Did we really do that last night?

We now explore the fascinating subject of drinking culture in Japan, a subject which I have immersed myself in for your enjoyment and cultural understanding. When I first came to Japan, I heard fables and tales about the antics and debauchery at Japanese drinking parties. I heard odes to openness - teachers who had been hiding their surprising mastery of the English language during working hours reveal themselves to you as coherent angels on golden wings. I was enraptured with reported feats of tolerance - cultural as well as liquid. When I finally went to my first party, I wasn't let down. The beer flowed like wine and the table somehow always had more of those delicious fish-type-tasting-whatchamacalits on it. Or maybe they were thin slices of pork with that salty dark brown sauce. Hell, I can't remember what I ate. I was drunk. Besides all the speeches at the beginning that I didn't understand, it was an orgy of merriness. Luckily for me, it continues to be just so. When I think, 'work drinking party,' I think, 'college frat party for people with disposable income and perhaps children.'

These parties are akin to frat parties in all manners of silliness, randomness, zeal, peer pressure, age-defined status, and camaraderie. The difference lies in the next day. In Japan, it's like the party never happened. Often this is a relief, but maybe even more often this is maddening. I'll get to that later, though. First, please see two days in my life...

On Monday, December 22nd, my school had its annual 忘年会 (pronounced bounenkai) which literally means 'forget the year party.'  Everyone's goal, as explained to me, is to black out the past year.  To set the scene, I must explain that all us teachers got on a bus and rode out to an 温泉 (hot springs bath) resort, most of us to stay the night.

12/22 (night of the 忘年会) - 6:30 pm. Sitting naked with my teachers in hot water, not saying much.

12/24 (first day of work after the 忘年会) 6:30 am. Sleeping.

12/22 - 7 pm. Let the madness begin. The principal says a few words (he kept it short this year) The people who organized the party say a few words. Then, everyone says the magic word (kanpai, or cheers) - no one can drink before all 70 of us start together - and thus begins a two hour free-for-all on booze and food. We are sitting Japanese style - on the floor - in a big room, each person on a chair with no legs and a mini table in front of him or her. Each mini table has a smorgasbord of delictable delicassies on it. This year, there is a bowl of three thinly sliced pieces of raw fish, a bowl of rice with more raw fish on it, a tiny bowl of sea pineapple (I think), a hot plate of chicken in a delicious red sauce with vegetables, a bowl of soup with tofu and fish in it, a plate of cold french fries (why?!) and cold pork, a small bowl of something else tasty, and another small bowl of something else tasty. Oh, there is also a mediocre salad. But! Next to the table is a little bowl just wide enough for the butt of a big beer bottle. The hotel is even kind enough to provide circulating faries whose only job is to make sure that little bowl always has a bottle with something in it in it.

During Japanese drinking parties, no one is allowed to pour his or her own drink. You must pour for your neighbors when they are running low, and you must wait for them to pour yours before you can get a refill. It is perfectly acceptable to offer your neighbors more beer or wine or liquor even if thier cup is full. First, they will be shamed into drinking more. Second, they will realize that you are really saying, 'Don't you forget about me.' (It's ok to sing it...) In English we have a saying about this. 'Birds are generally alcohol poisoned with one stone.' If I've forgotten the exact wording, forgive me, I've been away a while.

12/24 - 7 am. My cell phone alarm rings. Damn. I have to walk around my 40 degree apartment to the shower. Oh wait! I forgot to take the towels out of the washing machine! I have nothing to dry myself with. Well then, I guess there's no way I can a shower this morning, even though I really want to. Sweet! An extra 30 minutes of sleep...

12/22 - 7:45 pm. I'm finishing the food laid out in front of me. Delicious. Now, if only there was something to wash it down wit- OH! Thank you Kodama Sensei! I could definitely use some beer...

12/24 - 7:45 am. If I skip breakfast, that's an extra fifteen minutes I don't have to walk around in 42 degree air. Plus, I can sleep a little more. Yeah, let's do that. I have eaten breakfast approximately four times in Japan...

12/22 - 8:25 pm. Who the hell is this guy sitting next to me? Does he even teach? Oh well. Let's use that Japanese language I've been hearing so much. 'Would you like some beer? Oh, your glass is full? Whoops, sorry. Well...yes, now that you mention it I could use a refill. Thanks for your kindness. Oh, you can say, 'You're welcome,' in English. That's fantastic. Thanks for the olive branch. Oh, you can also say 'malnutrioned youth of Somalian refugee camps.' Wait, what the hell subject do you teach? Math? But you love foreign languages? Why haven't we met before?...

12/24 - 8:25 am. How the hell am I almost late again?! I have to stamp in by 8:30! (Derek runs to desk, fetches stamp, runs to enormous attendance sheet.) It's that dude! The one who knows about starving youths and gerunds! Good morning! 'おはようございますデレックさん。　おとといどうもありがとうございました。' he says. What the hell?

12/22 - 8:40 pm. The principal speaks to me for the first time in English. He was an English teacher for 35 years! Who knew?! We talk sports, he tells jokes, some too inappropriate for this blog. All in English, of course.

12/24 - 8:40 am. He maintains, and explains to me, in Japanese, that his command of English knowledge is more theoretical than practical. He was always fascinated with reading English literature, and is not a very good speaker. As he says this I am wondering which Shakspearean play he learned the word 'titties' from.

12/22 - 9:15 pm. I am teaching Ogake Sensei, a low level black belt (still better than what you have!) the basics of boxing that I learned at my rental Tuesday school. (In an effort to engage some of the more 'colorful learners' at this other school, I started going to the boxing club after school, which is where they can be found once the bell rings. They're very excited when I go and I think they want me to spar (hit me) soon. I'll let you know how that turns out...) He shows me some karate stances. He also rolls up his sleeves and presents hideous bruises that he recieved while trying to level up his black belt last weekend at a tournament. Since I am a 'sportsman,' as many here call me, simply because I played high school baseball, he asks me if I know any American tricks to cut down pain and swelling. I shake my head no but only because I don't know the Japanese word for amputation.

12/24 - 9:15 am. 'Hey Ogake Sensei!' 'Hello Derek.' 'How are your bruises?' 'What bruises?' 'The really black ones on your arms from the karate thingy?' 'What are you talking about?' I really thought he was joking for a while, but he was serious. His refusal to even acknowledge our conversation actually made me question my sanity - or wonder if Japanese beer is laced with acid. I thought about tackling him and pulling up his sleeves to show the world (and me) his bruises. Then I realized that no matter whether he had bruises or not, I would be less than pleased with the result. If indeed he had bruises, it would then be true that he was in fact a black belt in karate. Attempting to tackle a black belt would probably get me thrown through a wall. If, on the other hand, he didn't have bruises, then I would be immediately compelled to check myself into a mental institution...

12/22 - 9:40 pm. The vice principal wants to know more about my trip to Poland. He tells me that he went to Korea about 20 or 30 years ago. I express that I would like to see pictures. He says of course. He'll bring them.

12/24 - 9:40 am until forever. No pictures. Of course forever hasn't happened yet, avid reader. But I'm willing to put money on this one.

12/22 - 9:50 I talk to Mimori Sensei about an interesting phenomenon betwixt the English and Japanese languages. In Japanese, there are completely seperate words for different rices and preparations of rice, not simply adjectives on the word 'rice,' like we have in English. For example, uncooked rice is 米 (kome) while in English its 'rice.' Cooked white rice is ご飯 (gohan) while in English its 'rice.' Fried rice is チャーハン (chahan, spelled out with the characters reserved for foreign words because fried rice is originally a Chinese cuisine - I think, please correct me if I'm wrong) while in English its 'fried rice.' もち (mochi) would be 'pounded rice' in English. おかゆ (okayu) would probably be 'boiled rice' in English. There are undoubtedly more that I don't know or can't think of now, but you get the idea. In English, its all rice, with adjectives to distinguish. But in Japanese, these 'rices' have separate, very distinct words, reserved. Just like in English we have a ton of words for the word 'penis.' That was my enlightened thesis to Mimori Sensei, an English teacher. He agreed.

12/24 - 9:50 am. Yeah, ok... I guess it's not appropriate office banter no matter how you slice it...

12/22 - 10:10 pm. Kiyoshi Sensei is practicing WWF pins on me.

12/24 - 10:10 am. Kiyoshi Sensei is coming out of the kitchen and I am going in. Saying no words, we maneuver through the door so that we are as far apart as we can be.

12/22 - 12 am. Sleep time...

12/24 - 12pm. Sleep time... (Just kidding. I do work. Really, I do!)

Now, it is very nice that in Japan what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, because if the saying is true then Vegas is probably the only place in America that that happens. In college, the night life was more relevant than the day, and reputations were built and destroyed by what one did after the sun set. And of course, these feats or defeats were chronicled tirelessly, whether one wanted to remember or not. In the workplace, which probably should be a level up from college, even as a lowly intern, I was privy to the information that so and so puked in the water fountain and took off his pants at the Christmas party two years ago.

In Japan, that doesn't seem to happen.  At last year's 忘年会, there was an incident involving robes and drag and puking but no one has talked about it since. And it's hilarious. If this were college or work I'd be talking about it right now instead of writing this.

And because no one talks about it, the action doesn't define the person. I look at K Sensei everyday and I see a superior that I respect and listen to, not an overweight fool whose naked body is hanging out of a woman's robe. Those two people are different people. But, in America, to me, the man who stripped and puked in the fountain is the same man who is telling me that I need to get the next set of data tapes quicker. 'Ok ok ok.  Keep your pants on,' I think.   

At all three of my schools' parties in Japan so far, and countless other functions, work is work and play is play.  There are social disconnects in relationships depending on what clothes you're wearing, or not wearing as might be the case.

But which man is the real principal?!  Does Ogake Sensei have bruises or doesn't he?!  Is Kiyoshi Sensei my wrestling buddy or not?!  My Japanese co-workers slough off and put on their personalities so much more easily than I can.  If a teacher who doesn't drink alcohol talks my ear off at the party but then seems put off by me in the workplace, what does that mean?  Does she like talking to me or not?  And how do I ever find out?  I never feel like I know exactly where I stand with most people.  

I have the same struggles with students.  The kids that don't do jack in class are all over me in the hallways or when I run into them in the mall, lit up and asking questions, and the bright stars of class crawl up into shells when I say hello to them at a restaurant.  The number of people who interact with me on the same terms all the time is far outdone by the people who don't.  And because these personalities are like night and day, it feels fake.  I feel like I'm starting my relationships from scratch every time, even though I've known most of my co-workers and students for a year and a half.  

I've gotten more and more used to it as I've been here longer and longer, and I'll bet that I probably do it now as well.  But I don't have to like it.  Maybe I should just have fun with it.  Perhaps I'll start using accents and fake histories and backstories at parties since the personalities are disposable anyway...

A letters

Letter was being finded in a bags on eyeland on top of Hokkaido. 3 years-ish ago. Ununderstandableing. Can you making things of it?

My Dearest Mother,

I fear that I am fighting a losing battle. Every night I see the faces of the casualties, grotesque and distorted in their multitudes, asking me why I couldn't save them. I weep, begging for forgiveness. Please don't forsake me, I shout! I tried, I tried, I did! But they can't hear me, their bodies pushed up against the bars, their hands searching for me. If you can't save us, then join us! But I don't let them touch me. I'm too frightened to become one of them. Were I to become one of them, what hope would anyone else have? Tractors approach, dumping more and more bodies into the pit, swept under the rug and forgotten. All that's left is the hole in the world where they used to be.

The epidemic will soon be on par with God's wrath. It's coming. Oceans can't stop it. Take confession mother, for it's our only reprieve. Very soon the world will be thrown into confusion. Just five days ago, during a research trip to the uppermost reaches of the country, my colleague and I discovered the horrible fact. The epidemic has mutated.

Are you familiar with the island of Rishiri, just off the coast of the winterlands to the north? Perhaps not. Famous for its natural seclusion and beauty, it will soon become infamous for what it unwittingly spawned, that is if history itself even remains. Upon arriving at the port, my colleague and I sought a bit of sustenance. The journey through the winterlands was harsh and sapping. We saw signs of the epidemic everywhere. People of all ages were conjugating their verbs in the foul manner. "Let's going this way," they would say. I'm sorry for bringing up such a vile topic as I know your health is ailing, but I beg you continue reading this letter. I have no one else to tell, after what happened to my colleague. I know your mind is strong, if your body is not. Pray continue.

Where we had time we tried to save the young. But more often that not, we had to run lest a mob broke out. Oh! How it tore me up inside when I had to run away from a woman who had brought me her baby. It was clear that she was gone. "Let's saving my baby! Let's saving my baby!" she shouted hysterically, the tears welling in her eyes. The babe was merely eight, and of slight build. I had the English inoculation all set for him, but he looked me in the eyes and said, "Please am saving me." Hopeless. His grasp of the present continuous was incurable, probably learned from his mother in her best attempts to educate him herself, the poor fool. I ran. The inoculation would be better served on someone in the earlier stages, perhaps misplaced modifiers or maybe even plurals... She shrieked, "Don't running! Stop run!"

What could I do mother?! I know you've taught me that everyone must be valued and saved, but I can't! There's not enough of me. I can't miss the forest for the trees! How unfair this is, to be pushed into this position. This field seemed so glamorous when I was young and watched your work. The way you and your generation manipulated the English was astounding. But at some point you became too cocky with your power, and now me and mine are fighting against the depressing inevitable. Why aren't you here with me?! It was you who stood idly by as computers with spell check and grammar check took people's accountability away! You promised a world where everyone would be Gods with the English, infallible and terrible. It was you who applauded hacks like Vonnegut as they gashed the English, bending it to the point of breaking and abusing it for the amusement of the masses like a tamer beating an elephant. But tamers get old, and elephants never forget. Did you even think what would happen if people who weren't ready for the responsibility of the new English discoveries suddenly had it at their fingertips?

People in Japan experiment with the English, producing grotesque abominations of nature, flaunting them on T-shirts and buildings, not knowing the destruction they are perpetuating. And now, in America, in some pagan circles, those horrors are sought. The reverse shock will be terrible, and it's your fault.

I'm sorry. It's not all your fault. I know that. It's just sometimes I see how hopeless is it, and I look for someone to blame. Oh well, it won't matter soon. The next phase of the epidemic is upon us. Yes mother, it has happened. I have proof of the first case of 'noun conjugation.' What started as misplaced words and tenses has now evolved into something entirely different altogether. There is not even a semblance of sense anymore. I'm at a loss. I don't know how to fight this. It's too big for me. I'm sorry.

My colleague, hungry and tired, pointed to a restaurant and said we should eat there. At once I saw the sign and his disturbing non-realization of the egregious error. I gained control of myself and pretended like nothing was wrong, in case he tried to infect me. I immediately conjugated 'eat,' with all subjects and tenses, four times just like we practiced during lessons. I still don't know how my eyes didn't give me away.

At first chance, I took his wallet and fled the island, leaving him there with them...

Your ever loving son,

Derek

Enclosed is the picture. Please sit before looking.

Maybe there are places in Japan just for Japanese people

I can remember everything.  Humanities class had just finished and most of the other students were already out the door.  My notebook and pen and some papers were still out on the wood-textured plastic row tables.  Jon was standing by the giant map - the ones that pull down out of a collection of other rolled up maps.  I used to marvel that Mrs. King-Kalnek could always pull exactly the map she wanted, and there weren't even listings on the tabs. She never ever made a mistake and pulled out the wrong map.  I'm positive.  The big map of Africa hung there because we were studying the ancient kingdoms of Ghana, Mali, and Songhay.  But it was a current map. John pointed and said, 'Hey Derek, say this country's name.'  As soon as I looked up at his finger I understood the joke.  But I said it anyway.  

"Nigger."

He was of course pointing to Niger.  Mrs. King-Kalnek whipped around and demanded, 'What did you say?' so quickly that I almost didn't understand her.  I couldn't say anything.  I couldn't move as she strode toward me.  I knew I shouldn't have said it, I still don't know why I did.  I was scared.  She stopped in front of me, looked me right in the eyes and said, calm as she could though I knew she was furious, 'Don't say that word.'  Her voice betrayed her and rattled.  Then, my memory gets hazy.  I can't remember exactly what happened.  I can't remember if she said more, or if I just said I was sorry.  I don't actually remember whether I said I was sorry or not.  I was sorry, though.  I am sorry.  

I start remembering at Jon's laughing.  He had run out of the room after I said it, but came back to wait by the door.  I think he wanted to see what was going to happen to me.  For some reason, he started laughing.  Mrs. King Kalnek snapped her neck to him and barked, 'Get in here.'  He came in.  She shouted, 'And you're even worse if you think this is funny!' without feigning control.  Then we left.  

I remember those words crystally clear.  "You're even worse if you think this is funny."  "You." She didn't condemn the word, and she didn't condemn the act.  She condemned me.  Just because of a word.  

Since that day, every time I hear 'nigger' I have the same reaction.  I freeze.  My body remembers Mrs. King-Kalnek snapping around and the intensity of her eyes.  The little black spots were dancing madly.  'It's wrong.  Don't say that word.  How could you say that word.'  That's what I think now about people who say it.  Mrs. King-Kalnek was entirely successful in passing her loathing of that word on to me.  On the other hand, she made me so scared of it that I never wanted to revisit it, or race at all, for that matter.  When I said 'nigger' in middle school, I didn't realize it's history, the power behind it, and the effect it had on people.  It was nothing more than a taboo word. But the strength of her reaction and the force in her eyes scared me from talking about it again. What if I, once more, were to say something without knowing the connotations and context? This is not limited to just words, mind you. What if I expressed an opinion or a thought or a joke that provoked the same visceral reaction?  I never wanted to see anyone look at me like that again.  She hated me in that moment, despite what she might have said later.  'You are even worse,' replays over and over.    After that, I felt it better to just leave the whole area alone.  Racism and racial slurs are all bad.  Don't explore it.  Just know it.

It's been a long time since the eighth grade, but I only started thinking seriously about stereotypes, prejudices, discrimination, slurs, and where I fit in, recently.  High school didn't really challenge me to explore it, and college certainly didn't, one 'History of the American '70s' class excluded.  But in that case I came from the angle of an impartial observer measuring facts with plastic gloves through a glass wall and thirty years.  I didn't feel it.  I suppose I had never been discriminated against.  No one had ever given me cause to get the eyes like Mrs. King Kalnek had almost ten years ago.  Then, I went to Wakkanai.

Picture, if you can, Ryan and I in a desolated town.  A town with a feeling like it had been quickly abandoned because of a plague, or zombies, or a plague of zombies...  There had been a summer festival about three hours before, so vendors' tents were still out and the streets were littered with papers and rubbish from the raucous gathering.  Clues abounded that quite recently the streets had been hopping.  But, the party had died suddenly and no one had stayed around to clean up the mess.  Pushing midnight, we strolled around looking for something to do.  When we couldn't find any dry alternatives, we decided to hit the bars.  (Really mom, we did try!)  Unfortunately, for humanity (not my liver), none of the bars would let us in.  At every bar, the same played-out play played out.  

Setting - Bar, dimly lit.  No one else in the seats.  Woman in tight black dress or man in flowing dark clothes behind wooden counter, Japanese.  American pops playing lowly on the speakers, barely audible.

(Door opens)

Barkeep:  いらっしゃいませ。 (looking down)   Note: いらっしゃいませ (Irrashaimase) is the standard greeting when a customer walks into a shop.  It is such an ingrained, habitual set expression that workers at stores are programmed to say it whenever a door opens.  They don't actually care if someone walks in or not.  If I brought a tape recorder with sounds of doors opening, I bet I could get a clerk to greet me 36 times before he or she noticed something fishy, like only one person in the store.

Derek:  今晩は。 (perfect Japanese pronunciation)  Note: 今晩は(Konbanwa) means 'good evening'.

Barkeep:  今晩は。 (decent Japanese pronunciation)  

(Barkeep looks up to find two immaculate, well groomed men, early twenties.  Conservative adjective for the Adonissi might be 'strapping'.  Upon sight recognition, barkeep quickly throws her arms up in front of her face in an 'X' shape, meaning 'no.'  

Derek:  なんで?  Note: なんで (Nande) means 'Why?'

Barkeep:  もうすぐ閉めるからです。Trns:  Because we're going to close soon.

  

Derek:  本当？！ Trns:  Really?!

Barkeep: (with much feeling) 本当です。Trns: Really.

That happened three times.  Ryan and I both knew the bar wasn't closing.  But, skeptical reader as I know you are, I will offer proof.  There was only one main street with bars and the like, and in our search Ryan and I walked up and down for a good hour and a half.  The bars, miraculously, were getting fuller and fuller.  Imagine that...  Also, we found out later, by contacting the only ALT in Wakkanai, that he has the same problem in that town.  Perhaps he is an awful guy, but I have a hard time believing that.  

Finally, on bar four, we managed our way in.  At first the man said no, but I really concentrated on my Japanese and pleaded our case.  I attempted to say that if he didn't have an excuse better than, 'We're closing,' or 'You're not Japanese,' Ryan and I were not going to leave.  In Japanese, he told me he was worried about his ability to speak English to us.  Take a moment and re-read that sentence.  Finally he let us in, and Ryan and I ended up having a pretty good time playing darts and talking to other people there.  The bartender even showed us his favorite Metallica videos.  Go figure.  

Being turned away because I wasn't Japanese didn't bother me most.  The prospect of not being able to drink at bars in Wakkanai didn't bother me most.  What bothered me most was my reaction to being turned away.  After the third bar, I might actually have believed a little bit that I wasn't good enough for the bars.  When I pleaded at the fourth bar, that emotion didn't spring from a dying physical need for alcohol, or a cry for a way to combat boredom.  I wanted to get in there and show them that I was a good guy!  I wanted to show them that Ryan and I were exceptional foreigners who were different than what they had encountered before.  I wanted to show them that I was more like them and less like me.  In the bar, I concentrated on my Japanese and made more of an effort to talk to people in Japanese than I ever do.  I even buried my gut reactions.  When I speak Japanese, I generally react in English.  Rather than switching to the Japanese equivalent, I stick to phrases like, 'No way!' or, 'Cool!' or 'That's fantastic,' in English.  But I withheld those.  Ryan had the same sort of feelings, too.  Ryan speaks a little Japanese, but since he just started learning a year and a half ago and didn't start taking real lessons until after our trip, his Japanese at the time was very much a noticeable process.  In the bar, he hardly said anything, even to me.  He told me, after we left, that he was afraid to speak English because the other people might not like it.  

In the span of merely two hours, Ryan and I had started to doubt our worth.  We kowtowed because we wanted to fit in.  We threw our language away to apologize for mistakes we assumed others like us had made.  We bought into the charade that we as ourselves weren't good enough.  I still can't believe we tried so hard to get into somewhere where we were so unwanted.  We believed the racists in Wakkanai.  

And now that I'm out of that place, and the inferiority spell is broken, it's hard not to think about those people without hating them.  Not for turning me away, but for making me feel those things about myself.  If I went back there, I think I would try and show them all just how different I am and how proud I am to be different.  And if a woman in a tight black dress or a man in flowing dark clothes tells me I can't come in, I know those inferior feelings would come surging up.  And the best way to bury those is to beat them back - force them down. I'd want to lash out real hard and real bad...

But I wouldn't.  Because I remember the eighth grade.  And I remember the mad-dancing eyes.  And I remember what it feels like to be 'you' and not know why.  

Maybe I'd try to get in and be myself, or maybe I'd just walk away.  I'm really not sure.

First is the Worst, Second is the Best, Third is Irrelevant for My Purposes

"Why the hell would we want to see the most northern point in Japan when we can see the second most northern point in Japan with more difficulty?"  I asked.  To me and Ryan, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable question.  To our Japanese friends, it took some explaining.  Clearly, the only reason that people come to this city in the middle of nowhere is to see the most northern part of the mainland.  That means the most northern part will be infected with all the people who we wanted to get away from.  You know, all them city folk with their new fangled phones, and their rock and roll music, and their Twinkies, and their science.  They'd just be a-gawkin at this 'n that, ta'in' pichurs n' laffin...  There would be fleets of busses whose insides looked like rocket ships complete with amenities and toilets and foot-rests and personal space.  There would be gift shops with hoozits and cloppits, bonkers and cadoodles, maybe even winkers and prots.  There might even be English...  Everywhere you go in Japan, you see English.  Most signs are bilingual.  (That means they like both ways equally, but I personally think that's bullshit.  I know they prefer one or the other...I'm on to you bi-signs...((shakes fist)))  I wanted to see a place that didn't have signs in English.  There must have been a time in Japanese history when all the signs weren't in English, right?  I mean, Japan is older than English, right?  Right?!  And, thankfully, for my sanity, Wakkanai was one such place.  The signs were emphatically not translated into English.  They were translated into Russian.  

WhAt?!

Yes, Russian.  The signs on stores and shops were emphatically translated into Russian.  Clearly, no place in Japan is just for Japanese people.    

But, beggars can't be choosers.  At least I had found that feeling that I didn't know what the signs around me said.  Truthfully, I understand what the Japanese says, but at least I could imagine that had I come here when I first came to Japan I wouldn't have known what they said.  And that's what I wanted.  (Don't worry.  That doesn't even make sense to me re-reading it.) 

 

At any rate, after a little sight-seeing near the station, Ryan and I got down to the real purpose of our trip.  It took about twenty minutes and a crowd of three different groups to find our bus station.  Five minutes was spent assuring them that I understood what I was saying in Japanese, another ten was spent assuring them that we indeed did want to go to the second most northern point, another four was spent once again assuring them that I knew the difference between 'most' and 'second most' in Japanese, and the final minute was them pointing to a bus stop fifteen feet from us, as the bus was pulling away...

Now, as you can imagine, busses to the second most northern point in Japan aren't very frequent.  This was also explained to me, as well as the fact that three busses to the most northern point would be leaving before the next bus to the second most northern point came again.  But, Ryan and I stood firm.  Finally, our rickety bus pulled up, and we got on.  Shockingly, other people were on the bus.  Of course, they all got off before the last stop.  Except for a pair of twenty-somethings like us.  These Japanese guys were living out of their bags.  Unshaven, unkempt, we had a nice drive to the last stop at the end of the line just the four of us.  Nobody said anything, but we all knew.  As the bus weaved in and out between the run-down, bad smelling factories and the food shops hanging on for dear life, we knew we were almost there, to the second end of the world.  And here it is.

Derek:  This is it?

Everybody in the world except Derek and Ryan: C'mon, Derek, what were you expecting?

This is Ryan at the second most north point in Japan.  Can you feel the excitement too?

There was also this dolphin thingy.

Now, my tone may be a little sarcastic, but that's just for your amusement, reader.  The truth is, I had a great time.  It was really quite a journey to get to the dolphin thingy.  Two hours by train from Kitakami to Sendai.  An hour plane ride from Sendai to Sapporo.  A six hour bus to Wakkanai.  The whole time, Ryan and I were talking, or just looking at the scenery go past us, or laughing at how strange we are.  Remember, anyone can go to the 'most something or other'.  Trips are designed around going to the most famous places in a city.  That's easy stuff, fed to you for your consumption enjoyment.  It's an altogether different trip if you want to go to the 'second most something or other.'  And, its probably cheaper too!

Also, I got to eat some delicious sea food ramen at a hole in the wall shop.  Now, if a Japanese person asks me what the best food in Wakkanai is, I have answer to give that might actually give him pause.  "Well, my friend, there's a little place up at the second most northern point in Japan...  Do you know it?  No?  Really?  Hmm."  Then again, he might just assume that it's the second best ramen in Wakkanai.

 

A view from the outside

A view from the inside.  Please note the fly-paper strips hanging right over the food-making area.

Fly sou~ er, I mean... Crab Ramen

Please recall that Wakkanai, the name of the place I went, sounds a lot like the Japanese word for, 'I don't know.'

Principal:  So, where are you going this vacation?

Derek:  I don't know.

Principal:  What?!

Derek:  I said, I don't know.

Principal:  No no... I heard you.  It's just that Chihiro Sensei told me you already bought your ticket.

Derek:  Yeah, I did.

Principal:  Well, what does it say on your ticket?

Derek:  I don't know.  

Principal:  Oh!  You can't read it, can you?

Derek:  No, I can read it just fine.  It says I don't know.

Principal:  How does the ticket know?

Derek:  How does the ticket know what?

Principal:  That you don't know.

Derek:  What?

I apologize.  But it was funny to me when that happened.

By the end of January I have to tell my school whether or not I'll be staying in Japan for the next year, that is, until the summer of 2010.  Last year's decision was much easier than this one.  At this point last year, I had only been in Japan for half a year, which really didn't seem like enough time.  As it turned out, it wasn't.  But now, a year and a half in, I have to decide about the next year and a half.  It seems like the stakes are a lot higher this time around, and I really am twisting in the current.  

I had intended to write a regular update email to my friend Eric, but what came out instead is interesting, to me.  Hopefully it will be interesting to you, too.  I sent it out over a month ago, and upon re-reading it, it's still a good representation of how I feel.  So, here it is, word for word:

The fact is, I am at a crossroads Eric.  The only reason that I wouldn't stay in Japan for another year, and maybe more, is because I would think I was wasting my talents and not paying my dividends.  Perhaps it is strange of me to think of myself as a commodity, but I feel like I owe it to so many people to follow the gold-paved path and make some bank (editor's note - money).  My grandparents and parents and relatives have invested in my education throughout the years, and, if I put my foot on the gas, I could probably have the 'successful,' 'easy,' life that they had always envisioned someone in our family finally getting.  I could be the realization of making more than enough money to be comfortable, and doing so without using my hands.  In fact, my whole generation, including my three cousins, are primed for that step in (excuse the sappy reference) the Polish-American immigrants' dream.

But, the truth is, I am comfortable now.  No, I can't care for anyone else, and at this rate I'll have to work my whole life, but I am quite comfortable.  I have no job stress, aside from the pressure to make ready-to-graduate Japanese high school seniors interested in English.  I have no living stresses.  I stay at work if I want.  I go home if I want.  I do what I want when I want.  I live in a really beautiful environment, besides the wolf-deer.  (editors note - When Eric came to Japan, for one day I had to work and I let him loose, alone, on my fair city of Kitakami.  He biked up into the mountains and there was 'attacked' by some sort of creature.  In his efforts to get away, he didn't get a good look at the beast.  He described it as some sort of hideous cross between a rabid jaguar and a fierce boar.  It turned out it was a deer.)

In general, I feel like in Japan I can be the person that I want to be (and hopefully really am) more than I ever could in America.  I feel free and easy.  I feel like everything I do, even shopping, is an adventure.  It's a wonderful feeling.

It's ok to make a new personality, to strip the American Derek to the bone and build up again with a 'Japanese' coat.  If I go back to America now, I'll just find my old coat and put it back on.  I'll lose that everyday sense of adventure that leads me to talk to strangers and climb mountains and travel on weekends and dance stupid and play ridiculous games in public and do shotty (editors note - blowing hookah smoke into other people's mouths) with other dudes and play in a band live for people (Matt and I have formed a Whitestripes cover band.  We've played for people, not in a club or anything yet, but we will get there soon...) and start a book group to read and discuss Brothers Karamazov or wear a penguin suit and look like a fool in front of 200 high school kids.  I can do all those things back in New York, or anywhere in America for that fact.  But I probably won't.  I understand that that doesn't say a lot about my personal conviction to be unique and explosive and chase what I really feel is fun, regardless of other people's perceptions, but if its the anonymity of living in Japan that I need to do so, then so be it, no?

Sometimes it feels like a cop-out, though.  I should be able to do those things in New York.  I always had fun in America, no matter where I was.  Before I left for Japan, I was so sad about leaving America.  Leaving my family, the house I knew, understanding what signs say, you, Jen...  But very quickly I forgot about all that.  Quicker than any transition I ever made, in fact.  All I know is that when I was on the plane from Tokyo to JFK for Peter's wedding, and I was 'leaving' Japan, I was very, very sad.  I was sadder than when I made the reverse flight a year before.  AND I KNEW I WAS COMING BACK IN A WEEK!  I can't even imagine what it would be like to leave for good.

Well...  Sorry.  I had intended to write a couple of funny/interesting stories, but I got lost in this one.  I promise I'll write again soon with water-cooler banter.

Derek

Bound For I Don't Know

Summer vacation amongst the JET community is an opportunity to put those hard earned yen to work.  Many people use the week off in summer, as well as some of their precious twenty vacation days, to tour other countries in Asia.  Flights to China, South Korea, Cambodia, and especially Thailand are all, of course, much cheaper from Japan than they are from everyone's home countries, half a world away.  People also use the break to return home.  In general, summer vacation is a great time to get out of Japan.  

But, when Ryan and I sat down to discuss our plans, our conversation never left the borders of Japan.  It didn't even cross our minds to go elsewhere.  For whatever reason, we can't bring ourselves to leave.  Maybe we love Japan too much.  Maybe everything that we have seen, eaten, touched, and experienced so far has been so impressive that we want to wring as much of it from this country as possible while we are here.  Every different area of Japan has a speciality food.  Ask a person from Iwate what food you should eat in Okinawa, and they will tell you 'anything pig and goya champloo,' even if they have never been to Okinawa.  Ask an Okinawan what you should eat in Iwate, and they will probably say Morioka reimen, even if they have never left Okinawa.  It's like every Japanese person knows exactly what foods are good in what area, regardless of their personal experiences.  And, perhaps, Ryan and I have bought into that. Maybe we really do believe that the best miso ramen is in Sapporo, and the best tskemen is in Tokyo.  And, maybe we really do believe that to 'experience' Japan, we have to eat all of these foods from all of these different places, and do all these things in all these different places. 

Or, maybe we don't leave Japan because we're not ready.  Maybe we feel like we haven't yet caught the Japan we were hoping for, and visiting some other country for vacation would be an acknowledgment of our failure.  After all, if we love Japan so much, why should we want to leave?  

When I first found out, back in New York about a year and three months ago, that Iwate would be my home, I looked forward to getting away from everything familiar and starting over.  As one of the most rural prefectures in Japan, I envisioned, however misguided I might have been even at the time, dark nights in a house with no other houses around.  I saw myself reading and writing and studying and retreating from people.  At the same time I was nervous about withdrawal from society but also relishing the cliche, semi-romantic hermetic lifestyle.  I quickly found out how wrong I was.  Delivered to my city of 100,000 people, two gigantic malls, a movie theater, a train station (bullet train included) connecting me easily to any major city, and even an amusement area called 'American World,' complete with batting cages, movie rental store, Baskin Robbins and a ferris wheel, my nights and weekends have been anything but monastic.  This schism between my expectations of a quiet and disconnected lifestyle and the reality of my actual lifestyle, which is scarcely discernible from the one I had hoped to leave in America, readily affects my travel plans.  It's almost like my life is too good, and too comfortable here.  My seamless transition has left me wanting more of a challenge.

Perhaps that's why, when my parents came to visit, I dragged them to a town in the middle of nowhere to see some run-down temples that we had to walk quite a ways for.  I didn't want to see the giant, touristy temples of Kyoto.  I wanted to find something tiny and secluded, something I could call my own discovery. 

Perhaps that's why, for this summer vacation, Ryan and I decided to disregard standard JET policy and travel against the current.  We chose a place that prompted people, Japanese and foreign alike, to exclaim, 'What?  Why?!' when we told them of our plans.  We chose a place whose name's pronunciation sounds the same as 'I don't know.'  We went to the northern-most point of Hokkaido, the most sparsely populated island of Japan, and then went even further. We went to Wakkanai.

To get to Wakkanai, we travelled through Sapporo.  Sapporo is a fantastic city, and not small by any means.  The first day there, we met up with a college friend of mine who is also on the JET program.  The whole weekend, unbeknownst to us, was Sapporo's summer festival weekend. We ate, drank, and were generally merry.  There's no real reason to bore you with those experiences, since that was standard city party stuff: karaoke, an all you can eat/drink lamb buffet, outside festival with dancing and singing competitions, playing guitar in the grass with a Japanese blues man, and meeting other foreigners and walking loudly through the streets.  So, I'll just show a couple pictures of that part of the vacation, collect my thoughts, and get into the meat of the vacation - Wakkanai - in the next installment.

In fact, this is all that you need to know about Sapporo.

The next two pictures are of the famous canal in Otaru, which is a city about forty-five minutes by train west of Sapporo.  There is a lot of European architecture along the canal, like the gas lamps that line the canal.  The canal was nice, although a little too romantic for Ryan and my tastes.  We had to do something manly after walking the length of the 'darling canal' together. We hung sheet rock and drank a beer.  

This is not baseball

健太郎　川原 was born in the remote hills of Hokkaido, hidden from people and tucked away, alone with his parents. It was there, in his little bubble of forest, that he played amongst nature all day: catching fish, chasing frogs, making spears and fishing lines from whatever it is that people make those things from. He learned to be quick like a fox, fearless like a serow, and alert as an owl. He had to be, because nature never lets you win like your parents might have when you were younger. You can’t reset the game and try it on an easier setting, or put in a code and skip to the final boss. Falling rocks don’t apologize like a popped collared tennis instructor might after he accidentally pelts you with a soft, fuzzy green ball. 川原 learned, emphatically, that everything that is done must be done at a frenzied pitch of concentration and focus. One misstep in the woods and you don’t eat for a night, or you break your ankle, or worse yet, you get lost and eaten by a ravenous wolf-deer. When川原 finally emerged from his bubble of forest to go to middle school, scarred, pocked, and with more than a few wolf-deer carcasses to his name, he needed something to throw himself into day and night; he needed to find a home for his unbridled energy. He found baseball.

出礼久 was born on an urban hill, in one of the most un-remote cities in the world, hidden from people because there were so many others to look at, alone with his parents. It was there, in the greatest city in the world, that he played in the concrete jungle all day: catching trains, chasing ice cream trucks, making super-soakers that shot ketchup and staying cool during summers with video games and ice cream. He lived in a bubble of protection, never believing that anything bad would happen to him, probably because nothing bad ever did. His parents let him win games when he was younger just like he lets kids win against him now. He learned that life is a series of games, and you choose which ones to play hard, and which ones to take it easy for. In fact, he learned that in some games you don’t have to play your hardest to win; as long as you won, that was what was important. He needed something that was elegant and difficult, yet didn’t demand too much of him at every second. He found baseball.

健太郎　川原 and 出礼久, improbable and impossible though it may seem, found themselves coaching the same baseball team. They often talked.

出礼久: Why isn’t Miyamoto pitching the first game of the single elimination tournament? Shouldn’t our ace pitcher pitch a game that we have to win?
川原: But in the bullpen two days ago, his control wasn’t very good and he wasn’t throwing as hard as he usually does.
出礼久: That’s because it was a practice bullpen session. He was working on his form.
川原: Yes, but he wasn’t working on it hard enough. It didn’t look like his usual form. He looked like he was taking it a little easy.
出礼久: He was taking it a little easy!
川原: Exactly.
出礼久: Right….exactly. We agree.
川原: Yes, we do.
出礼久: So, he will pitch tomorrow, then?
川原: No.

川原: What a great game that was, wasn’t it 出礼久?
出礼久: I thought parts of it at the beginning were very good. But it took a long time for us to score 31 runs, and it was hot outside. I am very sun burnt.
川原: The team tried their hardest! And the other team looked a little dejected after the fourth inning.
出礼久: Well, I think that’s because they were losing 16-0.
川原: I hope they learned their lesson, though.
出礼久: What do you mean? They only had ten people, and one pitcher. They had to borrow two players from the basketball team just to have enough to play.
川原: But their body language was awful.
出礼久: Did we really have to keep stealing bases after it was 25-0?
川原: Yes, it’s our job to run, and it’s the catcher’s job to throw us out.
出礼久: I don’t think the catcher had ever played baseball before. And, did you forget that it was 31-0?
…

Of course, not every Japanese high school baseball manager was raised in the forest, but for the most part, the teams seem to play that way. Every team that I have seen, and it has been quite a few now, is polished in terms of the extraneous, non game-related matters. The water coolers are always filled. After the 5th inning, both teams sprint onto the field with rakes to sweep and tend. Foul balls that leave the playing field are retrieved almost immediately by the first year students who are waiting by the exit gates in track-like starting positions. Everyone bows to umpires, everyone screams encouragement through the entire game, be it a 3-2 thriller or a 31-0, heat stroke inspiring epic. Every batter runs out every hit ball. I have noticed, on my team, that if a batter makes an out and has to return to the far dugout, he never runs in front of the other team’s infielders. He either curls back around through foul territory, or runs a lap around the outfield shallows. Bats and helmets are dutifully collected and re-racked, first base and third base are both coached by players who relay signs from the dugout. Umpires never have to ask for more baseballs, or water. In the unlikely event that the visiting team retrieves a foul ball and gives it back to the young home team retrievers, the bow given in exchange for the ball is deep and sincere. Everyone has a responsibility. And, as far as I can tell, everyone views their responsibilities as equal to any other responsibility, including the players who are responsible for playing the actual game on a given day. Running after foul balls is a position just like shortstop is.

The term I used earlier, ‘extraneous, non game-related matters,’ I have come to realize, is my bias. On my high school team, no one wanted to get the water for the starters. No one wanted to chase foul balls because it meant you weren’t part of the game. You were extra. You yourself were extraneous, a servant for the people with more talent. Everyone fought, tooth and nail, for playing time. But, in Japanese high school baseball, just being on the team and being at the game is playing time.

Japanese high school baseball is more like a way of life for three years than a club. The baseball team, even if it is not a very strong team compared to other teams (like at my school), is above the other clubs. They practice everyday, without fail. Baseball practice, of course, includes studying for school classes. While other teams get days off to study where they like and how they like, or just take a day off, the baseball team comes to school and sits in a room and studies together. The captain of the baseball team is the appointed ‘spokesman’ for assemblies and functions, such as greeting a new principal or closing and opening school ceremonies. Only the baseball team gets 応援, or cheering. Before the big summer tournament, entire schools gather in their stifling gymnasiums and practice cheers for two hours every day for a week. They sing the school song, they rehearse scripted cheers and dances, and they learn player specific cheers for each player who might be in the starting lineup that day. These cheers are all written on paper and expected to be memorized before the big game.

And there in lies the difference. High school baseball in Japan is a ‘big game’ sport, just like American football. In fact, it is more so. There is no regular season in Japanese high school baseball. There are two tournaments a year, each one being single elimination. All the other games that are played, and there are plenty of practice games (believe me), mean nothing. Every baseball team gets put into its prefecture’s tournament at random, without seeds or regard for won-lost records. This is why 川原 demands his team to be ever on high alert. With only one game deciding their entire season, he can’t afford for his players to have a let down in intensity and effort during that one game. They have to learn how to turn themselves on, even if the weather is bad or something happened in their lives that has nothing to do with baseball. They need to learn to forget about what they are feeling and do what they were programmed to do: catch grounders, chase foul balls, make plays, fill water coolers, and lay down bunts. One misstep and the entire season is for naught. It’s really quite startling to realize that half of all high school baseball students in Japan play (in American terms) one game seasons.

While I can see where 川原 is coming from, I don’t agree with it. I believe that in playing each game and practice at a fevered, constructed pitch, he dilutes the intensity of the games which are intrinsically more special. And, in teaching them to forget about the moment and focus on the physical aspects of the game, he robs them of enjoying a truly special game. A high school game with friends, teachers, and classmates watching (because they all are bussed to the stadium, even if it is 3 hours away) is a memory forever, unless a player is too afraid of making a mistake or too focused on thinking about getting water. Baseball is a game, not a way of life.

Where exactly I fit in on this baseball team has always been a tight rope act. I preach not over-throwing, staying within yourself, it’s a long season type things. I generally handle the pitchers, because K was not a pitcher and so does defer to me on pitching things. I help with mechanics and ‘being a pitcher.’ The biggest thing I am trying to teach is the concept of ‘adjusting.’ The pitchers just don’t seem to do that. They will keep on throwing the same pitch in the same spot, in the same sequence, because that is how they were taught to do it. They really believe that there is some flaw in them that makes their outside slider always get hit to right field. If, somehow, they ‘do it’ better, they will get better results, they think. I try to teach them to look at their results, and then make decisions from there. If their slider always gets hit after a fastball, they probably shouldn’t do that anymore. It’s possible that the ‘perfect game plan’ doesn’t work for them, and they need to find their own. You ‘win’ by looking at the results you get and changing or not changing. But, maybe winning isn’t everything.

川原: This is not baseball.
出礼久: What do you mean?
川原: This is 野球.
出礼久: Isn’t that just the Japanese word for baseball?
川原: No, they are different games.
出礼久: But the rules are exactly the same.
川原: There is more to a game than the rules.
出礼久: That doesn’t make any sense. A game is nothing more than a set of rules.
川原: Is a painting just colors?
出礼久: There is no ‘winning’ in painting.
川原: Should a painter paint for himself, or for others?

(After laying off a slider in the dirt, Kousuke cracks the next pitch, an outside fastball, to right field for a line drive single over the right fielder.)

出礼久: That was beautiful.
川原: Yeah, it sure as. Nice batting.

What I came up with on my first day of summer vacation

There was a man who went to work, dah dah dum, dah dah dum, dah dah dum dum dum. He sat at his desk and waited to be busy, organizing papers and fighting lazy. The kids never came and the rain never stopped so he didn’t go outside and just sat at his desk. Dah dah dum, dah dah dum, dah dah dum dum dum.

Lonely goes slowly when you’re the only office employee not laughing at jokes. The clock refused to go any faster than once round a minute no matter how often he looked at it. Twelve o’clock was eating time. Eat earlier than twelve, and he would finish earlier than 12:30, leaving way too much day. Eat later than 12, and his stomach’s protests would grow too obstreperous. (He found that word one day when he ate earlier than 12 and had too much day left. It was the word of the day on May 28th, 2001. It’s a synonym for vociferous, which itself was word of the day on December 24th, 1999.) Eat exactly at 12, and he would leave himself with the best possible balance of boredom and hunger. Mind you, this number was not an arbitrary choice based on changeable fickles of human comfort or faulty perceptions of impressionable and gullible sensory organs. Twelve o’clock was a rigorously proved, fundamentally deterministic and solid result of three days during Winter Vacation when he solved a two variable max/min calculus problem, taking two days to relearn calculus in the process. The office didn’t mind. He told them that the funky symbols, like ‘∮,’ were advanced English that he was studying for the benefit of the students. 　This one means, ‘cycle,’ he had said. '∮∮' means ‘bicycle,’ and '∮∮∮' means ‘cat.’ The English teachers’ responses were panegyrical. (Has not been word of the day yet.) After all, he was an English expert.

When he questioned his superiors about what to do with his apparent windfall of time, they said, ‘If you get bored, just ask for something to do.’ So, five minutes later, he asked. They said, ‘Oh. Ask again later.’

Keyboards clicked, feet shuffled, people puzzled, writers wrote, phones rang, wringers wrung, rings rang, runners ran, principled principals planned practical things, and all the while, the lonely assistant English teacher pondered how much more interesting the world would be if dolphins had thumbs. (Dolphins are one of four known species to be able to recognize themselves in mirrors.)

He imagined a world where the sea was not mankind’s swimming pool. A world where going tuna fishing was like trying to steal diamonds from a museum because the dolphins were amassed and waiting to protect their treasures. Of course Japan would be the most affected, what with their love of tuna and precarious position as an island nation surrounded by disgruntled, thumbed warrior dolphins. The war would start there. The first round would be an easy victory for the dolphins. The Japanese, with their superiority-over-dolphins complex, would simply march out to sea in regular boats armed with harpoons and the like. All the dolphins would need to do was swim under the hulls and unscrew the screws holding the ship together. Underwater ambidextrousness in the wrong hands is a powerful tool, the dolphins would teach the Japanese.

Round two would be a much fairer fight, with ship screws facing inward. And so the fighting would go for years and years, through ebbs and tides, with control flip-flopping like a dolphin out of water between the sides. During a lull in the action, the dolphins would demand prisoner release under the context that their flippered brethren were taken during peace-time and thus not able to be held under the Geneva Conventions. In addition, the public humiliation and torture of jumping through hoops for the sadistic pleasure of regular citizens who had nothing to do with the war furthered their case for immediate prisoner release, the dolphins argued. The Japanese prime minister quipped that if the dolphins could get to land-locked Geneva they were more than welcome to ‘have their fish back.’ Shortly after, the Great Dolphin Offensive of 2015 began.

It wasn’t just the boredom that was boring into the lonely ALT. It was also the weather. Muggy and humid, it made sitting still miserable. To combat the sweat and the heat, he found that he had to shut his mind completely off. If he let the calculus and kanji in, he’d also have to let the misery of each moment in along with it. The fundamental theorem of calculus smells like old wood, chalk, and Lilla’s hair, while 結婚 (marriage) smells like sweat and natto. (Miura Sensei was enjoying a particularly viscous batch of the stuff during lunch while the lonely ALT studied that kanji.) The knowledge is never separate from the moment it is acquired.
But shutting off the brain, even for a little while, is a dangerous game to play. Yes, it provides a reprieve from the physical environment, making the uncomfortable moments more bearable, but it also lets the body know that it don’t need to use the brain all the time to get through life.
There was once a man who went to work, dah dah dum, dah dah dum, dah dah dum dum dum. But today, he decided to talk more, rather than sit at his desk with his own thoughts, which were getting confused and jumbled. He struck up a conversation with an older teacher to his left, one whom he had not talked with much. In fact, he never really had seen her talk to anyone. She looked away slowly from her laptop. ‘I said, it’s a little hot today, isn’t it,’ he said.
‘Wouldn’t it be crazy if ∮∮∮s had thumbs? Oh! I’m sorry I can’t talk more now. It just turned 12 and I have to eat lunch.’

A Few From the Back Wall - Part III

A little bit of smut

The board was set. Food textures ran across the top, and food tastes ran down the left side, leaving a blank grid in the middle. That was where the learning lived. One by one, students came up and wrote a food in a suitable crossing. The cold and sweet square practically begged out loud for ice cream. It got it. Crunchy and salty? That’s a potato chip my friends. How about crunchy and sweet?
Sweet little Kanae had an idea. Usually a bit shy, she raised her hand because she figured she had this one nailed. Slowly and meekly she made her way to the front board. Looking down the whole time at her ordinary black shoes that covered her pigeon toed、yet common, strides, so that her face was blocked by her ordinary black hair, you could see her mind begging people to stop looking at her. She asked me if it was ok to write wherever she wanted. She asked in Japanese, of course. To sweet little Kanae, speaking English was nodding her head yes or no to an English question, even if the question was something like, ‘What is your name?’ I figured, since she had already overcome two fears, that of public walking, and public Japanese speaking, I’d let her get away with the English speaking.
After deciding for two minutes which color marker to use, she furiously contemplated whether she should remove the cap and put it on the back of the marker, remove the cap and put down in the little tray at the bottom of the board, or remove the cap and hold it in her left hand. She decided to hold on to it, probably so that her left hand wouldn’t have to make up something else to do.
‘So Kanae, what food did you pick for crunchy and sweet?’ I asked. She nodded: yes. But, she nodded in response very quickly. Indeed, her English was growing in leaps and bounds.
Slowly, steadily, she traced out the letter ‘c,’ with the patience and concentration of a heart surgeon. I gave her all the time she needed. After all, she was making sense. To her, the English language is nothing but squiggles and sounds, a code to hide a Japanese word. It doesn’t mean anything by itself.
Candy? Cake? Cookies? What was she going for? She moved her entire body one miniscule step over to the right so that her elbow could remain tucked firmly against her side as she wrote. She drew a circle. Except, in English, that means ‘O.’ Cookie! She was going to write ‘cookie.’ Cookies are definitely crunchy and sweet. Great job Kanae! She began to draw another circle. But this time, she left it open. In English, that means ‘C.’ So, on the board we had: C-O-C. C-O-C? That looks like brewing trouble. I was frozen though, because these squiggles and symbols, while meaningless to sweet little Kanae, have an intrinsic and instant power over me. She froze me deeper by writing a ‘K.’ All she needed to do was write one more letter, any letter, and the freeze would be broken. But, she finished. And there it was on the board. ‘COCK.’
Sweet little Kanae stepped away to look at it. She cocked her head slightly to one side. She knew that the symbols didn’t make sense. The code was broken. So, she went back to her desk to consult her codebook and fix it. As she pored over her dictionary, I started to laugh. Not a giggle, or a chortle, or even a snicker. This was a full body laugh, enough to draw the attention of everyone. Seeing my amusement, of course, every student jumped to their codebook to decipher the joy for themselves. Thank goodness they agreed with me that calling a male chicken crunchy and sweet is indeed as funny as I made it out to be. And thank goodness sweet little Kanae remembered how to spell ‘cookie.’
Later on, I told my friend Eric about what had happened. He asked me, ‘Well, which way did you fix it?’ I told him I didn’t know what he meant. He sighed, exasperated, ‘did you change the spelling to ‘cookie’ or did you move it to hard and salty?’

A Few From the Back Wall - Part II

Why are Japanese students so shy?

Earlier this year, Megumi Sensei took two weeks off to go to France on her honeymoon. In an effort not to burden any of her Japanese colleagues with teaching more classes, she of course asked me to substitute all her classes. And I did. Being in a classroom is much more fun than sitting blankly at a desk, surfing the internet, or memorizing Japanese kanji. Also, I really like being in the classroom without a JTE. I don’t have to worry so much about ‘being professional’ and I can go a little off the main drag. I have brought balloons, giant dice, a football, and a penguin costume, (that was a fun class) among other things, to the classroom. Also, the students are forced to use English because there is no JTE safety net waiting to translate what I say. And I can be very patient waiting for an answer. Unfortunately, there are a few classes that are just so astoundingly, extraordinarily, handi-cappingly shy, that they say absolutely nothing. They do not laugh at jokes. They do not speak, even when directly spoken to. They never respond to English instructions, and they only respond to Japanese instructions on average the fifth time. But, they will write everything that I have written on the blackboard and everything that they can understand me say. They really are the stereotypically shy, smart, studious kid. And I know it’s not entirely my fault because I generally will have success using the same formula with a different class.
One of Megumi Sensei’s classes is in fact one such class. Yes, ladies and gentleman, homeroom 2-4 is what one would call a ‘tough crowd.’ I heard that the previous ALT actually pulled a rabbit out of a hat with real magic and got no reaction. Frustrated, he fabricated a gun and shot it. The girl in the front row calmly wiped the rabbit blood off her face before taking notes on the occurrence that had just occurred. I can’t prove that’s true, however. She won’t let me see her notebook.
I dove into the worksheet that Megumi Sensei had prepared. It was a pronunciation worksheet. For example, is the ‘a’ in ‘apple’ the same as the ‘a’ in ‘alcohol’ or ‘abuse’? But first, we started with word stress practice. The instructions were written in Japanese, so I had to translate it myself. Goodness knows this class wouldn’t do it for me because that would probably involve one of them having to speak alone. There were four words to each question, and one of the words would not have the same pronunciation stress as the others. For example…

1. performance 2. enhancing 3. narcotic 4. rocket 1

Now, of course, this was not a real example from the worksheet but simply words plucked completely at random from the dictionary, or an ESPN article about Roger Clemens. You can see that answer choice 4 is the correct one. Choices 1, 2, and 3 are all stressed on their second syllables, while 4 leads with the stress. One loose end I had unfortunately not tied up before class had started was the number aloofly hanging out over to the right. In the example above, it is the number 1. And each example had a number over there, from 1 to 4, with 4 being very rare. I mused to myself ‘what could it be?’ but concluded that it didn’t matter. I had read the instructions, in Japanese, and not found any mention of this right-tending number. Oh well. Time to start the sheet in earnest with the students.
The first few examples went along swimmingly. The students said nothing and wrote a lot without even looking up. I assumed they were learning. Then, an unexpected snag hit. I couldn’t find a correct answer to question 4. Example:

1. japanese 2. language 3. illiterate 4. flounders 2

Ok, let’s stress this out. jap / a / NESE, 3. LANG / uage, 1. ill / LIT / er / ate, 2. FLOUN / ders, 1. So, which number, amongst 1,1,2, and 3, is not like the others? Well, that’s a tough one, isn’t it. So, I did what any American would do when confronted with a question about his language that he can’t answer. I blamed the British. ‘Well kids. What we have here is a classic example of differences between American English and British English. So…let’s see… Got it. The British say JAPanese instead of japaNESE. That means ‘illiterate’ is the answer. This must be an English textbook from Britain.’ It wasn’t. But, I had an answer sheet which confirmed that the correct answer was indeed ‘illiterate,’ so I confidently trampled on, still quite oblivious to that little number on the right that was just hanging out. Unfortunately, I kept running into words that ‘British people pronounced differently.’ Some were quite shocking to me, really. Who knew that British people say rulER instead of RUler? Or herOine instead of HERoine? I was beginning to wonder how I ever understood anything a British person said! To get an answer that matched the answer key, I had to make some extraordinary gashes in the English language, all while bullshitting my way to an answer. And the kids just kept on writing whatever I said. They drew my chart, which separated English words like MOtorcycle (American English) and motorCYcle (apparently British English). They drew my map of the United States, where I drew a line between the North and the South and wrote the word DInosaur in the northern half and the word dinoSAUR in the southern half. And I was on a roll, writing bullshit faster than I could think it, and the kids kept up with me the whole time, silently and unknowingly perpetuating enormous lies, while simultaneously reinforcing the need for more English competency tests for JET applicants.
Of course, as soon as the ending bell snapped the feverish and preposterous mindset I was in, I realized the craziness of what I had just done. I mean, I was a step from telling these kids that you say HElicopter in the Spring and Summer if its flying, heLIcopter if it isn’t, heliCOPter at all other times, and helicopTER in the very special case that the word preceding it is a gerund, with no regard for season or semi-annual precipitation averages.
As you probably have already realized, the number hanging out to the right is essentially the entire question. A number 2 signifies that the student should look for a word with second syllable stress. It has nothing to do with comparing the answer choices to one other. That’s why example 1, from above, and the first three questions yielded answers in step with the answer sheet. The wrong answer choices all coincidentally had the same syllable accent, which of course can not match the number to the right. My troubles came when I had to force three words with very different syllable stressings to all have the same stress so that there could be one unique, ‘correct’ answer.
Yes, I was blinded by arrogance thinking it impossible that I translated the directions incorrectly. Yes, I still don’t know where I got some of my intellectual leaps from (who would ever say motorCYcle?). Yes, I should not have continually tried to fit a square block into a circular hole. Yes, I should not have relied on an answer sheet when I knew, with almost certain certainty, that it was leading me astray. I definitely learned a lot that day. Unfortunately, I don’t think the students did. And I’m not talking about their English. I realized later, and Megumi Sensei confirmed it, that this class has been doing a sheet like this every week for the entire year, and probably the year before when they were freshmen. Plus, the instructions were in Japanese. They knew the instructions, and knew that what I was doing was entirely wrong. But no one said anything at all for 50 minutes. They just sat there, silently, watching me waste 50 minutes of their lives. And what’s more, they copied it all down. When Megumi Sensei asked them about it in the next class, they were speechless. Shocking.

A few from the Back Wall

I generally don't watch or read weather forecasts for Iwate because I generally don't watch news programs or read Japanese newspapers. I rely, instead, on other people. I ask my students or co workers what the weather will be like for the day, or I look at what other people are wearing and doing. You see, the only thing I really care about is whether or not it will snow. That dictates whether I will venture into town or whether I will hole up and hide away in my apartment for the night. When the windshield wipers on the teachers' cars are lifted off the glass and hanging out in the air, I have a pretty good idea that it will snow later. When the students' bike lot is relatively bare in the morning, meaning they used some other transportation (parents' cars or the bus) to get to school, I have a good idea that it will snow a lot later, because these kids bike through almost anything. So, you can imagine that my decision to stay in tonight was rendered academic when two students swished past me this morning on cross country skis. So here I am, cozied up in my one heated room, sitting on a tatami mat drinking hot tea. It's been snowing continuously all day and it just continues to pile up. Outside is bright with snow, and I'm very happy I'm in here and not out there. So, I thought I'd use this down time to write about a few old funny teachering stories before I forget them. Of course there is action, adventure, cultural misunderstandings, language barriers, and even some good old fashioned smut. This is the first one.

1. B and V really do sound alike to some Japanese people.

"There once was a man named Jack. Jack was not a very nice man. He was a thief. He stole things from people," I started. It was Halloween, and I was telling my students the Halloween story of Jack o' the Lantern. It couldn't have started any better. Outside was dark from rain, and the lights in the classroom were off. I had a flashlight tucked under my chin pointing upwards, goulishy highlighting my features. My voice was low and my rhythm slow and deliberate. "Even though Jack was a very bad man, he was a very, very smart man. Every night Jack would wander the country looking for people to steal from. And he would steal anything that he could. Food, clothes, and especially money." When I wasn't speaking you could hear a pin drop. Miku, one of the girls in the front, looked scared already and I hadn't even gotten to the scary part. This was going to be great!
"One dark, rainy night, a lot like this night, as a matter of fact, Jack was wandering..." I acted out a creeping sort of walk, "when he met..." Here it was, the line I was looking to sell. "THE DEVIL!" I threw my flashlight onto Kanno Sensei.
Laughs. Laughs? Why were people laughing. Just a few at first, then some more giggles that had tried to be hushed but failed.
"HE MET THE DEVIL!" and I pointed at Kanno Sensei. I was still into the story. I was acting! The entire room broke out in laughter.
Confused, I pointed at her and said, "She is the Devil. Devil," I was still pointing at her, but now with significantly less conviction. There wasn't a serious face or a dry eye in the classroom. They were all laughing hysterically, having given up the pretense of giggles. Even Kanno Sensei was chuckling. I was still at a loss.
"She is the Devil," I tried feebly, but it just made the roar of laughter louder. I just stood there. What else could I do? When the laughing died down, and the room was full of gasps as the kids tried to catch their breaths, I tried one last time. "Devil?" I questioned as I pointed at Kanno Sensei. The room exploded again.

You see, my pronunciation of 'devil' is more like 'devull,' with the l sound trailing off. Add that to the fact that some Japanese people without much English experience, and my students definitely fall into that category, can't tell the difference between 'b' and'v', like in 'berry' and 'very,' and my 'devil' sounds a lot like 'debu'. 'Debu' just so happens to be a slang and derogatory word for 'fat.' Of course it is, with my luck... Put all those coincidences in the mixer and out comes me calling Kanno Sensei, who is on the plus side to say the least, 'fat', five to seven times. And three of those times were with tremendous passion and conviction. The story limped to an end. Horror had turned tragically into comedy.

I Still Know What You Did Last Non-burnable Trash Day

If the American movie, ‘I still know what you did last summer,’ were released in Japan, the word ‘summer’ would have to be replaced by ‘non-burnable trash day.’ Only this change would fully complete the translation and convey the correct feeling to Japanese audiences. You see, in Japan, summer time is not beach time with friends, or happy time with a summer fling, or vacation time with family, or even missing school time. Summer is just a really hot version of winter. Everyone does exactly the same thing that they always do: go to work or school, then go straight home and hide from the weather outside. In fact, the only concrete reason I knew we had changed from summer to winter was because my electricity bill went way down as I stopped using my fans and my oil bill went way up as I started using my heater. Were I to use an electric heater, I’d have no idea whatsoever what season it was from inside my apartment.
Now, there is a summer vacation for students, but the kids all come to school anyway! The only difference is that instead of going to academic classes, they go to club classes. I refer to them as club classes and not sports clubs or club activities because the latter expressions sound like fun. These club classes, for most (and especially sports teams), are hours and hours of drilling, training, and militant style workouts. Plus, the weather is oppressively humid. In fact, the expression that is least heard in Japan, right behind, ‘Hey, did you know that too much iodine from fish in your diet is bad for you?’ is ‘Boy, I can’t wait ‘till its summer.’
And that’s why the title of the movie, ‘I still know what you did last summer,’ just wouldn’t make sense in Japan. Summer isn’t special like it is in America. The Japanese would all wonder why the movie wasn’t more simply called, ‘I still know what you did last time.’
But, there is most certainly a special time in Japan, something that definitively marks the weeks and months as people eagerly anticipate it. It is called ‘Non-burnable trash day.’

When I first arrived at my new apartment in Japan, Megumi Sensei gave me a large calendar poster as a housewarming gift. It was a trash collection schedule poster, with no pictures but instead every day of every month mechanically written out and diagrammed. It looked like a textbook. She was absolutely beaming when she gave it to me. Apparently she thought of it as my home’s new Pièce de Résistance. I said, ‘Wow Megumi Sensei. You really shouldn’t have.’ I was about to put it on my couch, so that later I could put it in my closet. At that time, I still did not understand the power of this poster. She grabbed my shoulder, rather forcefully for someone of her slight build and passive demeanor.
‘No. Give it to me.’ No please. She immediately produced exactly four tacks from a compartment in her purse that had contained exactly four tacks. In one swift motion the poster was on a wall which faced my entrance door. It was, and still remains, placed in a position that I can never ever not see it if I am leaving or entering my house.
To be polite, I sidled over to the poster and gave it a courteous and curt once over. ‘Hmmm. Let me see… So, the red boxes mean regular trash. What is regular trash?’
‘Anything you can burn.’
‘And what can y-‘
‘Tissues, non-reusable chopsticks, food or other undesired organic material, items with food stains that cannot be washed off, soiled hygiene products, and more things of that ilk.’
‘I see,’ I said, pausing for a few seconds while I tried to understand what had just happened. Megumi Sensei’s English is great, but she still says things like ‘What do you doing today?’ And now, she had just thrown the phrase ‘other undesired organic material’ at me, quickly and flawlessly. I turned back to the poster. ‘And that happens every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And the blue circle, that’s big items that can’t be burned. Ok. Every Monday. Great. Thanks Meg, think I got the basics.’ I turned to leave but she was blocking my way. Apparently there was more. Oh yes, there was so much more.
There it was, easily unnoticed by my untrained eye. Every other Tuesday had a little green star silhouetting the date. ‘Oh. What’s that?’
‘That,’ she paused. Was there a tear in her eye? ‘That, is non-burnable recyclable day.’

In Japan, recycling is a big deal. I have counted ten different places to put my trash. One, burnable stuff, including the aforementioned undesired organic material. Two, big stuff that you can’t burn, like old toasters. Three, plastics. Four, plastic bottles. Five, newspapers. Six, cans. Seven, other papers. Eight, Cartons. Nine, batteries. Ten, glass bottles. There might be more. Unfortunately I’m still just a level one recycler. After a formal request, and with the permission of both my principals, vice principals, supervisor, city and prefectural boards of education, emperor, and Ichiro, I might be able to enter the training program that will grant me level two status in 2011. Megumi Sensei is a level two recycler. She makes her own paper from old avocado skins and battery acid, as well as gasoline for her car. My principal is a level four recycler. He replaced his transmission and windows using two old VCR’s, an old tatami mat, fourteen tin cans, a pound of lint from the dryer, and three weeks worth of hair from the bathroom sink drain. But, that’s stuff is all textbook. Level five recyclers write the textbooks.
Even level one is a burden heavier than I am used to carrying, however. Back in Virginia, there were two options for trash. One, the forest. Two, a big black bag. In New York, when I finished a carton of milk and a Snickers bar, I had a one in four chance of recycling each item correctly. And of course, I never did. My parents, thankfully, were there to show me the errors of my ways, and they did so enthusiastically and often. But here, I am all alone. I thought about simply introducing 'Virginia style-trash collection' to Japan. After all, part of my job description as a JET is to 'bring aspects of [American] culture and life not only to [my] school but also to [my] community.' This seemed like the perfect opportunity to start. Unfortunately, people in Japan who do not recycle are marked. If a bag of burnable trash contains, for instance, a can of sardines, or a plastic soda bottle, it is placed back in front of your door with a giant red X on it, for all to see. The creepy thing is that everyone in the neighborhood brings their trash to a communal center, so, somehow they know which bag of trash belongs to which person. This is not a joke or exaggeration. Another ALT, the unmatchable Ryan Sensei, accidentally (maybe) put some paper in his regular burnable trash. Yes, of course paper can be burned, but it can also be recycled! Who knew? The next day, his bag of trash was back in front of his door, marked for all to see his shame. In fact, someone had opened his trash, found the paper, found his name on the paper, and brought it back to him. Then, they called his school and talked to the principal. The principal, with translation help, gave Ryan a stern talking to and made him apologize. THIS IS NOT A JOKE. At least with a red letter A you have some fun earning it.
So, you see, I have no choice but to divide my kitchen floor into ten distinct zones in order to dispose of my trash. Now, the significance of trash day is that it comes only once every two Tuesdays. Thus, eight of my zones can not be purged but for once every two weeks. By Day 10, my kitchen floor is almost un-navigable, and it makes me and any company I might have over very irritable. The following is a dramatic re-enactment.

Matt: Hey Derek, aren’t these jobs we have divine?
Derek: Boy, you can say that again Matt. And this country is just so darling.
Matt: Yes. Everyone is so nice, and I always feel safe. Perchance we may write a sonnet about it.
Derek: Why yes. I think that would be completely apros po.
Matt: Alright. Just let me whisk these eggs for the waffles we are making.
Derek: Sure thing.
Matt: Say, Where do you keep your whisk?
Derek: Oh damn. I dunno. Try in the cabinet.
Matt: But I can’t get to the cabinet because the tower of cans is in my way.
Derek: Well, friggin move it then.
Matt: Where the hell do you want me to move it, jerk off? There’s a sea of plastic to the right and a barrel of smelly ass sardine cans to the left.
Derek: Well, figure something out! Oh! It might be under the newspapers. Just move the batteries to the living room and check under the newspapers.
Matt: No. It’s definitely not there. And the eggs are getting cold!
Derek: F?$# this S!#@.

But, as with anything bad, it makes the good times that much sweeter. And so, on day 14, when that Tuesday rolls back around, and the whole neighborhood has been checking the calendar on their walls every hour to make sure they have the right day, that this isn’t some cruel trick, everyone in my neighborhood has a spring in their step. In fact, I can’t even sleep the night before. It’s just like Christmas. I want to make sure that I don’t miss it. Families emerge from their loaded bunkers with cars full of trash. We all sing as we empty our houses, letting the light back into our living rooms. We tell jokes and horse around as we sort our trash into eight different piles on the street. If it is warm, 11 people spell out G-A-R-B-A-G-E- -D-A-Y on their chests. Next week is my turn to be the D if it is over 40 degrees. My soul is lighter. My classes are loose and fun because I know I am coming home to an empty kitchen. I live for the second and fourth Tuesdays of the month.