Mine?

Hm...I'm not sure, if I had to say someone then I think I'd go with in terms of writing I'd have to go with Jocelynn Drake, her books are the kind of writing I would aspire to get to. Perhaps my family for everything else, my grandma for her kindness, my mother for her resolve, my sister for her intelligence [i'm like the idiot of the house].

I admire my father. I hate the man, don't get me wrong, but he is very dedicated to the things he does.

My mommy :]

I personally don't like calling someone I don't know well a "role model". Been let down too many times lmao

I would say I have three role models. I discovered them in this order.

The first is Osamu Tezuka. Not only do his stories move me, but his bravery and his passion, bordering on madness, inspire me.
In the International Manga Museum in Kyoto, there is a library of nearly every single manga ever published, categorized by date. The walls for the 2000s, the 1990s, all the way back to the 1960s are full floor to ceiling with titles of all variety from many authors. However, the 1940s and 50s had only half a bookshelf full, almost exclusively written by Osamu Tezuka, a young man who was forbidden from writing comics which did not praise his country during World War II. With the end of the war he became able to write the stories close to his heart- those about the potential destruction or salvation nuclear energy could bring, about man's place in the universe, about fate and futility and hope. In a time when comics were an art form for children, he wrote over 150,000 pages of manga often questioning his society and the purpose and function of his species.
Looking at that half empty shelf, it struck me as profound that it would never be filled by anyone else. Without that half shelf, the rest of that room might well be empty. That whole museum might not have existed. I likely would not have been moved to visit that country.

The second role model's name is Jan. She is an older woman, short, round, and worn in the face. Her hair is always limp and messy because she does not have time to fuss with it. She has a kind smile for everyone no matter how hectic things are. She got together all of the people in my 1,600 pop. town who played string instruments and because of this I was able to play viola for five years when I thought, having moved to such a tiny place, I would never play again. She gave free vocal, piano, and violin lessons to all of the children and adults in our entire county. She brought music and terribly corny puns to all of us and never expected a thing in return. In the little catholic church in the next county over, I heard her sing for a wedding. It was one of the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard. She never had anything but words of endurance, patience, forgiveness, and love. Her husband, after many years of preaching, was rejected by the congregation, who wanted new blood. She followed her husband out into the world, not knowing where they would go or what they would do. She gave me a glass angel before she left.

My third role model is a 74 year old Japanese woman named Mrs. Fukushi. Her husband died 19 years previous and she told me, "I have been walking towards him every since". She is very aware of death, but not upset by it. She only hopes to finish translating the biography of Margaret Thatcher into Japanese before she passes.
She was hit by a car four years ago and broke her leg, but walks with a cane- everywhere. She volunteers teaching English in her tiny town and as a civil servant, reading and recording city documents for the blind. She sings Noh choir, something only men traditionally do, and plays mandolin. She says cooking is like a science experiment. I first met her in the office of a school that she had once been on the school board of before retirement. She saw through my stiff posture and determined focus, and when she accurately understood how scared and alone and exhausted I was, and I began to cry, she handed me a small cloth pouch of tissues. "It may be a cultural difference, but older people in Japan like to keep their hands busy making things like these," she said. I keep that pouch beside my desk here. I need the tissues when I think of her.

They are the people I would delight to see when I look at myself in the mirror.

I have her email address, but no spoken or written communication has the same feeling of overwhelming rightness as being with her, holding an umbrella for her in the rain or warming my feet on the floor of her house. She had a heater put into the floor because putting a normal heater up would block the large picture window in her living room, which she wanted to remain unobstructed so that upon her death, her wake could be in the tatami-mat room she called her factory (for it was where she studied Noh and mandolin and wrote on her word processors, and it was also the place of her husband's shrine), and then she could be carried straight out the window into the garden.

Thank you for taking the time to read all of that, Kaoori.
There are a lot of memories like these I have bottled up that have not been shared yet, because it is hard to feel anyone would want to listen to them.