{"id":27397,"date":"2026-01-04T14:14:58","date_gmt":"2026-01-04T19:14:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/?p=27397"},"modified":"2026-04-03T01:45:04","modified_gmt":"2026-04-03T05:45:04","slug":"episode-1480-mike-ikeda-not-the-tough-guy-you-imagine-january-4-2026","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/?p=27397","title":{"rendered":"EPISODE 1,480: MIKE IKEDA…NOT THE TOUGH GUY YOU IMAGINE…January 4, 2026."},"content":{"rendered":"
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NOTE TO MIKE:<\/div>\n
WONDERFULL WORK MIKE\u2026LOVE FIRST PERSON STYLE AND THE<\/div>\n
IMAGES.  Know  so much about you now and only wish I could have  chased  you down<\/div>\n
years ago in 1960\u2019s when your life was topsy turvy and you were  such a phoney rebel.<\/div>\n
God, Mike you are a  great writer.  Tough exterior\u2014 soft interior.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I am now at page 150 in your Odyssey of Mike Ikeda (800 page book) where you are in<\/div>\n
the slammer at 14 Division,  Funny. sad. Gamblings den filled with elderly Chinese men<\/div>\n
hoping to grab the golden ring. <\/div>\n
… a diverse collection of friends in various dives.You gave  that guy a goose welt<\/div>\n
with the butt of your pool cue and got the \u201cGuy Ikeda\u2019 tough guy reputation.  He likely would<\/div>\n
have told me to \u201cfuck off\u201d back in those days. Often a cry for help \u2026 happened a couple of times.<\/div>\n
I mention these things so my readers will get a glimpse of your life in Parkdale.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
NOTE TO READERS:  If you are overly sensitive then do not buy Mike Ikeda\u2019s Odyssey.   His family<\/div>\n
was broken.  Lots of children come from broken families and need breathing space.  Mike has a grade 10<\/div>\n
education. He failed\u2026.Stopped his schooling.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
  Lenita Wright was waiting for Queen streetcar<\/div>\n
Very attractive teacher of his at Parkdale public school. Unfortunately Mike had just finished a beer.<\/div>\n
He was 14 years old.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cYou were  my teacher,\u201d he slobbered.<\/div>\n
She responded with a hesitant \u201cYes\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cHow would you like to go for a drink?”<\/div>\n
Lenita reported Mike to Walter Cebrinsky, VP at Parkdale C.I.,<\/div>\n
a hard liner VP. \u2026Mike badmouthed a bit \u2026never went back<\/div>\n
to school. Parents did not care\u2026trouble enough to put food on the table.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I was  VP for Water at Monarch Park summer school.  He gave<\/div>\n
me a metre stick.  \u201cAlan, you go out there and measure the girls skirts.<\/div>\n
If they are too short then send the home.\u201d  I was shocked.  The few girls<\/div>\n
I measured were offended.  Summertime\u2026light clothing natural.<\/div>\n
Imagine what Walter said to Mike.  Too bad Lenita did not laugh.<\/div>\n
At the time she was dating my brother,\u2019’<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Now read Mike\u2019s note below.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
alan.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I feel guilty because we failed to help him.  I never had Mike as a student, My loss.<\/div>\n
In his book he credits me for encouraging him write then he was in his seventies.<\/div>\n
His book an be ordered from Amazon for $42.95\u2026800 pages, I have only got to P. 150<\/div>\n
\u2026here is a sample of his work.  Julia and Jeannette have bought copies.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
HE WROTE THIS PIECE IN A LONELY ROOM SOMEWHERE IN MEXICO \u2026 LAST WEEK!!!<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
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Hello Alan, I sent this story to you a few days ago. I don’t know if you saw it but here it is again. Mike Ikeda<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
The Weaver of Shadows<\/div>\n

I was born in the year of the tiger, a creature of striped solitude and long, quiet prowls. Now, at seventy-five, the stripes have faded to the silver of Chiapas mist, and my territory has expanded to the edges of the map. I walk the cobblestones of San Crist\u00f3bal, where the air tastes of woodsmoke and ancient dust, and I am a ghost among the living, carrying my dead like precious stones in my pockets.<\/span><\/p>\n

My father is a shadow in the corner of every cinema I pass. He is Japanese, a man of silences that ran deeper than the Pacific. As I navigate the morning markets, I see him in the tilt of a stranger\u2019s head. I find myself reaching for a hand that isn\u2019t there, wishing to pull him into the dark of a theater to watch The Seven Samurai<\/i>. I want to sit in that shared silence, the flicker of the screen illuminating the stern line of his jaw. I do not know if he ever saw it\u2014there are so many maps of his heart I never learned to read\u2014but in the story I tell myself, we are there together, two tigers watching the swordsmen fall in the rain.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then comes the scent of Assam tea and woodfire, and my mother arrives. She is white, a woman of sharp intellect and gentle rituals. In the quiet of my rented room, I see the steam rising from a ghost-cup. I wish to sit with her while the blue glow of Jeopardy<\/i> fills the evening, our voices racing the clock. I see her hand reaching for a Dad\u2019s Oatmeal Cookie and the slow, careful dunk into the amber tea. It is a small thing, a soggy crumb, but it is the liturgy of my childhood.<\/span><\/p>\n

Outside, the Mayan children are racing the streets together with their laughter. I stop to watch a pair\u2014a sister, perhaps six, and a brother of eight. She chases him with a fierce, joyful desperation, her small feet slapping the stones. I smile, and the years collapse. I am young again, and my sister, Marilyn, is behind me. We are sitting on the porch, our palms meeting in a rhythmic sting\u2014clap, clap, clap<\/i>\u2014singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” until our breath runs out. She looked at me then as if I were the sun, and for a moment, I was.<\/span><\/p>\n

I wander into the textile market. The colors are a riot, a bruised purple against a screaming orange, woven with the patience of spiders. I stop before a dress, embroidered with birds that look ready to fly off the cloth. I see her there\u2014not the child on the porch, but the woman she should have been. A teenager, perhaps, with pocket money burning a hole in her palm. I see her eyes go wide; I see her buying everything, her arms full of vibrant thread.<\/span><\/p>\n

“Try it on,” I whisper to the air.<\/span><\/p>\n

And she does. In the temple of my mind, she steps out from behind a curtain of woven wool. The dress is the color of a Chiapas sunset. She stands there, her shoulders hunched, her fingers plucking nervously at the hem. She models it for me, but her movements are stiff, her eyes cast down to the dusty floor. She is waiting for the blow. She is waiting for the laughter.<\/span><\/p>\n

“Marilyn,” I say, and my voice is as steady as the mountains. “You are beautiful.”<\/span><\/p>\n

She freezes. She has spent her life in the shade, and the light of those words is too bright. I see her face contort, a flash of red staining her cheeks. She thinks I am mocking her. She thinks my praise is a sharp-edged stone thrown at her vulnerability. She begins to retreat, her soul pulling back into the dark thicket of her embarrassment, her eyes filling with the old, familiar shame of being seen.<\/span><\/p>\n

“No,” I say, reaching out. I catch her gaze and hold it. “I am sincere. Look at me. You are radiant.”<\/span><\/p>\n

I watch the transformation. It is slow, like the sun cresting the ridge of the Sumidero Canyon. The tension leaves her shoulders. The doubt in her eyes flickers and dies, replaced by a terrifying, wonderful belief. She stands taller. The dress no longer wears her; she wears the dress.<\/span><\/p>\n

In that market stall, surrounded by the ghosts of San Crist\u00f3bal, my sister\u2019s soul breaks through the clouds. She is happy. She is loved. And for the first time, she sees what I see: a beauty so fierce that it makes a tiger weep.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

NOTE TO MIKE: WONDERFULL WORK MIKE\u2026LOVE FIRST PERSON STYLE AND THE IMAGES.  Know  so much about you now and only wish I could have  chased  you down years ago in 1960\u2019s when your life was topsy turvy and you were  such a phoney rebel. God, Mike you are a  great writer.  Tough exterior\u2014 soft interior. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-27397","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27397","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=27397"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27397\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=27397"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=27397"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=27397"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}