Scotland's Mystical Capital, Edinburgh: A Travelogue

For two days this month, I spent time in awe of the historic city of Edinburgh, where even modern buildings share aesthetic with older ones. We drove into the city by car from Leeds, which entailed a four hours journey to the north. A cool breeze, and clouds, accompanied the expansive green before us. Indeed, on the way to Edinburgh, we noticed thick pastures of grass, even moreso than what we've seen in Portland. There were also cobblestone roads, and seagull hordes -- a less exciting but perhaps inevitable part of our trip. This would certainly be a memorable experience.

Tourists, especially my mom, enjoy visiting historical sites. This is natural given how much more ancient Edinburgh is compared to Portland. A minor problem arose: by the time we were settled into our place of stay, a nice apartment, it was already 3:30. Sites would close soon.

In our haste, we traveled to the Scottish Parliament, a neatly laid out building finished in 2004. Unlike much of Edinburgh, it sported a very modern aesthetic. Fortunately for us, there was disability parking across the street from us. (We were fortunate to be able to use our disability parking placard from the US.)

To get there, we had taken a back road along Easter Road, bypassing the traffic heading through Edinburgh's famous Royal Mile. For those who do not know, the Royal Mile is essentially a giant hill running along the heart of the city, with the Palace of Holyrood and the Scottish Parliament by the bottom ("the foot") and the Edinburgh castle by the top ("the head"). We started at the bottom, in other words.

The Scottish Parliament, which has free entry, seemed impeccable open to the public. Unlike the US Congress, which even in better years did not accept visitors without express permission, we simply had to pass through a simple security checkpoint and were allowed to wander around inside. (Because the Parliament was in recess, we could not witness the debate chamber.) The interior managed to be simple yet modern and spacious, leaving much room for me and my wheelchair. The inside was mostly taken up by a set of displays highlighting excellent visual journalism. Most notably, an image from this year of a black woman standing down US cops equipped with shields and dogs. These displays contributed to a feeling of accountability: this legislative body observed the world around it, rather than simply dictating rules seemingly on whims (see: US Congress, most of the time).

This did not quite scratch the historical itch, however. So now it was time to visit the nearby Palace (which was just across the street)!

...But it was now past 4:30 pm, and they no longer sold tickets. Such an exciting visit would have to wait until the next day.

So we settled on something more Portland-esque: the Edinburgh Cocktail Festival. We ended up there by traveling up the Royal Mile, which is difficult on wheelchair (as one might imagine). Lured by the promise of live music, we sat down by the makeshift stage and waited. Unfortunately, our timing coincided with a break. We decided to rest there before heading to dinner. A familiar drumbeat began playing out of the speakers -- it sounded like Radiohead's song "High and Dry." But instead it was the song I always mix up with "High and Dry." When Ira Kaplan's vocals came on, I realized that the piece was "Autumn Sweater" by Yo La Tengo, a song that warmly reminds me of music I liked in high school.  (Still a piece I wholeheartedly love.) Imagine coming all the way to Scotland to hear an American song played in public!

After twenty minutes or so, we headed (down the Royal Mile) to Kilderkin, a pub we heard was quiet good. It was time to finally eat some fish and chips in the UK! ...Or so I thought...but it seemed they weren't serving it at that time. What a disappointment!

On our way down, some tourists devouring tasty-looking fish and chips had told us about Bene's, a small food place across the street. So, with myself in a wheelchair, we trekked upwards, fighting gravity heartily, to head to Bene's. For 7.2 pounds for fish and chips (which me and my parents ate) and 5 pounds for doner kebab (which my sister ate), it seemed reasonably priced. The plan was to eat on the University of Edinburgh's campus, but we got lost. Instead, we settled by the fountain outside the Scottish Parliament. No friend of grease, I found the fried fish quite pleasant. Much better than fish and chips I had eaten in the US. Finally, after several days in the UK, fish and chips were in my stomach!

On our second day, we saw the Palace of Holyrood and Edinburgh Castle, which are at the bottom and top respectively of the Royal Mile. In the morning, my mom and I visited the Palace, whereas all four of us (my mom, my dad, my sister, and I) went to the Castle in the afternoon.

Thanks to my wheelchair, I earned a 5 pound discount, and my mom got in free as my assistant (wheelchair pusher). Unfortunately for my mom, photos were not allowed anywhere inside the Palace. This was something of a relief to me, as my inability to pose properly for photos is a minor source of anxiety. After a few exhibits, we were confronted with a grand spiral staircase, which held us back on the first floor.

Fortunately, the wardens took us through side paths to arrive at the elevator, allowing us to skip the stairs. Surprisingly, the elevator fit in quite well with the historic designs of the palace, despite appearing quite recent. One major highlight was the Great Gallery, covered by a royal red rug, which featured 96 portraits of Scottish royalty. Clearly this land had much more history than I had realized. As we made our way through, we listened to our audiobooks, gaining mastery over this history. (However, this mastery has already been undone. )

My mom saw the room of Mary, Queen of Scots -- whereas I could not because of a spiral staircase leading up, and no elevator. I witnessed the room through a video display on a computer in the Great Gallery; it was apparently best known for its collection of weapons. Except for one rather important detail. Supposedly, it was the room where Mary's secretary was executed by the King (her husband) on account of jealousy. (By this point, I have probably shared this anecdote a hundred times.)

Many of the rooms featured beautiful tapestries, some downright Rococo, but I cannot show them to you due to a lack of photos. The Palace was beautifully impressive, beyond my capacity to describe in this travelogue. Very likely, my highlight from the trip. We also got a chance to witness the gardens.

Now we met up with my dad and sister, who were again in the disability parking by the Parliament. We found Cajun chicken sandwiches on the Royal Mile at a place fittingly called Let Me Eat. That certainly described my current sentiment, as my sister pointed out. Then we continued our way along the Royal Mile towards the castle. This drove home the intricacy of Scottish history even further.

The roads became congested with pedestrians, forcing us to move exceedingly slowly. (We were allowed to drive on account of my mobility challenges.) We made our way to the top, and saw the castle entrance. However, it quickly became apparent that the entire complex was its own hill, even steeper than the Royal Mile. And....we were given no wheelchair discount this time. A taxi ferried us to the top (free of charge beyond the ticket), and we got out and took many pictures. (Photos were allowed here.) Apart from cool historical buildings, the Castle had cannons and a beautiful view of Edinburgh. Where the Palace is compact, the Castle is quite spread out, but both are quite charming.

There was a last item on the bucket list for that today -- a site in Edinburgh famous among certain tourists. In particular, those who are Harry Potter fans. The whole city, especially the Castle and the Palace of Holyrood, are said to have inspired the series. An ancient college near the Castle is said to have in particular provided a foundation for the design of Hogwarts -- this a Palace warden had told me,  But, there was a more concrete connection. This place on our bucket list was a place where JK Rowling had spent time writing -- it is called the Elephant House, clad with a maroon banner above the doorway. For the sake of memory, I ordered a hot chocolate to go, my very own disposable memento. The creamy chocolate drink certainly left me contented.

By this time in the day, most touristy things had closed. We had missed our chance to see the National Museum of Scotland, much to my mom's chagrin. My sister suggested a night ferry. Instead, we headed back to the apartment with the realization that we had just the following morning for sightseeing. However, we did not leave the apartment at all during the evening.

It was 9 AM the next morning. Typically, it could not be taken for granted that all of us would be up, let alone ready to leave. But today was different -- we bucked the fatalism of time by heading to the National Museum of Scotland that we had passed up. (This museum is actually located on a road branching off the Royal Mile, freeing us from worrying about hills.) It was free, so there was no other argument against going. There were some neat science exhibits, creating the backdrop for exquisite photos (taken by my expert photographer of a sister). Then we walked around outside and witnessed more street life of Edinburgh, complete with a dash of drizzle. This may come as a surprise given one's expectations about Scotland, but it was actually sunny during our first two days, and quite bright. Most notably, we were given a pamphlet for a Shakespeare play that may not actually contain any Shakespeare.

After some exploration along the road, we returned to the car, feeling simultaneously ready to head back to Leeds and not ready to leave. For one, my mom hadn't even seen the Edinburgh Museum she had wanted to see. But that was the time allocated for the trip. During previous plans, I had considered visiting Glasglow -- later on, I learned that it is better for shopping, not history. Perhaps my real reason is the fact that the band Franz Ferdinand hails from that city. Alas, a return to Scotland may have to happen sometime in the future, as that was quite fun,

Miniature travelogue time!

For 1.4 pounds, I purchased chocolate milk from UK grocery store M&S for the first time in 6 years. My mind urged it was essential. Not simply any chocolate milk, but this specific kind. One can tell my priorities were straight.

In fact, it has been one of my goals since arriving in London. To get this M&S "Chocolate Flavoured Milk". 

A fool might think all chocolate milk is identical, mass produced with no variation. This proves them wrong. But this ecstatic blend brings milk and chocolate together in complete harmony and symmetry. Elysian creaminess meets a soft chocolate approach that remains delicious with every gulp. And I refuse to allow the rug a mere drop. 

When I head home, I will surely miss this excellent chocolate milk. It is salvation.

Flower Declaration of Love: Under the Dog

Under the Dog follows Hana, who promptly informs us that her family is awkward. Walking down the stairs and towards the door. Off to an entrance exam where something greater lies ahead. Her dad wishes her luck, but this is a lie. Even with these lies, Hana wishes fervently to help her family.  Against this apparent contradiction , the story unfolds. 

It is a baffling tale where soldiers invade a high school 

with little warning. And Hana is revealed to be a not so normal person. Rather a person sent to protect a boy named Nanase. The story appears to stumble numerous times, especially when introducing characters who scarcely appear again. 

The end product is stilted but still there are hints of the themes it promises. It is a firm belief on this site that the phrase "nothing remotely good" is typically a lie. So let me offer how Under the Dog could be made compelling. And not simply things like reducing the scope and rewriting the dialogue.

Rather than a standard glimpse into Hana the "ordinary" person, begin up front with her eyes turning green. They hint at her true identity as an assassin and her quest to protect her family. If she is fleshed out in such a way, she becomes a plausible character. By pouring more emphasis, the audience would right away understand her mission. In this way, the opening scene of Gunslinger Girl, which showcases Henrietta as a killer, would be an apt template to follow. We would see immediately that Hana can serve as protector. 

In her effort to protect Nanase, which does provide some sorely needed characterization, we see Hana again take on this guardian role. In a way, his struggle is hers as a result. So I wish the work had given more thought as to why Nanase matters so keenly, and in turn why her mission matters. To this end, the opening should demonstrate that, using glitch imagery that aligns with the green eyes, Nanase's father is the monster plaguing that world. To give us hope that he could persevere. That Hana could persevere. 

Allowing both to die at the end flies in the face of the hope described do gingerly but earnestly described by Hana. By tearing emphasis away from the minute battles, the work would have been much more powerful if it had focused on self discovery through fighting the monster and learning that it is Nanase's father. And had lived in the process. For me, that would lead to a more satisfying and connected ending. 

Ultimately, Under the Dog desperately needed to step back. Reduce the scope, and aim for psychological battles and defeats, less on actual blood and violence. Restructure the story, and make it move faster during worldbuilcing moments. And most importantly,  convince the viewer of the importance of Hana and Nanase by digging much more deeply into their motivations and skills. By giving us reason to care deeply for Hana and Nanase, this work could drive home its potentially powerful theme of hope in the face of the worst humanity can offer. 

A Stifled Voice: Special education and the film A Silent Voice

Notebooks thrown in the pond,

Hearing aids discarded,

Being left alone, 

Called disgusting,

Criticized for taking up special attention.

Kyoto Animation's A Silent Voice, a gorgeous and heartfelt work, follows a deaf girl named Nishimiya, beginning with her transfer into an elementary school. In her introduction, she explains with a notebook cast above her head that she cannot hear. 

She is bullied extensively by her peers, who are convinced that she gets special treatment. They complain that the lessons are disrupted. And mock her speech. To watch her suffer is to feel disgust that it is tacitly allowed. One day the principal announces that Nishimiya has had several pairs of hearing aids damaged and asks for the bully to step forward. This highlights her status as an unwanted member of the classroom.

I understand the feeling of having special needs while in a "normal" classroom. While the unfortunate things that happen to her are unfamiliar to me, I can throughly understand that feeling of isolation. 

In the US, special classrooms exist to help students with special needs. Wouldn't Nishimiya benefit from that, one might reason. One incident begs this question. An instructor is brought in to teach Shuwa -- Japanese sign language -- but the class resists. They prefer the notebook. Their convenience over Nishimiya's well being. Utilitarianism at its finest. 

If Nishimiya was in a more individualized setting then her needs could be met without disrupting the class. 

The idea is nonsense, really. Citation: myself.

During high school I was on an Individualized Education Plan where I took a special education class along side the "normal" ones. A class called Social Cognition, which covered many basic conversational and organizational skills. For me, someone with a physical disability, it was an effort to sidestep my true needs. 

For some the class may be helpful, but it was not for most of the students from what I could tell. It had no bearing in anything. And for me I wanted things like extended time on tests. I wanted help with concerns from my physical disability not a special ed class focusing on social skills. It doesn't help that special education is seen as unnecessary for "good" students.

Because of that, I took myself off my IEP. 

Special ed is so very insular,I feel, often isolating students. There's a stigma attached to it in the US. That's why integration is important. That's why asking the children to learn Shuwa is important. That's why teaching about the experiences of wheelchair users is important. Students with disabilities deserve to fully participate in the classroom, condition permitting, and nontoxic  face stigma. Naturally that includes Nishimiya. 

Unfortunately Japan and US both seem to struggle with accommodating students with disabilities. Especially in the realm of stigma and stopping bullying. Yet the Japanese emphasis on the students who struggle seems beneficial in thus regard, given their efforts to ensure Nishimiya's success. 

There is hope, with increasing awareness both of specifically deafness and disability in general. Integration is worthwhile, especially with the emphasis on the wellbeing of all students in the classroom. Much preferable to the insular nature of the special education classroom for many students. 

May the trauma Nishimiya faces not happen in the future. 

Science Fiction as a Voice for the Voiceless

Plot details from the series SukaSuka, Alice and Zouroku, Sakurada Reset.

What do you do at the end of the world?

Prompted by this question, you are likely confused. *The* world? Which world(s)? Are there worlds? What is the end of the world(s)? It could be the universe we live in, including “our” world and other possible worlds.

Science fiction is fascinated by the possible existence of other worlds. Often times, at least for the more standard fare stuff, it’s for the sake of showcasing interesting futuristic technology. However, at its core, sci-fi probes the human condition at a deeper level, asking how humanity organizes itself when prompted by different environmental conditions than the present day present time (Really, fantasy is one in the same, except with magic not technology.)

However, I am most fascinated by the ability of science fiction works, by portraying other worlds, to create empathy for other ways of life. Most famously, Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness posits the scenario where the gender binary is freakishly abnormal, supplanted by a world full of hermaphrodites who can switch roles; in this reflective manner, Le Guin humanizes those left outside of the strict gender binary found in mainstream society.

This sci-fi capacity for empathy strikes me as similar to the imaginative play that children engage in. They play pretend so they can understand the world around them and the people inhabiting that world – to appreciate that everyone, in a sense, lives in their own world. Science fiction shares this pedagogical goal, often creating literal worlds to highlight how different people live. Additionally, sci-fi series can be used for the purpose of imaginative play, where one envisions a place in this fictional universe or world.

However, science fiction can be seen as even more political than other works, given this capacity. Certain beings can be elevated high or cast down below based on some sort of prediction of how the future unfolds. Sci-fi can be used to denigrate and discriminate.

But at the same time, it can be revolutionary, offering expression to groups that feel voiceless. Based on my life experiences, one such group would be those who have a disability of some kind, especially a physical one. This could be someone who is in a coma, or expresses themselves ‘inappropriately’ (the hallmark of Autism and other disorders that interfere with speech).

What if the imaginative play of science fiction, wherein the creation of a world or worlds to offer enhanced self-expression capabilities, can be applied to such people? Fortunately, there are those who have tried. And hopefully, this is far from an abating trend. I will discuss three series in particular.

In Satelight’s SukaSuka (“World End”), the protagonist and lead heroine Chtolly is faced with a short life. In a powerful scene, the director reveals a set of flickering candles, straight from Chtolly’s mind, that highlights her immense anguish. Memories from a past life besiege her, appearing as candles. In other scenes, these memories are encapsulated by an imaginative depiction of an empty world, with a red-haired young girl sitting on a bed who talks to Chtolly, conveying her true feelings to the viewer.  As the series wears on, her hair transforms from soft blue to the fiery red of the young girl, complementing this approach. Shortly before completing her final, most critical, task in the world, she remarks that she is the happiest girl in the world – this statement rings powerfully because of the hints fed to the viewer about her deepest struggles. If we are to believe anything said by Chtolly, it is surely these final words.

In J.C. Staff’s Alice and Zouroku, Sana is – similar to the previous entry – a being with magical powers, only this time referred to as a Dream of Alice. She takes on the appearance and personality of a young girl, curious about the world but powerful enough to change it. Throughout much of the series, after learning she is not human, Sana returns to this conclusion that she is a monster, leading to her powers wreaking havoc. In the show, Wonderland serves as a metaphor for the feelings of these Dreams of Alice, conveying the instability that Alice faces.

This last example most explicitly describes the ability of science fiction to show experiences that would otherwise remain invisible. In David Production’s Sakurada Reset, much of the population features special abilities, not as dramatic as the magical powers described in the previous two examples. Honoka Katagiri’s ability involves creating a dream world. One wrinkle: she has been in a coma for nine years, a state seen as close to death.

However, the dream world – termed One Hand Eden (OHE) allows Honoka self-expression.  As Eden, per descriptions by the Sakurada authorities and medical personnel, supposedly this ability allows for immense – fake – happiness. In a way this fits a stereotype that persons with disabilities are complacent to exist without pushing their boundaries. Barriers, so the logic goes, are something to live behind for safety. Nonetheless, Honoka maintains full control of her world.

Surprisingly, this creation born of reverie extends far beyond the ramblings of a mad Justin (he knows who he is). In a word, it’s a dull place, mostly fashioned after the real world, in a way providing the viewer a literal depiction of what Honoka’s life could be like. More importantly, what she would like it to be.

A simple conflict is set up, betraying the simplicity of a bed-ridden Honoka. In OHE, there is no Honoka, only Michiru, who is fully mobile, clad with a blue bird on her shoulder. Knowingly, Michiru welcomes the viewer and the main characters to the dream world, establishing a clear distinction. Other than the blue bird, one could be forgiven for mistaking the dream world for the actual one. When pressed, Michiru insists she has never heard of “Honoka”, one of the only seemingly abnormal detail. Such a discrepancy suggests that Honoka is both aware of her situation in the real world and consciously moves away from it; this escapism, or so it seems, perfectly complements an ability called One Hand Eden. 

Central to the OHE is the blue bird on her shoulder, a being named Chiruchiru who acts as the dream world deity and allows Michiru to live comfortably in her Eden, away from her real existence as Honoka Katagiri. So where does this lead us? Clearly, despite living in a coma, Honoka’s actions betray a deeply conflicted identity, with one foot in the real world and the other foot in OHE.

Does this situation contradict what we know about comas? Honestly, who knows. From the perspective of society, a coma patient is a drain on resources, especially in a despicable healthcare system like ours that values efficiency over lives. From an outside perspective, Honoka qualifies as completely unresponsive. However, in the OHE, she maintains full ability to respond, to the point of molding the world to her whims. If we are to take this work seriously, then perhaps it does follow that comas are not truly a vegetative state as tends to be thought. After all, your brain features altered and reduced activity during sleep, but that does not mean you’re a vegetable at night.

Especially here, calling Honoka’s efforts escapism would be remiss and reductionist. As her Eden, she has full control over expression, which is vastly different from the real world. As she reminds us, “I can’t even stand up in the real world, but I can run around in here!” Michiru does not face the systemic barriers that Honoka does, and can do what she likes. The fundamental contradiction of the OHE is how it gives her what she wants *too often* (as symbolized by Chiruchiru) while offering this spectacular freedom. To me, this gives Michiru, as Honoka’s stand-in, an impressively human feel, a genuine tack at self-expression through the dream world.

No matter how idyllic Michiru paints the OHE, there are inconvenient truths, again leading to a humanizing narrative outcome. Or, one. Namely, a monster that appears at night, threatening to destroy the dream world. That is where the main characters step in to help Michiru, but at no point did the show convince me that she was just the disability version of a damsel in distress. Rather, it strives powerfully towards providing a voice for someone who would be voiceless otherwise.

Considering Honoka’s story from a social perspective reminds me of the subtle ways in which persons with disabilities are ‘stripped’ of the ability to speak earnestly and deeply.  This stripping goes beyond a person with a medical condition that prevents speaking, which can also include coma patients.  Even if a person speaks, they very well be ignored if it’s perceived as ‘inappropriate’, which is especially true for persons with disabilities. The enthusiastic behavior of Michiru suggests that she is beyond it, but the monster proves otherwise. Chtolly and Sana similarly seem to carry this fear of not being heard, that their deepest struggles will not be understood because of how their bodies work.

For that reason, these stories where the imaginative play of science fiction is used to give voices to the voiceless is so powerful to me. This concept need not only apply to the One Hand Eden, just to disability in general, but can also be used to uplift persons from other marginalized groups as well. Through such stories, those considered mute, unresponsive, or otherwise a “drain on society” (especially a capitalist society) are revealed to be as acutely human as the rest of us.

The Fabled Update

Zeldaru is a fool, filled with hubris, as Dysosmia attests. He cannot fulfill deadlines or anything worthwhile, especially in a written format, as Dysosmia attests. Thus Dysosmia attests, Zeldaru shall read Dies Irae and finally understand existentialism. Thus, it must be done. Thus spoke Dysosmia.

My deep wound inflicted from arrogance? Failing to update my blog in the way I said I would, failing to add new posts. The previous essay, on a twin-tailed prodigy, was an effort to explore disability from a motor control perspective, rather than simply a sociological one. I hope to do more of this. But I already have another post coming up, one on Grimoire of Zero.

Stay tuned.

The Twintailed Sword Master: Analysis of Inaba Tsukuyo from Armed Girls’ Machiavellianism

Inaba Tsukuyo is a prodigiously cool character that is also a blind swordsperson in Silver Link’s Armed Girls’ Machiavellianism – throughout the series, we see occasional shots of her cleaning chalkboard erasers, carving a wooden bunny, and sauntering through the school. Fascinatingly, this series portrays Inaba as a fascinatingly complex character, defined as much by her blindness as by her twintails.

Face obscured from vision, emphasis drawn by blurring towards her hand, she tightly clasps the handle, looking away from the frame (above). Surely, Inaba is a professional sword user! In this academy, she is a member of the Five Swords, who guide academic discipline. To such an esteemed group, a troublemaking student entering the school, one named Nomura Fudou in fact, is indeed rather disappointing (side). As a wise and fierce warrior, she makes snarky comments, eyes shut. Sometimes Inaba opens her eyes, but never in an “appropriate” manner. Her behavior is admittedly rather “peculiar.”

Given that visual cues are heavily used in “normal” human communication, this behavior is improper – from a clinical perspective, one would assume that it arises from an inability to perceive such cues. Blindness, in other words. However, such an assumption binds her to that blindness, rather than recognizing it as part of her identity. It is based on medical conditions being intrinsic to the individual. If you have not learned anything from me, know that disability is at least in part a social phenomenon created by a society’s institutional barriers. “Normal” and “appropriate” are socially constructed terms, hence the quotation marks.

Then how does one know that she is blind? Not through being explicitly outed, which matters in context of the above paragraph. During a monologue, Inaba reveals that she cannot differentiate moths from butterflies because their flapping sounds the same. This leads to Nomura’s curiosity. “Wait, are you…” Nomura asks/“Blind, what of it” Inaba interrupts. Through this act, Machiavellianism provides Inaba the agency to describe her condition to Nomura without systemic coercion, allowing the blindness to be her own as indicated by her question “what of it” – this allows for the condition to be part of her identity, without swallowing the other components whole. Being “blind”, when foisted upon someone, subverts perception of their humanity.

So, blind people are people too. Blog post is likely done at this point, right?

But there are institutional barriers that stand in the way of blind people; such barriers encourage altered behavior for exploration of one’s environment, which is essential for anyone but especially a master sword wielder. The rest of this post will tackle how Inaba’s response to the barriers in her way confers special advantages without denigrating discrimination against persons with disabilities. The basic strategy employed is the integration of all sensory input except for visual cues; her system relies much more heavily on auditory inputs than for the “normal” person.

Throughout much of Machiavellianism, Inaba serves as the narrator of many duels, given her extensive knowledge of blades, all while making her way through the academy. Her impressive hearing helps in both regards, likely aided by the use of bells on her head, which provide a center point for all sounds to be observed. Without the visual cues, she is still able to respond to her environment and make her way through. However, this likely has to do with the static nature of the academy – outside of classroom hours, there would not be much of a need to respond to the environment given that it does not change. That is why her lack of vision may not provide as much of a barrier to traveling. 

On the other hand, during battle, Inaba could stay rooted in one place and move only slightly to fight her opponents (above) – this fits with her particular sword style based on diagonal slashes.  Indeed, throughout the fights in which Inaba partakes, most are fought on well-defined and familiar terrain, with the combatants focused on parrying blows. In this regard, the “blind” swordsman trope may make sense, as one makes use of hearing to keep ahead of one’s foe.

Even with her refined hearing, she still stumbles due to her blindness. When Nomura encounters Inaba by the fountain, he learns that he is guilty of three transgressions (left). The most insidious transgression was of course not meeting Inaba the night before (“the summons”), leading to her getting a cold. Lacking vision made it difficult to ascertain Nomura’s presence, even with her impeccable hearing.

At the same time, the ability to traverse a familiar environment is not necessarily a social skill. Often, facial expressions, gestures, and body language – which even Inaba appears to make use of – are predicated on a visual cue, and cannot be fully ascertained from tone. Given the average person’s tendency to monotone speaking (myself included), it may be difficult to fully understand social interaction without vision. Not being a blind person, these are but conjectures. But Inaba is scarcely shown in a social situation throughout the show, instead acting as a narrator.

Somewhere in Episode 10, Inaba asks Nono (pink-hair, below) if they are friends as they are faced by a tremendous foe; a few seconds later, after some unease, Nono insists that they are friends. Inaba haughtily wears this statement like a kimono in the defense of her friend, despite the awkwardness of the situation. This behavior suggests that Inaba is uneasy with the process of making friendships. After Nomura tells her that friendship naturally happens rather than being desired explicitly, she appears shocked. Though being blind, intuitively speaking, should not get in the way of friendship, it does appear to present unique challenges for social situations.

But this is a happy tale, one where everyone realizes their value to each other. Despite all these challenges, Inaba is both an imperfect human being and a great character. In support of these four attributes, she agrees to become Nomura’s sword sensei to correct his apparently sloppy style (below). Inaba Tsukuyo is truly a master sword wielder, worth of all our of respect.