Saito Sensei - Life is Wonderful
It has been a couple of weeks of watching and rewatching Ghibli movies. I keep getting drawn in, not only by how beautifully made they are, but by how real and slightly odd their characters feel. Any of them could be any one of us. I might write something later about why these films and anime speak to me more than Disney but that is for another day.
Today’s story comes from something else these films sparked in me. A curiosity about myself, the people around me, and how I have been changing.
The last years have brought changes that shaped me more than I expected. One of them was becoming Australian. I remember asking Jade, now that I am Colombian and Australian, what do I say when someone asks where I am from? Do I choose one, both, or does it depend on who is asking? There is no correct answer. It feels more like something the heart decides.
Some time later I came across a video by Yokoi Kenji, and something in his words stayed with me. He spoke about life, perspective, and the way we choose to face the world. There was one video in particular that touched something in me, and it is part of the reason I felt the need to write and share this today. It also reminded me of something I get asked quite often.
People sometimes ask me, “How do you look happy and chill all the time?” My answer is usually simple. I just try not to take life too seriously. I am not a neurosurgeon, so I can breathe a bit. There is always tomorrow.
But, thinking deeper, I realised I live this way because at some point I got tired of being unhappy. I spent years complaining about everything, even though I had more than enough. When I look back at my teenage and early adult years, I hardly recognise that version of me. I had so much, yet never appreciated it.
And just to be clear, this does not mean my life is perfect. It is definitely not. There are days when everything feels heavy and nothing works. But what is the point of letting that feeling define everything? I cannot make my entire life miserable. Tomorrow will come, and it might be a little better, or even much better.
At some point, although I cannot say exactly when, something shifted. Australia taught me back in 2012 that a single smile can make someone’s day better. So why not try it, I thought. Why not smile more. Little by little the days started to feel lighter instead of heavier. I began valuing small things instead of chasing big ones. I began telling myself that life can be wonderful if I let it be.
So that is what I wanted to share today. Not a story about photos or creativity, but a small reminder of why I smile, why I talk loudly, and why I try to live with a bit more softness. Because life is short, and life is wonderful.
If you want to hear the story that sparked all of this, I have added the video below in Spanish, and the English transcript right after.
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I once had a Japanese teacher, just like you. Like the Colombian teacher, but he was Japanese.
He was the strangest man. The only teacher who, when he walked into the classroom, would shout: “Minna-san, kyou wa subarashii hi desu ne! Today is a wonderful day!” He ignored every bit of protocol, the bow, the formal greeting, the whole stand up straight routine. None of that. He would simply say: “Life is wonderful!” He would climb on top of the desk and shout: “Life is wonderful!” Then he would jump. “Life is wonderful!” And he was the English teacher.
I looked at him and thought, I do not even know Japanese. Now I have to learn English in Japanese with the man who keeps shouting that life is wonderful. And the other students would stare at him. The whole class turned into shouting, this wild joy that offended our teenage misery in that school.
And meeting him in the hallway was terrifying, because he would grab you by the arm: “Boy! Yokoi! Look at that, we have met in the hallway! Life is wonderful!” And you stood there frozen. I did not know what to do. I eventually learned to hide when I saw him coming. Everyone hid. “They caught Kenji, they caught someone else!” It was awful running into teacher Saito Satoshi in the corridors.
When I was eighteen, I saw him for the last time at Nakayama station, at the train station. He was walking towards me. He lifted his eyes, I saw him and he saw me. I thought, “No, it cannot be.” I was eighteen, feeling very grown up, very successful. “Please do not start shouting.” He took a breath and opened his tiny Japanese eyes as wide as he could.
“Yokoi-kun! Boy, Yokoi!”
Everyone turned to look. I ran straight at him. I grabbed his hand as if to say, please be quiet, teacher.
He invited me for a coffee. And he was exactly the same. Talkative, loud. And I finally asked him the question I had kept inside. “Teacher, I never called you ridiculous, of course not, but… why were you so dynamic, so cheerful?”
“I should be like that,” I said to him. “I am Latin, Colombian. But Japanese people are not like that. The other teachers thought you were strange. No one joined you, and you kept shouting.”
“Yes, there is a secret,” he told me. “And since you are my student, I will tell you. I fell in love with a teacher. We got married. Every day we arrived home talking about the school. We were completely passionate about teaching. We were not going to have children, because we already had many children. I visited her school, she visited mine. We talked only about that. We loved each other and we loved teaching. But she fell ill, Kenji. She ended up in bed. Chemotherapy took all her hair. And I kneeled beside her and said, Chieko, I want to die with you. Something very Japanese. I die with you.”
“But she told me, if you love me, prove it.
How?
Go and teach. Give me the honour of knowing that my husband is teaching, because I no longer can. Give me the joy of knowing that I will die and you will continue teaching. If you love me, prove it.”
“I have no strength. I have no motivation,” he told her.
But Chieko, his wife, told him, “It is not about motivation. Do it for love. If you love me, go and teach.”
So he got up every morning, got dressed and went to school. And before entering the classroom, he told me, he cried there. But he kept the promise to his wife. “I will show you that I love you.” And she told him, “Do not tell anyone about our problems. Tell the children that life is wonderful.”
And that is why he would walk into the classroom shouting, “Life is wonderful!” Not even he believed it, not with what they were living at that time. But the more he shouted it, the stronger his heart became.
When he told me all that, I could not look at him. I looked down and huge tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt ashamed for thinking he was ridiculous. I could only ask for his forgiveness.
But he kept laughing.
“I did not tell you this to make you cry. I told you so you would understand. She is gone now. She died. But she taught me how to live life the way it should be lived. Life is wonderful as long as there is life and hope.”
My dear teacher, my dear colleague, I know it is difficult. I know it is hard. But whenever I face a very dark moment in my life, I remember that teacher who was just like you. And I always say, yes, life really is wonderful.
In Colombia we do not live only beautiful things. We live very hard things too, because we live in Ciudad Bolívar, in our neighbourhood. But we have made the choice to face life and tell what is good, teach what is good, give fame to what is good.
The negative things are already everywhere and we know them well. But we want to see what is good. And good people really are the majority.
There are children who are listening to your lessons. There are children who you and I know, for them your work is truly worth it. There are children who will go very far and they will remember you, the same way I remember teacher Saito Satoshi today.
