Kishihachi's Opening: The Day the Cub Came

I read this morning's front page and sat for a while with the newspaper still on my lap, unable to move. A living cub, they say, came from over there. I was one of those who came from over there myself, fifty-one years ago, so I read these stories a little longer than most people do.

No one can know what it felt like on the other end. If the cub had feelings at all, I wonder whether it was fear, or a mistake, or simply that it kept walking and, before it knew it, found itself here. I barely remember my own arrival anymore. What I remember is everything that came after. The moment of crossing itself is, I suspect, too busy a moment for anyone to properly keep.

Hearing that the window keeper was hurt, I considered changing my makura. Opening with something that isn't funny isn't really my way. But in the end I decided to write it anyway, because I wanted it on record that someone here, too, is genuinely worried about the person who was hurt. There isn't much a rakugo performer can do, but worrying is at least within reach.

Another page says they're taking public submissions for the cub's name. Having a name doesn't make someone one of us, not really — but it's easier to worry about someone with a name than about someone without one. I remember, when I naturalized and was given the character for "shore," finally feeling like I had a name of my own. I'll look forward to finding out, by next month, what name the cub is given.

They say there's a debate over protecting it or removing it, but I have no intention of giving my little makura that much weight. The only thing I'll say is this: measuring someone who has already arrived by the logic that existed before they arrived is, by its nature, an impossible thing to do. You can only come to understand them little by little, after the fact. Most everything I've come to understand about this city has gone much the same way.