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.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
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.
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.
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