either constructed, destroyed, or constructed and destroyed a snowman, or to brew tea. We usually opted for the tea.
My first gig (a word nearly impossible to translate to the Japanese) came when an apprentice geisha toppled from her tall wooden shoes into a full-fledged geisha and fractured the latter's right tibia. In desperation, the teahouse phoned and asked if I could fill in.
Who's that famous actor who was an understudy in whatchamacallit when so-and-so fell ill and suddenly the rest was history? Well, think "All About Eve" with the Eve Harrrington role filled by a really good-looking guy from Connecticut.
As the door to the private room in the teahouse was rolled back, I came face to face with six Japanese businessmen and my face flushed with embarrassment. "Goddamnit," I realized, "it's Nobu Tanaka and the rest of my old English class."
I prayed that $4,600 worth of women's clothing and makeup would prevent them from recognizing me. They scrutinized me as I looked demurely at the floor, my ruby-red lips curled in an enigmatic half-smile. I was prepared to pour tea, flirt, sing a traditional Japanese ballad, or pretty much do anything to avoid detection.
"Eric-san?" asked Mr. Tanaka tentatively. I remained silent. Then he solemnly intoned, "I swim, you swim, he or she swims." "Yes, yes," I said impatiently, "very good." "Eric-san, you are now a...geisha?" "I'm an apprentice geisha, but your culture is so hidebound and myopic that I can't find a mentor." Tanaka responded proudly: "Today I find, yesterday I found, I have found."
"O.K., guys, you know what? Let's just make this a language class." The quick consensus was that this was a dreadful suggestion and that I should pour them sake. I agreed to this though I noticed several men peering up the length of my kimono sleeve while I did so. "Now, please play shamisen," they asked. "Oh, come on," I groaned. "Play, play," they implored. "USA! USA!" I picked up that hateful instrument and banged out a tune, thinking to myself, "At least in here it doesn't smell like ammonia."
