Doraemon

The day I found out that Hiroshi Fujimoto died, a chapter of my childhood ended.

People often recollect memories from their childhood back to as early as age 4 or 5. I have no fucking clue how people manage to do this, because I don't have any vivid memories of anything in particular. I remember snapshops, still lifes and vague happenings. I can say with conviction that something took place (like my 10th birthday party), but I most likely couldn't tell you any details or how I felt. Except with Doraemon.

Fujimoto was one of the two-part genius behind Doraemon, or as I, and so many kids in Taiwan, knew him in Chinese -- 小叮噹. Doraemon, a time traveling robot cat from the future, was 大雄's best friend.  He had a pouch on his belly, much like a kangaroo, in which he extracted all sorts of gadgets and tools that helped 大雄 escape bullies, do better in school, and generally live a life that I so badly wished I had -- a life aided by this fantastical, futuristic creature. Some of the most handy tools included a small propellor on which you could plop on your head and fly, and a doorfame with a door which you could open and find yourself anywhere you wanted. If time traveling was required, as if it often was, all they had to do was to open the drawer to 大雄's desk, climb in, and there it was: a fully functional hovercraft that was ready to zip them off through quantum space.


For several years, when I was in elementary school, I traveled frequently to Hong Kong from mainland China. Given that my family was living in mainland during the 90s, when things like medical care was still incredibly behind, my mom would always take me to Hong Kong for orthodontist and doctor visits. These visits usually consisted of some form of oral mutilation, followed by me being dragged around the city while my mom shopped at Nine West or Marks and Spencers or meeting friends I didn't care for. Despite all this torture, visits to Hong Kong were my opportunity to pick up a brand new edition of Doraemon on the street. And once I did, nothing else mattered. I was lost in the anything-is-possible world of my favorite creature.


People can recall how much they loved certain cartoons or comics as a child. But Doraemon wasn't merely entertainment for me. It wasn't Ninja Turtles or Transformers. It wasn't even Sailor Moon (and I was obsessive about collecting Sailor Moon paraphernalia). Not only did I try to obtain every copy of every edition of the comic, I also watched every animated episode I could find. I had a Doraemon-themed science encyclopedia from which I read over and over, and Doraemon narrated casette tapes that I listened to almost daily, during bedtime, gobbling up all the scientific facts and concepts that only he could get me to learn. Doraemon was the inspiration for curiosity and learning for me. He was a constantly present, defining part of my life, shaping my perspectives on the world and how I exercised my imagination. Despite spending 13 years of my life as an only child, I don't ever remember once wishing that I had a sibling. But, shit, I can't even count the times that I so desperately wished Doraemon was real, and my best friend.

I don't remember when or how I found out that Fujimoto died. What I do remember, was a very real sense of loss, inexplicable and unfamiliar at my age. I knew that Doraemon wasn't "real." But the impression of his genius and guidance on me was. The death of Fujimoto meant the death of Doraemon as my companion and my friend through my tender age. There would be no more new adventures, no more build up of excitement in visiting Hong Kong. 

And with that, a subtle sense of innocence was lost.