Whatever I do for a living, be it as a guitarist or music producer, I will never forget one of my goals, which is to contribute to the battle against drug addiction. In San Francisco, people take drugs to forget and detach themselves from feeling painful emotions. I know many peers who can’t party or dance without drinking a whole bottle of vodka and getting high on 50 mg edibles. Maybe the playlists just aren't groovy enough. As stereotypical as party life can get, the dangers of overdose are ignored so frequently that they're just normalized like school shootings are. Because every year, I hear about the kids my age dying from overdoses. The hippie scene was iconic in the 70s. But I still see the damages of all that drug use linger to this day, especially in the Haight district. Music and drugs shouldn’t go together. So at this point, I told myself I wanted to create music that could replace drugs. They can laugh at me all they want, but it's the fent, meth, trank, jules, LSD, 50 mg edibles, and hard liquor that y’all rely on to party. “You don’t need Hard Liquor to dance like a madman, because when I started moving, y’all joined in!” And I know damn well those cavemen who danced around their fires weren’t taking some acid with edibles. Anyone could understand music, despite what language, identity, or political opinion you hold. Whenever peers ask me how to get better at guitar, I tell them to learn how to dance. But not on any substance. I mean, how do you enjoy an experience when you’ll just black out and forget about it next morning? How do you play any instrument on stage half unconscious? How do you get home safely without being a bigger target of robberies, hit-and-runs, murders, or sexual assault? When I gig, I want to connect with my audience WHEN THEY ARE SOBER. I want to really get to know these people and understand them. I want them to live the next day and talk about music, just like I do. Because that is how we truly dive into each other and establish human connection. Through the music, not poison. My path will require trial and error. But I will continue to experiment—not with chemicals but with sound. And for sure not alone.

“Sora, you really do have a gift,” my grandpa told me. He grew up in the Fillmore district of San Francisco, surrounded by black gospel churches and R&B. If anyone knew where to find the heat, it was him. Being incarcerated in the Japanese internment camps as a child and serving in the Korean War, I believe music played a role in keeping him intact. He loves James Brown, and though he never got a college degree, my grandparents established a rhythm to secure my family's opportunity. Being the only family musician, I don’t think music runs in my blood. But I believe we all cherish it for the memories it can offer. I want to start at the period when I auditioned and got accepted into the guitar department at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts, a San Franciscan public high school. Growing up in the diverse city of San Francisco, I noticed friend groups are often formed by speaking the same languages, like Spanish or Mandarin. Despite being bilingual in English and Japanese, I always wondered why neither felt like my main language. So, of course, I struggled to assimilate. I found myself practicing guitar in my room, grumpy and alone, especially during the pandemic. Though I excelled at “guitar technique," hard rock, metal, salsa, and hip-hop felt empty while playing alone. Man, I despised when I sounded so robotic. Where was my soul directing me in any of this? What am I pouring my heart into? I was too weak to play on any sports teams and was a disappointment in academics. I was scared that music was all I had. Looking back at myself three years ago, I simply wanted to feel part of a community. This was when I thought, “Could music describe my feelings better than any spoken language could?” So when we resumed in-person learning, I wanted to establish a friend group that spoke that language. Just five minutes into lunch break, a guitarist, trombonist, drummer, bassist, and then a trumpeter would ditch the lunch line and walk down to the music room. We were really starving for food and music. Sometimes names wouldn’t be exchanged until the tenth jam session. Sometimes words wouldn’t be exchanged until the 50th jam session. Since I was later diagnosed with autism, I understand why I was insecure about my ability to direct conversation. So teaching myself “Jazz” was helpful to initiate connections with peers. This I will forever cherish. Later, I was invited by those intimidating upperclassmen to jam sessions. We all could feel a community being formed. And from there, my passion for music would only burn harder. After joining a band with two friends I made, the music room would become a social gathering stuffed with at least 15 kids across all artistic disciplines. I came to realize the important role music plays in bridging communities. Usually during academic hours, I barely talk to my peers about my guitar playing. But after getting to know them through these gatherings, we didn’t need any words. We just let our strong passions for music unite us all, like an endless voyage of self-discovery and epiphanies. Musician or non-musician. Through attending local gigs, I was standing in the live crowd. Strangers of all classes, races, and genders are laughing and dancing together (of course some drunk). I think sharing this experience with the world is what my grandpa meant by “having a gift.” Not to be kept, but to share it. Because that was James Brown's gift to him. Reminding the world to "Never stop shaking!"