The World According to Kade
By Andrea Johnston
“My cheese stick is missing! My mom always packs one. What’s wrong with her?” muffles 13-year-old Kade, sulking in the back corner of the spacious creative arts room. Surrounded by vibrant colors and abstract shapes of adolescent attempts at pottery, Kade is sulking. His shape and color take on somber notes of muted grays, hunched shoulders, and a bleak outlook on the next 20 minutes of his life. “How can I write under these conditions?”
Kade is a newly 13-year-old at the American School in Japan, a private American school in Tokyo. He is small for 13; bones like a fragile bird and a disposition to match. He is often fidgety and walks with his small shoulders hunched into a frame for his ever-present frown. Kade’s delicate neck is constantly cloaked in a understated scarf, wrapped carefully to protect his vulnerability. The scarf is a stark contrast to the evergreen tracksuit he wears most days. A white stripe stretches from shoulder to ankle. He takes on his Hemingway-like demander, as he sits in the corner, staring at a blank page, ruminating on the latest chapter of his memoir. The steaming cup of tea at his side provides little comfort without its’ cheese stick companion. It’s little miseries like this one that fuel Kade’s pursuit to write, “The best pre-teen memoir ever written.”
Kade finds it difficult to connect with his peers and prefers the company of adults. “The kids are ok I guess. I don’t really pay attention to them but sometimes I use them as characters in my stories.” A keen observer of the world around him, Kade finds misery in even the smallest moments. He comes from a broken home, so it’s easy to see why he’s got such a gloomy temperament. Despite that, he manages to mold his daily tragedies into seed ideas that grow into evergreen trees. His writing is timeless and poignant.
I glanced up at my teacher, holding the small object in my hands. I felt along its edges, and smiled, “Thank you so much, I won’t ever forget about you.” The words felt dry as the world turned blurry. I blinked away the tears and walked out the door knowing I’d never see her again. I rolled the ceramic thing in my hands, rubbing along its cold, hard feathers. As we passed the baseball field, I held the bird up to the light and grinned. My expression of joy disappeared as quickly as it came. The precious bird slipped out of my hands and onto the ground. With a great shattering noise, I could feel my heart break in two.
For Kade, the world is a place that offers boundless disappointments; parents, teachers, and friends haven’t been all that stable for Kade over the years. “The only thing that’s never left me is my ideas. Those are endless.” He is a champion of the written word and carves each one with the careful craftsmanship of a master carpenter. His poems, memoirs, and personal essays shed light into his dark world:.
Sobbing, I held up the two pieces.
“I’m sure we could just super-glue the pieces back together,” My mom said, reaching over into the cabinet. I didn’t believe her, but she proceeded to pull out a tube of superglue. She applied it gently onto the head and neck. Pressing the pieces together, I held the chicken in my hands, examining the damage I had done. A thin crack along the neck, and many bits of chipped glazing. It was changed. Altered at my hand. My mother’s “surgery” would have to do. It would do. It had to.
While Kade’s writing is rarely upbeat, it is often tender. He leaves his reader with a sense that everything really will be ok. Through his writing we get to see the real Kade; the slumped shoulders, downturned mouth, pre-teen, and a boy on the cusp of manhood. He seeks answers to life’s great questions through his close companionship with the pen. Kade masterfully connects to the world around him in ways beyond his thirteen years.
I shook my head. The chicken’s brown, clay interior stared back at me, seeming to taunt me, silently chastising me for doing such a thing. I wiped my cheeks, hastily putting the pieces into my bag, before sprinting down the hill, toward home. Broken like the chicken.