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Wasabe Master

It seemed simple enough. My leadership students and I would sell water at our school's "Cultural Night"-- an event in the school gymnasium that celebrates our school's diversity-- and we would go home. I expected the variety of food, the outfits specific to the different cultures, and the variety of entertainment. What I didn't expect was a barely-visible sign just behind the Japan booth, a sign that would change the course of the night.

The sign itself was nothing noteworthy. Three feet by two feet in diameter, it consisted of a simple border surrounding just two words on a white background; but its appearance betrayed something so much more fundamental to-- and so much more complex within-- the human condition. It was these words, "wasabe challenge," that ignited in me a need to prove my worth as a man. I'm being over dramatic, but I did want to see if I could withstand a spice that I had heard was fairly hot.

The event itself was as straightforward as the message. Any takers would line up onstage and be given a spoon. On this implement would be placed a dab of wasabe. On three, all would consume the wasabe and decide thereafter if they wanted to stay for round two.

The first round, in fact, was deceptively easy. One of the game organizers wanted to trick participants by starting them with a milder form of the sauce in round one, then give them a more genuine form in subsequent rounds. This she did, and many of the ten or so participants left the stage after they tasted the spicier version. After four rounds, the last of which consisted of about twice as much of the hotter wasabe, only a few were left. Those who survived were crowned with a green and white paper crown that read "Wasabe Master," and I was one of them.

Given that I have never been the master of anything, I took great pride in this trophy. Never mind that most of my competition was half my height and a third my age. I had done it, and while the crown may wilt away into the dustbin of history, my new-found pride will remain. More seriously, however, the number of people encouraging me in the event-- some of whom I had not met-- reminded me the value of being known. That feeling of being recognized as a human being was, in fact, one of the points of the event itself; but for a teacher who expected to sit nameless in the back of a gymnasium for the night behind a stack of water bottles while the world went by, it brought home the point all the more clearly. It taught me that a single measure of personal interest in others can crumble emotional walls, and more than anything, that a community of interest can keep them leveled. This is, I suppose, one of the lessons and values of community.

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