I sat down at the chair furthest away from him. At first glance, he seemed blurry, small– distant, almost as if he wasn’t there at all.  

“It’s okay, you can continue working. I’ll sit here– just wanted to catch a breather.” The space was desolate yet comforting. The soft glow of the lamps ricocheted off the walls as the green plants lining the classroom cast a shallow shadow on the floor. I wish he had a couch in the room.

Sitting down, the coldness of the plastic rippled through my body. 

Here we go.

…

I surveyed my surroundings. The large seminar room with a sea of gray suits and pristinely polished dress shoes, the bodies all decorated with glasses, tablets, laptops, and pencils. Bodies. Bodies that filled in stark long dress pants, bodies that with every step from heel to toe, rippled power and confidence through the wooden floors. 

Bodies that overlooked my presence– my being. 

Bodies that only belonged to men. Where were all the women? 

Squirming in my seat, I took out my laptop and opened a Google Document. With each sentence projected into the microphone, I nodded along, fingers flying across my keyboard with an intense determination. After every word came every finger; hitting the keyboard with ferocity– I didn’t want to miss a step in the story.

“And just recently, I’ve been granted the opportunity to start my own lab in France– all thanks to Dr. Iwatsubo,” the speaker said.

My heart skipped a beat. What an impressive accomplishment coming from such a young man. Physically though, he didn’t seem all that impressive: he was about the height of my mother, and had nearly the same amount of charisma as my next-door neighbor, to be honest, he wasn’t what you would categorize as a particularly charmingly intelligent fellow. Regardless though, I was ecstatic. 

Questions circled my mind as my typing increased in speed. My eyes couldn’t keep up with the words on my page, and my ears couldn’t keep up with the speed of the protocol descriptions. 

A pair of eyes. Then another pair. Then a few pairs of glasses. Looking up, the professor and his colleague’s eyes were on me. I stopped typing. 

… 

I readjusted. Then waited. Then readjusted. It was comfortable. The moment of unsettling silence. Alone with my thoughts, yet free from judgment; except from the figure at the corner of the room. 

“Do you need to talk?” 

“Oh no, it’s fine. Continue what you’re doing.” 

“It’s fine… I’m just reading the newspaper. Do you need something?” 

A sudden tinge of guilt filled the air around me. Did he know my true intentions? Could he sense my fear? Fear of judgment? Or insecurity? Did I have an obligation to tell him everything?

“No, it’s really fine. It’s just the usual– you know, college… and… social life.” 

Did I secretly want him to dissect my thoughts? Maybe. Was there anything wrong with that though? 

Closing the newspaper, he adjusted his glasses and turned to me. 

Was that my cue? 

… 

My fingers lifted off the keyboard and I placed them on my lap. I hated the way they looked at me; the way they treated me. The puppy dog eyes, the stares, and whispers–the backhanded compliments, the passive-aggressiveness of their feedback. I hated it all. The way they interacted with other people. With me.

Do they treat their own graduate students like this? 

Perhaps I was just an exception. A high school student (not even of legal age) roaming their expensive laboratories and buildings. Yet something in me knew– knew that this wasn’t just due to the fact that I was a teenager. 

…

To me, every day was the same. It didn’t matter if I was on the University’s campus, if I was at school, if I was sitting at home joining Zoom meetings, if I was awake or asleep, the same thought consistently made its way into my head:

Did I look smart enough?

Days of spending time doing gel-nail extensions turned into bare-bitten fingernails. Nights spent tucking my hair neatly into foam rollers for the perfect curls soon turned into going to bed with soaking hair. I spent hours shopping, attempting to find the most modest pair of dress shoes that didn’t make me too tall, yet also didn’t make me look too short. Suits versus dresses were always tricky though. 

“What about this one?” I looked toward my mom. In her arms were three dresses. Pink, blue, and purple. The pink dress was gorgeous.

“No mom, that’s not even my style.”

“What do you mean? C’mon, these are so pretty… I know you like them.”

“Mom. It’s fine, I’ll just wear your blazer.” 

We got in the car and drove in silence through the city lights. Pulling my seat down, I stared out the sunroof, staring into the city landscape. 

Would I ever look smart enough?

…

I picked at my nails. Light blue paint began to chip off onto the floor as I stared at the now-torn bedding of my fingernails. 

“I don’t got all day, Ei. Start speaking or I’m gonna go back to eating my Pocky Sticks and reading my paper.” 

“Oh sorry I just– I was just collecting my thoughts–”

“I’m joking,” he said with an eye roll. I smiled. 

To be completely honest, I just didn’t know how to approach my thoughts. My first instinct told me it was jealousy. But then that turned into envy, envy into anger, and finally, anger into sadness. But why? That was what I couldn’t comprehend. 

It was something I couldn’t control; something innate that had always been there. My kindergarten days were filled with the fervor to outrun the boys, and summer camp years where my only priority was to research global water crises faster than any of the male students. But as I reached my pre-pubescent years, things got complicated. Was I supposed to like them for the sake of the school dance, but hate them when they stole my project concept right out of my hands? 

I took a glance at the classroom door, afraid that someone would walk in– barge on our quiet conversation. I took another glance at him, then at my hands. 

“It’s just so frustrating sometimes; I do the same thing yet my reward is half of theirs.” 

“Who are ‘they’?” he asked. 

“You know…” 

I’d like to think I didn’t have resentment; that I was the girl who didn’t care about what others thought; that academic validation was the last of my priorities. 

But it wasn’t. 

I continued, trying to give as much context as my mind would allow. “I’m trying to implement a program, but I’ve been receiving so much pushback. But I know it’s possible.”

“What makes you think it’s possible?”

“Because I’ve seen it happen before.” 

“Do you know why you’re receiving pushback?”

“No…I think it’s because I’m a girl.” 

“What does being a girl have to do with pushback?”

“Cause society doesn’t like to see assertive women; when assertive, we’re considered to be b*tchy. But when a man’s assertive, they’re considered to be an inspiration, a ‘natural born leader’.”

I sighed in defeat and slumped back into my chair.

Did I share too much? Did I come off as too envious, too helpless? I hated that I cared so much. 

“You know, I can’t change the way people react to your ideas, but there is something you can change.”

“What could I possibly change?” 

“Your mindset. Keep pushing. Try different techniques. Embody the stereotypical man. I can tell you for one, that the guys you mentioned have previously received pushback before, they just don’t dwell on the failures– and you shouldn’t either.” 

…

In the next few months, I tried. I really tried. Every step I took with confidence, and every argument I debated with logic. Every dispute I had (whether that’d be with adults or students) was tackled to form proper resolutions. 

Yet, it was only over summer break that the impact of the comment truly hit me. 

It was a bright and beautiful morning on the University’s campus. The cicadas were chirping away, and the sweltering summer heat and humidity of Japan hit me in the face as I walked alongside the buildings. 

Each red brick on the walls ricocheted a rich auburn color back onto the concrete, and the green leaves lined the path in front of me as I approached the Department of Neuropathology. Fiddling with my gift bag, I approached the front of the lab. 

Ding Dong! 

You got this.

The door swung open. There in front of me was a woman with glasses, oversized pink bath slippers, and an outfit that resembled a maternity dress. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked me up and down. 

“How can I help you?”

“Hi! I’m looking for Wakabayashi-sensei…is he here today…?”

“Oh! You’re Ei! I’m Wakabayashi-sensei. Nice to meet you.” 

We stared at each other for a split second, my eyes shining of terror. Did I really just say “is he here?” Did I actually say that aloud right in front of the professor’s face? Palms sweating, I brought the gift up to her hands. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course,” she replied, “Welcome to the Alzheimer's Department.”

…

I took a step into the lab. Expensive cell counters and simulation-running PCs lined every lab station. The idea that only 1/5 of the student population at UTokyo were females was practically nonexistent in such an environment– long skirts roaming the corners of lab benches, fingernails painted from white to pink, and makeup pristinely applied every day, even in the August summer sun. In the incubation rooms, women with perfectly shaped bangs sat over lab stools dissecting mice brains. I turned over and looked at the first-year PhD student. On one hand, her fingernails were painted with bright red nail polish, whilst the other hand was short and unpainted.  It was something I have never witnessed before. Taking a look at my own unkempt fingernails, I smirked at the thought of having only one hand painted.

Eventually, I took a seat at my desk, the sterile air of the lab filtering into my nose. Reaching towards the cabinet, I pulled out a fresh new lab book. 380 pages of gridded sheets of white paper swept across my fingertips as I flipped through the pages. Turning back to the front cover, I took out my pen and began to write. 

Ei Fukumoto - Day One.