MAGIC made easy

“Make a connection.” That’s the first step to MAGIC. At Macy’s, we believe everyone can do MAGIC. MAGIC selling that is. In this introductory video, we’ll take you through each step of the MAGIC selling process. Don’t worry if all this is new to you. Thousands of great MAGIC sellers had their starts in the very chairs you are now sitting in. Are you ready to begin? Fantastic. Here we go.

The M in MAGIC is for… That’s right! You remembered. “Make a connection.” At Macy’s we are committed to service. And service starts with a smile. Always greet the customer in a friendly and calm manner. Exchange names, and let the customer know that you are interested in them as a person. As shopping can be strenuous for some, always exude confidence and let the customer know that you are there for them in whatever capacity they need.

“Hello ma’am. Is there anything I can help you with today?”

“Um, yeah. You see that mannequin over there? I really like that coat on him. Do you have that in a medium for my husband?” Excellent. I know exactly what she wants, and I know whom she’s buying for. I am totally making a connection right now. Crap! I forgot to exchange names.

“My name is Derek.”

“Ok… do you have the coat or not?”

“Yes, yes! Of course we do. It’s here somewhere. It’s just that our stock people changed around the whole place yesterday. So, I’m all messed up.” Truthfully, I don’t know if we have stock people. Even if we do, they definitely didn’t change anything around since yesterday. I just don’t know where anything is. But I can’t let her know that. I’ve got to show her that I’m still on top of everything. “You wait right there, and I’ll be back with that large in just a second.”

“Medium! You need to find me a medium.”

“Yes, yes! Of course I do.”

“Ask questions.” The second letter of MAGIC is how you can find out the best way to serve the customer. Use your knowledge to help them find exactly what they are looking for and be sure to listen to their answers.

“Sorry ma’am, did you say XL or L?”

“I said M. Listen. I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, yes! Of course!” I need more time to find this damn coat. I’ve already walked around the entire section and I don’t see it. I see pea coats. I see dress coats with little bits of fur. I see blazers. I see windbreakers. I see solid white bubble jackets. I see solid black bubble jackets. I don’t see dark green, blue-lined, checkered bubble jackets. But now I see my manager Sonam! Oh Sonam, who knows oh so many things, tell me please, “Where do I find that jacket that is out there on that mannequin?”

“Follow me.” We walk to a rack filled with solid white bubble jackets. “These jackets are reversible. Turn it inside out, and you’ll find your dark green, blue-lined, checkered bubble jacket.”

“Give Options, Give Opinions.” The G in MAGIC is exactly what it sounds like. Most customers don’t have a clear picture of exactly what they want. At Macy’s, we encourage our Sales Associates to present them with a variety of options, as well as give them the opinions they need to make a good decision.

“Oh great! You found it. Thanks so much,” she says when she sees me.

“My pleasure. An extra large, just like you wanted.”

“What?”

“Just kidding! It’s a medium. Sorry about the mix-up before,” I say. She’s laughing! I’m really doing it! I just might sell this 200 dollar coat. I have got to keep this momentum rolling. “And, just in case you didn’t realize, this coat is a reversible, so you’re really getting two coats for the price of one.”

“Wow! That’s great!” I turn the coat inside out. Her face drops. “Oh. I don’t know about a white coat for my husband. He’s kind of a slob. It’ll just get dirty, I’m afraid.”

“Ok, then just keep it green all the time.”

“Maybe… Would you do me a favor and try it on. You are about the same size as my husband.” I put the coat on. “What do you think of it?” she asks me.

“I like it very much. But then again, my girlfriend hates the coat I wear now. She won’t even let me buy my next coat without her. Haha!”

“Inspire to buy.” Customers often look to others for confirmation when they are about to make a purchase - especially if the purchase is a present. At Macy’s, we encourage our Sales Associates to help provide the customer with the resolve they need to get what they want. Inspire them!

Now she is not laughing. Did I really just say that? What is wrong with me? I have to say something constructive. What do I know about coats? Boy, I wish I knew something about coats. My dad just bought a coat. “You know, the great thing about Nautica coats is that they are really, really warm. My dad just bought a Marmot coat, and it’s definitely not as warm as this one.”

“Marmot! That was the name! My husband had said something about that brand, and I had totally forgotten the name. Thanks so much! Where did your dad buy his coat?”

“Actually, at Macy’s.”

“Oh, wonderful! Here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to go and look for Marmot coats, but could you take this one and put it on hold for me, just in case?”

“Celebrate the Purchase.” While each step of the MAGIC selling process is important, we at Macy’s believe that the C in MAGIC is the most important. Because a great celebration will be likely to bring them back! Each customer is different, and each Sales Associate is different. There is no right or wrong way to celebrate the purchase. Just make sure you acknowledge the great decision they made, and ask them to come back soon.

She walks into the Nautica section with a giant bag. The word Marmot is on the bag. “When I saw this coat I knew it was exactly what I was looking for. You can take that other one off hold. I won’t be needing it. Again, thank you so much for all your help.”

“My pleasure ma’am.” After she leaves, Sonam laughs.

See how easy it is? At Macy’s, we believe that if you follow the MAGIC selling steps, you too can do magic. Thank you for watching. And thank you for believe in MAGIC.

Oh Wally, you are soooooo obdurate

'Now, don't be afraid. These people are just trying to make some money. They will offer you water. They will offer to carry your bag. They will offer to fan you. They will offer to take pictures of you. They will rub your feet if you need. They will clear branches out of your path. They will lend you a supporting hand up the hill. They will guide you. They are poor people, so, just give them what you feel is appropriate for what they do for you.' Our guide was turned around in his front seat, bumping up and down along with the rocky road. He was explaining the ten or so shawled and bent ladies waiting at the foot of the tree line. In an extraordinary feat of universal providence, and certainly without the aid of astrological calendars, or crystal balls, or enterprising tour guides, (that last one is important!) exactly the same number of old women as tourists in our van were waiting in exactly the right location of the non-marked non-road at exactly the right, unmarked time. How could they have known?! What luck!

'They are from this area. They know the area well, and they are here to help you. Remember to give them what you think is appropriate. If you don't want anything from them, ok. Just give them what is appropriate for what you used.' That said, again, and van stopped, I swung open the side door and leaped out, nearly onto an old woman. Within minutes, they had us separated from one another. We paired off: one unsuspecting, slightly confused young tourist to one coughing, hunched-over, non-English speaking woman. We walked in two lines into the trees. Pushing and shoving an old woman, I tried to jockey for position next to my friend. Looking out for Matt's best interests as his self-proclaimed hike manager, she, however, unfortunately decided I was an inappropriate choice for hike companion.

We hiked up and up, accompanied by the coughs, hacks, wheezing, and labored breathing of the old women who were there to assist us. My guide lost her balance momentarily and almost fell off the path. I steadied her. I wonder if she noted the irony of the situation as I helped her back onto the path. I certainly did. And I also noted the tragedy.

I wanted all these 'guides' to go away. I didn't want this strange lady tugging on my shirt and pointing to shrubs and bushes and trees and saying things in a language I didn't understand. I didn't want to force a smile, a laugh, a thank you. Nowhere in my fantasies of visiting the Great Wall of China am I slipping money into the palm of someone to get them to go away! I just wanted to walk in peace with my own thoughts to a place whose loneliness and grandness have captivated my imagination since I learned of it.

One time, in Japan, I took a tiny local train to a tiny local station in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I walked and walked. The streets got smaller and smaller, the people fewer and fewer, the houses farther apart and the rice fields between them larger. There were no street signs, no vending machines. The sun began to set and I couldn't hear cars or people. I heard birds and bugs. I kept walking. I saw the spire of a temple rise up through the branches of a tree on my right. When I turned on my heel to head for it, the sound of crunching gravel crackled alone in the air. I walked through a gate and to the building's entryway. There was one pair of shoes on the ground. I took mine off and stepped up onto the wood and through the door. I saw a statue of Buddha. He loomed over me. He was wood, and he wasn't polished. He looked so old, so dusty, so comfortable in this little room of his in the middle of nowhere. I didn't see anyone else in the room, and I didn't hear anyone either. Whose shoes were those outside? Who else was here, in the middle of nowhere, with me and the Buddha? I walked to the Buddha.
'Wait please!' My head snapped around to the right. 'That will be 1,000 yen,' said the old wrinkled man in his blue guard uniform.

No. Money would not again taint my feeling of pure discovery. I wouldn't allow it to carelessly relegate my long and wondered journey to 'tourist trap.' I didn't blink when I paid 400 dollars for a flight to China. Nor did I blink when I paid 15 dollars for a van to drive me to the Great Wall, or five dollars to pay the hostel's finder's fee, or the five dollars for lunch. But, if I had to pay just one dollar at the top of that Wall, everything would be ruined. So I ran.

My guide didn't bother to follow. She couldn't. In that moment, no one could have caught me. I was running, and I was free. I put all the people in my group behind me and sprinted upward towards my moment. The base of a Wall tower appeared before me and I climbed up the steps, onto the top of the Wall.





No site or building has ever moved me as much as the Great Wall. It made me feel so small, in both time and space. It is so massive and unmoving and extends as far as the eye can see. How did people build this? The bricks are so old, so worn down. On either side of the wall is green. No roads, no buildings, no cars. Just a wall running and running. Unlike the temples of Japan, which are never more than a stone's throw away from a main city street, or equipped with a money collector, or the shrines and palaces of Beijing, which are completely overrun with people, the Wall allowed me to pause and feel something like history's gravity waves lapping slowly. The solitude and obdurate steadfastness of this monument was astounding. The Wall didn't give a shit about me, I could tell.

It was also the furthest away from home I've felt in my life. Japan resembled America in many ways, and my familiarity with the language and customs made Japan a second home for me. But this was different. Everything about the scenery and the moment screamed, 'Can you believe you are here? Can you believe that you saw this in a textbook years and years ago and now you are HERE?! You are in China!' I was overcome. I touched the rocks, leaned over the side, just stared and stared, and tried to take in everything about that moment. But absolutely everything else came in. Memories of middle school Japanese, high school Japanese, college Japanese, three different home-stay families in Japan, three years living and working in Japan. My life in Asia would be over in a week. I'd have to start over, back in America, so far away. So far away. And still the Wall didn't seem to care.

Intense and beautiful life moment concluded, I walked 15 steps to my left and bought a three dollar beer from a wrinkly old man sitting on a red plastic cooler. I think he was wearing jeans and a Yankees hat.

What Happened When Pigs Flu

‘Attention all teachers. Attention all teachers,’ tinned through every single speaker in Shounan High School, just after the 3d period bell had exhausted itself. ‘Please relocate yourselves to the Teachers’ Room at your earliest convenience which is now.’ The students became jittery. Electricity pulsed through the room. A meeting during the day, between periods, was unheard of. Something big was afoot, and between rumors floated from other schools or hearsay from friends of cousins twice and thrice removed, everyone had the Hope.
The Hope was that we were in a new era of terror and panic, danger and destruction, which, besides bringing society down to its knees, would throw even the farthest rural regions of Iwate back seven hundred years to a time of clans and weapons, hunting and gathering, bands of scoundrels and flocks of vagabonds and gaggles of miscreants, threaten to destroy mankind, and would also cancel school for four days.
‘Derek Teacher! Derek Teacher!’ a pull on my red fleece signaled that I would be escorted by students all the way to the Teachers’ Room. ‘Is it true? Are we going to miss school?’ I feigned ignorance of the Japanese language, even as more appeared as if from nowhere to block my path with questions that I didn’t have answers to. When the beasts want blood, you have to give it to them.
‘Ask Yo Sensei! He’ll know.’ We call that the shovel pass, primarily because you dig your friend’s grave. 14 expensive and well-manicured coiffures snapped to Yo Sensei. And then they were on him. As I ran away I could see the horror on his face turn to rage for just a moment as he looked at me. But, I’d like to think that there was also a hint of respect there. It’s not every day you see the shovel pass executed to such devastating account.
The Teacher’s Room was safe haven. Like vampires who are not invited into a house and thus can not enter, Japanese students are somehow bound by social conditioning force fields. Without a bow and a formal request to enter granted, the students can do nothing but pine and sometimes claw at the door. But we can still hear them outside, scratching, talking, plotting. Even though they can’t enter, we have to leave some time, and they know that. ‘Didn’t you have class with Yo Sensei? Where is he?’ Five pairs of weary teaching eyes turned towards me.
‘It was ugly, but he died with honor.’ Lie.
‘I’m sure he did. He’ll be remembered.’ Lie. The five pairs turned away. The principal was ready to speak. I am no interpreter, and I am no steel trap of remembrance. What follows is what I believe to be a fairly decent, if not subdued, representation of the principal’s speech.
‘Holy shit, you’re all going to fucking die, but I might make it out of here if the helicopters come this far north. The prime minister is already in a bunker under Guam, presumably eating white rice with Mr. Obama, who is eating bread. I humbly received a letter of recommended instructions to be carried out exactly as written from the head of Iwate Prefecture’s Board of Education. Before I get to that, here is what we know so far, from reports that have been coming in from overseas and Tokyo, center of lust and hedonism, but Disney World is cool and so is Mt. Fuji. The debatably worst virus in the world in debatably four years is somehow spreading. Eight weeks ago, some pig had it in Mexico, and now there is a man in Sendai who is reporting that he has it too. Now, get ready to have your minds god-damn blown. This man has never met that Mexican pig. This man didn’t even know where Mexico was. And, the pig had no idea where Sendai was. We asked it.
‘Somehow, mysteriously, in a manner that we understand completely, the virus is passing from person to person invisibly, almost as if we can’t see it. History tells us that there is not a whole lot we can do besides stay calm and weather the storm, but I say that history needs to get its shit together because it’s clearly living in the past.
‘Scientists from many countries, including our own, have confirmed that people who are already sick, or weak, or young, or generally more likely to succumb to illness because of a pre-existing condition are in actuality getting sick at a higher rate than healthy adults. Who would have thought this completely rational explanation would make the slightest amount of sense? But it does, if you stop to think about it for less than a second.
‘Those same scientists have gone on further to outline two courses of action that we can take. First, let the disease sweep through. Only the strong, weak, very weak, obese, healthy, tall, short, light skinned, dark skinned, malnourished, bulimic, anorexic, filthy, poor, rich, middle class, upper middle class, lower middle class, welfare recipients, athletes, singers, songwriters, singer/songwriters, writers, novelists, novellaists, cellists, bellists, and bulls amongst us will survive. It’ll be a trying winter, with fewer bad days than good, but the disease will run its course and go away. The other course of action is to try and confine the disease, that is, rob it of the fuel it needs to consume in order to live and spread, namely our souls. There would be zero tolerance for anyone who shows the slightest hint of the disease, be it imagined, created, contrived, or real. They would be quarantined to save the others. In concrete terms, if even one person in a homeroom class gets it, we send that whole class home for four days. No exceptions. The only options are stifle completely, or accept with caution. The scientists are sure of this.
‘Without any medical training whatsoever, our leaders at the Board of Education have decided to ignore the smart people and take the middle ground of the two extremes, thereby enabling us to use the contradictory and cancelling advantages of both plans simultaneously negating them. That being said, we will establish a rule of 10 percent, and it shall be our Golden Rule. If any homeroom class reaches 10 percent diseased, that entire class will be sent home. Our homerooms are about 40 strong, so if 4 students get the symptoms, the whole class has to go home immediately, to prevent contact with others, by public transportation, probably together with their classmates. In addition, if a grade reaches 10 percent, whether or not all 10 percent come from the homeroom is irrelevant. The whole grade will go home for four days. No exceptions! Well, besides students who have an important test coming up, or besides athletes who have important competitions coming up against schools from big cities where the rate of disease is much higher. In addition, all teachers will remain at school, even if all the students are at home.’
The principal’s speech restored order. We had a plan, and that’s all that really matters. The details of any plan are unimportant next to the significance of having a plan in place. We felt buttressed by the Japanese government, and 8,000 years of tradition, to fight against a force that was not understood until about fifty years ago.

The Hope amongst students continues to grow. They all know about the 10 percent rule, and seem to be rooting for their classmates to catch the disease. I have a feeling that some are actively seeking the disease, but I don’t have the proof yet… I had the good fortune of being in a class when a ‘fourth student’ returned. Even the teacher stopped as Kumi walked in through the door. Kumi lifted her head, smiled, and said, ‘I have the flu.’ I had never been to Mardi Gras in Brazil until I was in homeroom 3-2 on November 20th.
The 10 percent rule is madness to me. Either send everyone home right away, or just let it ride. Splitting the middle will only extend the problem, I think. It’s winter. People get the flu all the time. It’s not a big deal. I had it last week. Yes, that’s right, I had H1N1, the new pig flu. And, if you were a Japanese public school teacher you might be worried about reading something that someone with the flu wrote for fear of transmission. I’ve been to work through a lot worse. I was unimpressed by this strain, but my school made me take off the entire week even though I was literally begging them to let me back early.
Along with the Hope comes the Fear. There is quite a bit of panic in the Iwate school system. Many people are wearing masks, even if they aren’t sick. Three or four day school trips to Kyoto and Tokyo, the high point of many students’ high school careers, are being cancelled because of the fear of entering into an ‘Influenza den.’ Younger teachers who leave Iwate for, god forbid, pleasure, are questioned and sometimes chided by their older colleagues. ‘Are you sure it’s safe to run around Japan at a time like this? Is that really being responsible on your part? What if you bring it back?’ But we all know it’s coming no matter what we do.
We’re not even in the coldest months of the year yet, when people crank the gas heaters that dry out the air which strip your body of its mucus protection. It hasn’t even snowed in Iwate and already people are running for the hills. It’s only going to get worse, or better, if you like comedy, before too long.

First Annual Shiwa Fest 2009

Oh my god, I can't believe you guys missed Shiwa Fest '09! It was the best friggin' one yet! There were all these bands there that totally kicked ass and transcended us into some astral music/love festival bubble thing. The night was forever and gone in the same instant, and I saw dimensions bounded only by their unapproachable limits, the smallest ones doubling as the biggest if only you'd turn your head ever so slightly to the left. Colors and fabrications blew away and all that was left was emotion. I could see emotion. It was this purply kind of velvety sof- wait, not purply, there wasn't any color. It's like I knew it was purple but I couldn't see the color purple. I just wanted to jump into this velvety tasseled road and ride away from it all into the blackness, and I would have, but everybody started dancing and I got bumped back into this. Shiwa Fest is the closest any man has ever come to the beginning of time. Yeah, so what if I was wasted at 5 30 pm on a Sunday? Monday was a day off, Mr. Man, so back up. Plus, we were internationating. It's totally western culture to pound some beers in a public restroom and then internationalize all up on people, Amurrican style. Ughhhh!

Anyway, it started with this guy.

He was 'eh,' at best. He was playin' by himself as people walked in. He probably begged someone just to get on stage, and the headliners probably felt sorry for him. I will say that he played a pretty mean Badfish, and his blues free-style thing wasn't so bad. But he totally messed up that bubbly-toesy Jack Johnson song and stopped halfway through Blackbird. Who does that? He looked nervous. But who wouldn't be, for Shiwa Fest '09, knowing that as soon as he was done the big dogs would come out and totally rock his shit.

Unfortunately, the next band, which was a Japanese lead singer/bassist girl named Azusa (totally cute) and her drummer boyfriend (some American punk) and this wicked awesome Japanese guitarist named Manabu rocked so hard that they actually made an EMP with all their rockage and blew out all the cameras for their three song Hawaiian 6 cover set. Moving right along. Next came THE CREW.

Oh my god they were friggin awesome.

The drummer (Matt) was all tat tat tat tatty tat tat ttt-tat ttt-tat ttt-tat bch bch and then he came down on the crash hard, like splitting a friggin red wood, you know what I'm sayin, like KABLAM while I swear the kick drum rang like a gong. Look at this animal!

Ok, well, he looks kinda dreamy in that picture, but that's only because he knows that he's on camera. He doesn't allow just anyone to see him in his rawness. But, the guitarist (Derrreick). Oh hell yeah.

Shredding like he hadn't eaten in a year. And with a voice like a bird.

And the bassist (Eric) had lasers for eyes! He is a bassist robot sent from the future to destroy rock and roll as you know it. He also destroyed seven people in the crowd. True story.

Then, the bassist dropped out after they finished the music-revolutionizing originals and the guitarist and the drummer did an hour of Whitestripes stuff. If only the drummer woulda worn a skirt like Meg White...

MORE! PLEASE! GIVE ME MORE OF THAT ROCK AND ROLL %&*T!

YES! DANCE TESTERS!

Then, when they had finished rocking our faces off, the cool bastards actually came down from their higher dimension and partied with us like regular folk! They feel like the rest of us. They hurt like the rest of us. They boast like the rest of us. They drink beer like the rest of us. They scream like the rest of us. And in the same order too...

Especially when their bassist boy is now rockin' the guit-box with his band and his originals. It was amazing. He re-revolutionized what the other band not an hour before had revolutionized. I almost shot myself right there because I knew life could never get any sweeter.

And then, as he held the last chord and the drum skidded to an abrupt halt, color returned and I knew that I would never be the same.

True Stats -

People blown up - 0

Number of laser eyes bassist possesses - 0

Location - Shiwa City Center, capacity - 1,200

Attendance - pushing 25

Attendance by people who I didn't know - 12? maybe?

Chairs set up (because it's Japan) - 70

Crowd size be damned, it was exhilarating, and I, like the attendee who wrote this account, will never be the same.

Genius Loves Company Benefits

My desk in the teacher’s room is the farthest away, in pure radial reckoning, from the vice-principal’s desk, which is the emotional epicenter of the room – the nerve center. I sit at the end of a block of desks, hidden from view by a column. Besides a few teachers who smile at me as they walk by or politely say ‘hello,’ or ‘goodbye,’ I don’t get a lot of unprovoked interaction action. If I walk up to someone and start talking, or flag a teacher down on her way by my desk, we might talk for seconds, perhaps even minutes, at a time. But, the ball is always in my court, it would seem.

Sitting in my corner of solitude with an encompassing view of all the other desks in the room, I have observed that my situation is a tad unique. Other teachers (not all mind you, but a substantive majority) indeed interact with each other on a more regular basis, and what’s more, the average interaction time of an interaction event is substantially longer. I have also noticed that there appears to be more laughing sub-events and general jocularity in the larger interaction event.

I wondered, naturally, if my physical position in the room was responsible for my paucity of interaction events. After all, the strength of many interaction forces in this world, electromagnetic and gravitational, for example, weakens as the distance between the players grows. Perhaps I too was subject to some inverse square law. That theory was quickly laid to rest, however, when I observed that the teacher seated directly to my right, and thus not all that much radially closer to the epicenter, consistently ranked in the top 3 in overall interaction events and in the top 7 in average length of interaction time, while some teachers much closer to the epicenter hardly broke the top 20.

If radial distance is not the culprit, I mused, surely there must be something else in my situation that dictates my dearth of interaction events. For months I puzzled over why a mid-20s, often gregarious, white male with limited Japanese language knowledge was not approached more often by his generally mid-40s, Japanese co-workers who have functioned in a predominantly homogeneous and historically wary of foreign influences society their whole lives, most of whom speak no English and are extremely busy all the time. In time I discovered the reason, and I’ll admit that I was surprised that I had not come up with it much earlier. It’s quite simple really. My co-workers shy away from me because I am a genius.

The vast majority of teachers must need climb the Tower of Knowledge to become an expert in their field, and the road up is fraught with 864 steps of loose boards, slippery boards, uneven spacings, giant gaps, riddle toting trolls, and enticing yet ultimately dead end detours. The view at the top is certainly stunning, but perhaps a little bittersweet as well, because the new expert must share the roof of the tower with the geniuses, or genii, who have already been helicopter-dropped at the top. The genii have no blisters on their feet from climbing, no scars from close encounters with trolls, and they certainly didn’t waste years of their life climbing. It also doesn’t help that genii are often socially inept and so bound to say something like, ‘Wow, this thing sure is high!’ and ‘Boy I’m glad I didn’t have to climb it.’ What’s even worse is when genii change their minds, or realize they overlooked something. At that point, they call up the helicopter and shuttle off to the next Tower, leaving a roof-full of disgruntled and probably suicidal and homicidal experts at the top of a condemned building.

Genii have some otherworldly ability to reveal and coax correct answers without so much as lifting a finger. They just know, which is incredibly frustrating to everyone else because often a genius can not explain his reasoning. An expert will go back to the books, dust off the tomes, question the witnesses, calculate and recalculate, and, finally, prove the genius’ clairvoyance. At which point he will return to the genius and say, ‘Behold! I have done it! Your answer is correct, but here is why! Here is the proof!’ The genius doesn’t care, though. He knew the answer to begin with. Then, the genius says something like, ‘Oh, I see what you did there,’ pointing to a double reverse quadrahedical anti-gravity cylindronal derivegral, known only to eight mathematicians and select goat-herders in Timubuktu, who themselves use complex flute harmonics instead of supercomputers to solve the same problem unknowingly. The genius continues, ‘That’s cute,’ as his donut crumbs and powdered sugar sprinkle the pristine report.
But, the expert can not offend or rid himself of the genii because the expert needs the genius too much. Experts, for the most part, really are concerned with the progress of knowledge, and the continuing expansion of understanding and truth. You certainly don’t climb 864 perilous steps if you aren’t genuinely invested in what’s at the top. The expert knows that a genius can push the universal understanding in leaps and bounds, bettering everyone. It’s much easier, after all, for the expert to get somewhere if he knows where he is supposed to go. Generally, the genius can give the destination, if not the path, sort of like Google Maps but without the driving directions feature.

I am an English genius. Through no special exertions, I possess an ability sought after by governments and institutions world-wide. I can look at an English sentence and immediately tell whether it is correct or not. And, what’s more, (please sit down if you are faint of heart reader) if the sentence is incorrect, I can fix it. The really crazy part is that often I don’t know why the sentence is right or wrong. I just know! This English thing is just something that I’ve been able to do as far back as I can remember.

Unfortunately, this mastery of English seems to be affecting my socializing opportunities in the work place. I have a feeling that my co-workers hesitate to disrupt me for fear of interrupting a ‘genius at work.’ I've noticed that my co-workers also can't seem to find the words, or the courage, to talk to the Korean genius and the Chinese genius either. And it is not that their fears are without foundation. If you interrupt a genius whilst he is on the cusp of formulating an idea and the idea vanishes accidentally, you might have just set humanity back decades or even centuries. Even so, I feel like I am being punished for wielding a power I never chose to bear. Would that I could, I would pass this on to someone else. As it is, I try to be as patient as I can with others who don’t have the Gift, but I fear that sometimes my frustrations might show through.

‘Excuse me, Sensei... Do you have a minute?’ she asks, barely audible.
‘Yes my child. What have you brought for me?’ I answer.
‘Oh, it’s really nothing. I can come back. It seems that you are working on something, yes? I would be loath to disturb your work. Although, if I may ask, what is it?’ she asks, awed by the convoluted pattern of boxes and scrawls on my computer screen, drawn to the fact that she recognizes the individual letters but can’t understand the meaning they have when arranged in such an unusual manner. But clearly, it is exciting.
‘Well, actually, this is not original work, but more of an exercise puzzle that another English genius has created for me. Often, we geniuses like to keep each other sharp by posing thought experiments to one another. This particular trial is a unique blend of quite advanced English grammar and vocabulary, which by itself is trivial for me, but when coupled with American cultural and historical references, as well as differential non-linear thought patterns, becomes mildly intriguing. We call it a ‘shared dual collisional apogee amalgam.’’
‘Amazing. And I suppose this up here is a shorter name for it,’ she says, pointing feebly at the screen.
‘Ummm… Yes. Yes, quite right.’
‘It seems that you are almost done with this…this… c-c-ross w-w-wor-rd po-poozle.’
‘Yes. I am. Actually I would probably be finished by now if it hadn’t been for you.’
‘Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry. I’ll come back later,’ she backs away and turns to scurry but I stop her with a wave of my hand.
‘You mean you don’t even want to know the answer to your question?’
‘What do you mean? How could you…I don’t understand… I haven’t asked yet,’ she stammers.
‘The answer of course is, ‘a three inch long worm,’ and not, ‘a three inches long worm.’ Don’t put an ‘es’ at the end of inch.’
‘I see. But what if I said, ‘that worm is three inches long!’ That is correct, isn’t it?!’ she pleads.
‘Yes, in that case you must add the ‘es.’
‘But, ‘That is a three inches long worm’ is not OK?!’
‘Precisely.’
She exhales and composes herself. Then she asks the question which even I can not answer. ‘But, why?’
‘NO NO! STOP RIGHT THERE! I can not be bothered with explanations and trivialities! Don’t waste my time with this nonsense! You have your answer. It’s 100 percent correct. Be happy with that!’
‘But, I, h-how did you know my question?’ she squeaks through.
‘I read it on the paper in your hand right there.’
Amazed, she looks at the paper and realizes for the first time the scope of my power, but still just the tip of the iceberg. ‘You read my note and anticipated the question? Even though my hand was blocking some of the letters? And then you discovered the answer in the three minutes I was here, while we talked about crossword puzzles?!’
‘My child,’ I smile to her and extend my hand. ‘It took far less than three minutes. Upon sight I knew the answer to your query. I can’t expect you to understand this power that I have, but I hope you can accept it. Now leave me. Your question has been answered. And now I must return to thinking of a word that has 7 letters and is related to ‘famous louvered windows of the French Renaissance.’

My Birthday Present This Year? A Pain in the Neck

Babies danced in mud, laughing, waving, kicking, and, perhaps most troubling to me, sinking. Fortunately, their parents were there to pop them out, wipe the rain drops away from their yellow hats and set them moving again. My friend got kicked in the ear, another got kicked in the nose, and I got punched in the neck. Then, we high-fived and hugged the culprits. A man poured a beer on a stranger to the left, and the stranger mouthed ‘OH HELL YEAH!’ People said things in incomprehensible tongues and were rewarded with applause and cheers so thunderous you would have thought they had just won the Olympics, all of it.

Earlier in the day I waited 30 minutes in line for the privilege of using a toilet completely covered in shit. With every step I took towards the foul box I came a little bit closer to vomiting, but I liked it! Yet earlier, when I woke up, soaked head to toe in rain water as were all of my possessions, I smiled.

But you would too if you were at Fuji Rock ’09, palace of dreams, trying to raze a mountain range in Niigata, Japan, along with the likes of Franz Ferdinand, Oasis, Basement Jaxx, Weezer, JET, Animal Collective, Dinosaur Jr., Jimmy Eat World, Public Enemy, Ben Harper, Zazen Boys, and 150,000 other maniacs.

Of course it wasn’t all blood and baby carnage. On Saturday, when it wasn’t raining, I took my time strolling around the 7 scattered stages in the mountains and perusing the list of 200 bands scheduled to perform. I saw a wooden walkway leading into a darkness of dense trees and I took it. Dim light bulbs shielded by maps of famous cities (what the hell was Newark, New Jersey doing there?) ensured that I didn’t fall off the winding platform and into the abyss. While walking, some gentle, natural, tunes massaged my ears, urging me to pick up pace and follow. I did, and I was rewarded by a tiny little stage occupied by a tiny little woman making sounds that were too intriguing to pass by. Apparently others had also heard the intrigue because there they were, seated on tree stumps or with their backs against trees, trying to figure out how this one woman could have 4 different voices She was actually looping her voice and then singing over it, but whatever... Juana was her name, and the sounds were Spanish.

When I went to buy my lamb gyro from a vendor, I was taken aback when he, a very large black man, spoke to me in very soft Japanese. I ordered two gyros for 14 dollars and got three for 15. Whatever. Then, armed with three halves of our expected gyro consumption, my friend and I sat, legs dangling in a river that runs through the mountains and thus between stages. We ate and then washed off the mud that was caked to our legs and shoes. The water was cold, and even colder when two Japanese dudes came up behind us and pushed us into the river, laughing the whole time.

I met a Japanese guy who also loves JET (the band, not my job), and together we sang every single word of almost every single song (even the line that goes ‘don’t wanna hold hands or talk about our little plans ALL RIGHT), right in time with whoever is the lead singer of JET. When the last power chord dissolved into the rain, and my ears came out of shock, I expressed my enthusiasm appropriately (‘SHIT YEAH’ was I believe the route I chose) and asked him if he had ever seen JET live before. He shrugged his shoulders and in Japanese told me that he didn’t speak any English at all. Besides, of course, every JET song. Whatever.

The marquee names were on the big stage, the Green Stage, capacity 60,000. I was right up front for both Saturday and Sunday nights’ main events, Franz Ferdinand and Weezer, respectively. Franz Ferdinand absolutely rocked my face off. I liked the band alright before, but their live show was stupendous and the singer put on an impromptu techno dance party with his ‘techno machine’ (I don’t know the technical term) at the end of their set. When I say the live show was stupendous, I don’t mean it had explosions or dancers or bears on bicycles and tigers on trampolines or ablazing lions set to jumping through hoops. I mean it was just four guys who seemed genuinely happy to be there playing their hearts out, no gimmicks (yeah, I’m talking to you Bon Jovi, even though your concert was friggin’ awesome too, albeit perhaps a tad misty. You really don’t need fog for every song...)

Weezer was great too, and the best part was listening to 50,000 Japanese people become confused at the same time when a white guy sang them their national anthem with backing power chords. The singer speaks a good bit of Japanese because his wife is Japanese, apparently. Who knew? I didn’t.

But, goodness gracious, Basement Jaxx just might be the best thing I have ever done live, besides live. They had a stage show with dancers, costumes, stilts, giant bells, golden whistles and some nasty, nasty jams. In general, I like going to see live shows of bands I know, replete with repertoires I can sing along to. In the past, when I have gone to live shows of bands who I have never listened to before, I am not as invested, and so not so fulfilled. Not with Basement Jaxx, though. I only knew one of their songs, and vaguely at that, but I was jumping around like a bean the entire time, grinding on anything and anyone who would let me.

Fuji Rock is right up there with the best experiences I have had in Japan. The concerts were ridiculous, the food and water didn’t break the bank, the shit toilets were still always stocked with fresh toilet paper, the staff was smiley and helpful, and watching my favorite bands, many of whom I associate with powerful memories from back in America, play against the backdrop of the classic, mist-hidden, mysterious mountains of Japan was surreal. The combined effect was to make sleeping in a tent that we might as well have set up in a river seem like a five star hotel.

Santa Didn't Leave a Present. He Just Turned Off My Hot Water

Japanese houses are built for the summer. The walls are paper thin and the doors within the house are on tracks so you can slide them around and remove them easily and rearrange your house to get the best airflow and light during the summer months which are indeed very hot. Unfortunately, someone forgot to mention to house builders here in Iwate that the winters are the problem. I can imagine these house-builders working by candle-light in winter in feudal Japan, preparing plans and schematics for the construction of Iwate houses for the coming Spring. They sit hunched over, imaging ways to suck out as much insulation from paper as they can, completely oblivious to the six feet of snow piled against their warm log cabins.

I guess freezing temperatures in my house for four months of the year is a small price to pay for my thousand degrees of feng shui interior deco freedom for the other four. Maybe I am being a little extreme. There are of course a couple ways to keep warm. One option is to buy a coffee table with a heater under it. Then, you simply lift the ‘table’ part off the ‘legs’ part and put a blanket over the ‘legs’ part and replace the ‘table’ part. Now, all you have to do to stay warm is sit in one position and not move all night.

You could also go the route of buying a mini heater which spits venomous flue filled, but very hot, air at you in three hour cycles. The machine actually turns itself off after three hours, presumably because it wants to make sure you’re still alive and haven’t asphyxiated from the toxic chemicals in the air. Of course that never happens though, because the house-builders from years and years ago have already assured that those toxic elements, along with the hot air, have already dispersed through your paper walls and into the night. Great foresight fellas!

When I first came to Japan, there was a session in our three day orientation program called ‘Surviving Winter.’ It wasn’t ‘Making the Most out of Winter,’ or ‘Tips for a more Enjoyable Winter.’ It was ‘Surviving Winter.’ The discussions ranged from stark to unsettling. We talked about condensing whole apartment into one room, taking only the bare essentials and a couple things for ‘fun,’ like a book or a puzzle, for the four month hiatus of normal social life. The rest of the apartment was to be quarantined and forgotten as you sequestered in your private Ark. We talked about buying electric plates to put on top of the electric tables to cook food on, making kitchens disposable. We talked about people who had an allergy to kerosene fumes and developed rashes all over their necks and arms but couldn’t really do anything because there isn’t a feasible alternative to kerosene heating. Electric heaters take an hour to warm a solid 3 foot halo around themselves, probably aiming to corner the contortionist market.

Another unhealthy by-product of using kerosene to heat Japanese apartments is that because the outside is so cold and the inside of houses are so much warmer, moisture forms on the inside of windows and doors and becomes a perfect breeding ground for bacteria and some fungi and some other things. My friend’s apartment is in an area prone to that stuff, and during winter they come out in full force. He has boils on his face which he takes a cream for.

Last winter was alright, as I was still in the ‘living in Japan’ honeymoon portion of my stay. At that time, the boils were quaint… This winter has been rougher, with more snow and colder temperatures (I have no documentation of this besides a feeling in my old bones, mind you). I made an oath to myself last November not to let the winter dictate my plans. I consciously spent more money on taxis and buses or forced myself to walk into town to meet friends and do things just like I would during the warmer, bike-friendly months. It worked great. I was much more of a force this winter. The light was at the end of the tunnel. I could almost hear Spring knocking gently and warmly at the door. Then, 30 centimeters of snow dropped and I was relegated this weekend to my house, bored and cold. In an effort to cheer myself up, I made a list: The Top Ten Things about not Having a Centrally Heated House.

10. I use less oil when I cook because it’s frozen all the time

9. When I step out of the shower I know immediately where on my body I did not entirely towel off

8. I can leave dirty dishes in the sink for weeks and my kitchen won’t smell

7. Even if my kitchen did smell I wouldn’t care because I never go in there

6. Chewing toothpaste is interesting

5. I never have to worry about hat hair because I always keep my hat on

4. I don’t have to worry about that uncomfortable fifteen or twenty minute adjustment period when you leave your house and find that its much, much colder outside

3. I hear freezing to death, after dying in your sleep, is one of the best ways to go

2. If you burn Styrofoam in your living room for heat and inhale deeply you can get a pretty good high going.

1. I can read global warming articles on the internet and be happy

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.