Awake
Iman Esmailzada (Farmingdale State College)
No matter how mundane events in your life may seem, you may step back years later and realize that
those were moments you are never going to forget, for they shaped you in ways you wouldn’t have
understood at the time. We have photographs for the bigger moments: birthdays, family trips. But my most
vivid memories don’t have snapshots to go along with them; they live in my mind, raw with feeling. My
childhood experience with Japanese culture was one of those memories.

Memories are emotional waves that live on in my mind, bright with color and vibrating feelings.

Jumping on the trampoline in our yard made me feel awake, full of life. I would jump as hard as I could
until my knees would give out and my enormous brown hair covered my eyes, my mouth erupting laughter
until my belly hurt. Writing left me in a dream; my stories and journal entries let me be anywhere, with
anyone, doing anything I wanted. Playing the violin with my peers during lessons in school left me
frustrated. I could never master Mary Had A Little Lamb. I played my own version of the rhyme and was
asked to leave for disrupting the lesson. My mother moving away left me feeling numb. An unexpected
divorce filled my home with a sudden deafening silence. I didn’t want to jump or run or write anymore.

Staying numb is a safe feeling. Neither high nor low, I could stay in that place and be content.

But one day, while spending the weekend with my mother, I was given bachi drumsticks. I was told to
bang out a sound on an enormous Taiko drum for fun. I hit the skin of the drum hard, felt the bachi vibrate
back into my hand, into my skinny arms. The sound was enormous, full, and powerful. I made my own
rhythm and was lost in the noise. My eyes were wide. I felt alive.

My sister, mother and I learned how to play Taiko together from family friends who showed us the art
of Japanese drumming. We each had our own bachi drumsticks, long thick pieces of wood, rounded at the
top. My mother’s friend, who was Japanese, gave us special shoes made of cloth and rubber to wear while
we drummed. We learned different songs, how to stand during each song, how to perform, what to say and
chant together. We yelled, we laughed, we learned together, and our arms were sore after practice together.

We helped make drums, with hide and water, stretching it over the barrel in the basement of my mother’s
friend’s house: our very own sensei. We were nervous before performances, made mistakes, got red in the
face, blossomed under the applause of a crowd, and felt giddy with energy. I was told to make my own solo
that the group incorporated into a song. We were all a part of the music, and with that, together in our
creation of something beautiful.

Taiko gave me an outlet. The drumming was a physical and emotional release of pent up energy. I was
told to beat on a drum hard, and make a bigger sound, louder, stronger, fill the room, follow the beat, get
lost in it. With the beat of six other drums thumping away, never were you too loud. I could drown out my
own thoughts or worries, all while creating a beautiful, powerful song next to my family and my new
friends. Taiko gave me an outlet of physical energy that helped me feel alive again emotionally. As a child,
I thought I was merely tagging along with my mother and her friends, participating in something new and
fun. I never realized how much Taiko did for me. Now I remember how special it felt to do something with
my mother. All together we drummed, supported one another, creating new things, like a big mismatched
family. My memories of Taiko drumming are so engrained in me because of how I felt in it and because of
what it meant to my family. It was time with my mother and sister. It was empowering. It was beautiful. It
was special. It was something we needed and something that made us closer. Japanese drumming was a
deep breath in, a pause, and with wide eyes, an explosion of sound that kept my heart beating fast, my
emotions flowing, and my family close.

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