About seven years ago, I met my very first taiko instructor - a man by the name of Kent Hirohama. I remember watching in awe as he taught me, along with nineteen other beginning members, how to play the lines of Renshuu. There were so many of us and only one of him, yet his presence made each person intently interested in what he was teaching. At times the noise level from the conversation was beyond bearable, but as calm as he was, Kent would patiently wait for everyone’s attention. Because there weren’t enough taiko drums to accommodate our twenty-member class, we had to learn songs by listening to Kent sing the beats and then reproduce those lines by hitting phonebooks with our bachi sticks. I thought that what we were playing was nothing but a bunch of insignificant unsynchronized beats. However, Kent understood that we were merely inexperienced and knew that we would all become great taiko players in the future. As we all got “promoted” from playing on flimsy phonebooks to playing on the actual taiko drums, we were able to feel the deep sound about which Kent was always exalting. When we were all tired of playing on phonebooks, he would always reassure us that the feeling we would get from playing on the drums would be worth all the waiting. He was right. But we played Renshuu and it sounded horrible. Playing on phonebooks was definitely not the same as playing on the face of a taiko. Despite the chaos, Kent thought it was beautiful. He was so passionate, not so much about the accuracy of the lines, but more so about the sound that reverberated from the drum. With a smile on his face, he applauded. That was the first day I officially became hooked on taiko.

            Kent later helped us perfect each line, raising his hand in the air to indicate which beats should be played with force and which beats should be barely heard. When we were confused, he would show us the proper way to play. His motions were fluent and intricate with perfection; so strong and confident. I knew then that I wanted to play just like him. He helped us improve our kata (stance, movement), telling us to extend our arms, bend our knees, follow our right bachi; all to make us look and feel like true taiko players. I remember being shy when playing, as I would hold back and not perform my best because my ego got in the way of my ability to play with passion. Yet, Kent always told me that everyone else was shy too, and that I shouldn’t have to be shy if everyone else was making as many mistakes as I was. He told me the audience understood that we were beginners, so they would sympathize with us when we made mistakes. He also said that nine times out of ten, the audience wouldn’t even know a mistake from a correct hit. Slowly but surely, I was able to break free from my shell and flourish into a strong player…all from my learning experiences from Kent.

Kent has this way of knowing if a line sounds slightly off, even if it is just a small emphasis on the wrong beat. He has, what I like to call, “a taiko ear”, and I admire him for that. He would use this taiko ear at all of the rehearsals before our performances, commenting on which parts of the songs we should repeat or fix. Ultimately, this commentary pushed us toward excellence, as it forced us to play enthusiastically with accuracy. I never really appreciated it then, but now as I reflect upon the things Kent has done for our group, it really made me think. To this day, sadly only three taiko players remain from my beginning class: Darren Okino, Ryan Yamasaki, and myself. When I think about what made me want to stay in taiko, even after all the negative drama that occurred, I realize that it was Kent. He was always encouraging Darren, Ryan, and me to pursue taiko, because he really believed that we would become great players. The other seventeen of our beginning group were good, but Kent felt that there was something special about us three, and he truly made us feel special.

When I heard about the news regarding Kent’s illness, I didn’t know what to think. I immediately thought of my Uncle Darrell who unfortunately passed away from throat cancer, and thought that I had nothing to worry about, since my uncle lived for about six years after his diagnosis. I thought Kent would be fortunate to have the same luck. To my dismay, I learned that maybe he wouldn’t be that fortunate. At first things were going well. After one round of chemo-therapy, Kent was up and about, attending early Sunday morning taiko practices. He even attended some of our many performances. Because of the treatment, he had to miss a great number of practices, so to be back on the stage listening and watching us play was a big treat for him. At one of the practices, I glanced at him while we played Isshoni and Jishin, and he had the biggest smile on his face, which gave me enough inspiration to put my all into playing those songs. Michelle, Keiko, Lauren, Lauren, Ryan, Darren, and I collaborated on a taiko piece, which included re-working and adding to Renshuu, the first song Kent ever taught us. Our goal was to write the song for him; to show our appreciation for his time and effort to help us. The song consisted of three parts: Part A was a small skit that showed Kent (as portrayed by Darren) teaching us, the beginners, the first line of Renshuu on phonebooks. First, we showed how we thought it was supposed to sound without any assistance from the instructors. Then we showed “Kent” teaching us the real way to play the line. After the short lesson, we showed the beginners playing the line flawlessly, thanks to Kent’s help. Part B was the original Renshuu piece that we learned from Kent, played on the actual taiko drums. Part C was our reworked version of Renshuu entitled Renshuu Remix, and we removed our traditional hapi coats to reveal the shirts we made to wear especially for Kent. After we played, Kent was so delighted that he gave us all a hug and thanked us for thinking of him. At the time, it was the least we could do.

I noticed Kent had lost a lot of weight and was a lot slower, yet it was apparent that he was in high spirits and kept visiting our practices every now and then. I got so used to him being there watching us, that I never really appreciated his presence. It became a routine to see him there, so to be honest, I didn’t always acknowledge him. Nevertheless, when he stopped showing up, I didn’t think anything of it. I thought that maybe he was just tired, so he wanted to rest. I never thought that his condition might be worsening. Lauren Hiroshima and I were talking one day and we decided that maybe we should Build-A-Bear for Kent. We arranged a date and time to meet everyone at Downtown Disney and managed to create a bear with a taiko outfit by using parts of a karate outfit and a pair of plain black pants. We used the karate belts as the sash, and hachimaki (headband) in the colors of our hapi coats. Mrs. Uyemura kindly attached a wisteria crest to cover the bear insignia on the karate jacket. That Sunday, we visited Kent in the hospital. He was so happy then. Happy to see us. Happy to know that we were thinking of him. Michelle, Hillary, Keiko, Lauren Uyeno and I wrote him a poem about how we went through a ritual of putting ten hearts in the bear – one for each taiko player he taught. We shook the hearts to give them life, rubbed the hearts over our nose so they wouldn’t smell, rubbed the hearts on our head to make them smart, and kissed the hearts to fill them with love. Kent loved the bear and hugged it as a child would hug his favorite teddy. We were all so happy to see him so jovial. We hated to see him like that, in the hospital, bored to death. But we knew it was best for him to be there.

Two weeks later we found out that he was transferred to the cardiac intensive care unit. His kidneys were failing and his blood pressure was extremely low and needed medication to raise it. The medicine caused his heart to beat faster in order to get the blood pressure level up, which caused him to be short of breath. When we visited him this past Sunday, I was scared. Scared to see him breathing so heavily. Scared to see him looking so tired…and even thinner than before. He was almost invisible. Hillary, Darren, and I were the first ones to see him. He looked so happy to see us. He reached out his hands and we all tenderly held them. He had us place our hands on his heart. I could feel the rapid beating of his heart and his chest heaving up and down. He said, “Right here…you feel that? Right here…” he was talking about his heart. “You guys are right here…okay? Right here…It’s gonna be okay…okay? Everything’s gonna be okay.” “How are you, Kent?” I managed to ask. “I’m tired…just tired,” he replied. His words was soft, almost a whisper. He closed his eyes each time he took a breath. He kissed our hands and said, “Everything’s gonna be okay.” We told him we loved him and he reached up to touch my face. He looked at me and smiled. I couldn’t take it anymore. I left and broke down…without saying “thank you” to him. I didn’t get to thank him for all the time and effort he spent teaching us. I wanted to go back in to tell him how grateful I was to have him teach me, but he was tired, so no more visitors were allowed. Now, he is on a respirator and is heavily sedated. Today, we were informed that Kent will no longer be able to have any visitors. I just wish I could thank him. Tell him how much I appreciate him. Tell him how he has been my inspiration to play from my heart. Tell him that I now play taiko for him.