20100724
It's four a.m....
BOOM!
I go from REM to out of bed and wide awake in two seconds, flat. It takes me at least twice as long to realize that the sound was not caused by something exploding inside my house, but by thunder. Very near, very loud thunder. An explicative slips from my mouth. I wait.
Silence.
Silence.
And suddenly.
A deluge.
I've never heard rain like this before. It doesn't even sound like individual raindrops falling on my sunroof. It sounds like someone emptied a freaking ocean onto my house. I get up, go to the living room, open my laptop, check the weather report.
It says it's raining.
I go back to my room, turn on the air conditioner, and lie back down in bed, listening to the rain. It goes on for another minute or two, then, suddenly, softens to a light drizzle, and I fall back to sleep.
I go from REM to out of bed and wide awake in two seconds, flat. It takes me at least twice as long to realize that the sound was not caused by something exploding inside my house, but by thunder. Very near, very loud thunder. An explicative slips from my mouth. I wait.
Silence.
Silence.
And suddenly.
A deluge.
I've never heard rain like this before. It doesn't even sound like individual raindrops falling on my sunroof. It sounds like someone emptied a freaking ocean onto my house. I get up, go to the living room, open my laptop, check the weather report.
It says it's raining.
I go back to my room, turn on the air conditioner, and lie back down in bed, listening to the rain. It goes on for another minute or two, then, suddenly, softens to a light drizzle, and I fall back to sleep.
20100721
The End
Yesterday I rode my bike past gleaming green rice fields on my way to Yamazaki Junior High School for the last time. I tried to review my goodbye speech in my head on the way there but it was too long to remember most of it. It didn't really matter: speeches in Japan are usually read. And my five-minute speech was all in Japanese.
I cried a lot during and after my goodbye ceremony. Even if I weren't a person who cried easily, it would be hard to withstand the emotional pressure that is embedded in the very structure of a Japanese goodbye ceremony: the principal gave a speech commending me on all my hard work and commenting on how well-loved I was by all the students and teachers. Then, four of my favorite students gave short speeches and presented me with gifts from the school. It was boiling hot in the gym, so the moisture on my face could have been mistaken for sweat were it not for the accompanying red eyes and sniffling nose. After I gave my own goodbye speech, the oendan--cheer squad--sent me off with a farewell cheer in traditional Japanese style, followed by the Japanese tradition of tossing me in the air. And then it was really time to say goodbye. The students and teachers of Yamazaki Chu Gakkko formed two lines and I walked between them, shaking hands with everyone. Several of the students even gave me hugs.
It's nice to be sent off feeling like I was personally appreciated. But I can't help wondering if I was really an effective teacher: several times during my goodbye ceremony, it was stated that I spoke Japanese well; but never was it mentioned that I taught English well. The school gave me a book of thank you letters from all the students--almost every single one written entirely in Japanese. Suddenly I start to worry that I was so concerned with having good relationships with the students that I never really did much to encourage them to improve their English language skills.
But that basically aligns with something I realized a long time ago about this job: these kids will learn or not learn English regardless of whether they have an AET there to help them. The Japanese teachers of English have more than sufficient knowledge to help junior high school students acquire the foreign language skills they need to enter high school. My job was not only to assist the Japanese teachers with actual English instruction, but to serve as a cultural model and make the mission of learning English more relevant to Japanese students.
I did that. Or at least I think I did.
So, in the end, I guess I'm satisfied; which is all that I could ever ask for.
20100707
Group v. Individual; East v. West: Thoughts from an American in Japan
I like that being in Japan has led me to examine some of the prior assumptions I've made concerning what it means to have a Christian worldview. Many things that I've simply taken for granted as "Christian," when held in the light of Eastern philosophy, suddenly seem much more accurately categorized as "Western." I don't say this to postulate the definitiveness of the terms "East" and "West" to describe a dichotomy between two distinct cultures and ways of thinking. If anything, living in the "East" has lessened my confidence in what it really means for something to be "Eastern" or "Western," and, by association, what it really means to be "Christian." And I'm grateful for that.
As an American, I'm totally sold on the idea that my personal identity is an important and even sacred thing. I believe this, and it's a belief that has been reinforced repeatedly by self-help books, church sermons, and amicable advice-givers throughout my entire life. It's a belief I'm in no hurry to dispose of, either, because it makes sense to me. Obviously, I have a unique personal identity and, obviously, it is important that I be in touch with that identity because, if I'm not, I will undoubtedly end up making decisions that are detrimental to that immutable (and yet, somehow, fragile) essential identity.
There is no equivalent in the Japanese language for the word "identity."
You can imagine how shaken I was when I first heard this. How could a people group as advanced and globally influential as the Japanese not even have a word for something that I imagined to be so essential to human cognition?
Because it's not a concept that is essential to human cognition. It's a concept that is essential to the particular Weltanschauung into which I was raised.
Japanese society tends to be much more concerned with the condition of the group than that of the individual. Individual achievements are usually applauded to the extent that they benefit and reflect favorably on the group as a whole. At the same time, individual failures are something to be handled very cautiously. At the junior high school where I work, if one student is falling asleep in class or failing to complete an assignment, the teacher will scold the entire class rather than put that one student on the spot.
Yesterday, during the morning meeting in the staff room, one of my English teachers stood up and apologized to all the teachers. For something. I couldn't understand what. So I was grateful to have an opportunity to speak to her about it later that day. As it turned out, a ninth-grade student had gone into her desk and stolen a copy of the midterm along with the answers to the test. To further complicate the situation, a classmate spotted the thief and decided to blackmail him: cash in exchange for silence. When these events came to light and the students involved confessed their crimes, it was a scandal: these sort of things might be commonplace at most junior high schools, but the students at Yamazaki Junior High have a reputation for being honest and well-behaved.
Although the the two ninth-grade students were the ones who committed a misdeed, my English teacher was also held at fault for not having locked her desk in the first place. Hence, the demand for a humiliating apology to the rest of the teachers, whom she, as a member of their "group," had inadvertently let down.
She relayed these events to me, all the while expressing great regret and remorse for the terrible way in which she had shamed the school. I told her, "It wasn't really your fault."
"But it was," she assured me.
"No," I shook my head and looked at her earnestly, "It wasn't."
She has worked with a lot of American AETs in the past; she's been seasoned to quickly forgive my occasional lapses into cultural insensitivity. She was, after all, the one who informed me about there not being a Japanese word for "identity." She told me that she was also quite shaken up when she first learned this word, along with all its socio-psychological implications. Maybe my insistence that the incident with the stolen test was not brought on by any personal flaw of her own did not have the assuaging effect I intended. But I think she understood, nonetheless.
As an American, I'm totally sold on the idea that my personal identity is an important and even sacred thing. I believe this, and it's a belief that has been reinforced repeatedly by self-help books, church sermons, and amicable advice-givers throughout my entire life. It's a belief I'm in no hurry to dispose of, either, because it makes sense to me. Obviously, I have a unique personal identity and, obviously, it is important that I be in touch with that identity because, if I'm not, I will undoubtedly end up making decisions that are detrimental to that immutable (and yet, somehow, fragile) essential identity.
There is no equivalent in the Japanese language for the word "identity."
You can imagine how shaken I was when I first heard this. How could a people group as advanced and globally influential as the Japanese not even have a word for something that I imagined to be so essential to human cognition?
Because it's not a concept that is essential to human cognition. It's a concept that is essential to the particular Weltanschauung into which I was raised.
Japanese society tends to be much more concerned with the condition of the group than that of the individual. Individual achievements are usually applauded to the extent that they benefit and reflect favorably on the group as a whole. At the same time, individual failures are something to be handled very cautiously. At the junior high school where I work, if one student is falling asleep in class or failing to complete an assignment, the teacher will scold the entire class rather than put that one student on the spot.
Yesterday, during the morning meeting in the staff room, one of my English teachers stood up and apologized to all the teachers. For something. I couldn't understand what. So I was grateful to have an opportunity to speak to her about it later that day. As it turned out, a ninth-grade student had gone into her desk and stolen a copy of the midterm along with the answers to the test. To further complicate the situation, a classmate spotted the thief and decided to blackmail him: cash in exchange for silence. When these events came to light and the students involved confessed their crimes, it was a scandal: these sort of things might be commonplace at most junior high schools, but the students at Yamazaki Junior High have a reputation for being honest and well-behaved.
Although the the two ninth-grade students were the ones who committed a misdeed, my English teacher was also held at fault for not having locked her desk in the first place. Hence, the demand for a humiliating apology to the rest of the teachers, whom she, as a member of their "group," had inadvertently let down.
She relayed these events to me, all the while expressing great regret and remorse for the terrible way in which she had shamed the school. I told her, "It wasn't really your fault."
"But it was," she assured me.
"No," I shook my head and looked at her earnestly, "It wasn't."
She has worked with a lot of American AETs in the past; she's been seasoned to quickly forgive my occasional lapses into cultural insensitivity. She was, after all, the one who informed me about there not being a Japanese word for "identity." She told me that she was also quite shaken up when she first learned this word, along with all its socio-psychological implications. Maybe my insistence that the incident with the stolen test was not brought on by any personal flaw of her own did not have the assuaging effect I intended. But I think she understood, nonetheless.
20100628
20100626
An Oldie but a Goodie
I was browsing through some old pictures today and came across this little gem from last year. It made me smile, so I thought I'd share it.
I've actually had several junior high school students assume that my name ought to be spelled "Mergan." Don't ask me why.
I've actually had several junior high school students assume that my name ought to be spelled "Mergan." Don't ask me why.
20100625
This is gonna be tough.
I found out today that I can't cry and speak Japanese at the same time. When I tried, only strange sound combinations came out of my mouth. Hopefully those present just assumed I was speaking unfamiliar English.
Today I had my last visit to Yamazaki Minami Elementary School. Somehow I thought it would be easier than last Friday's final visit to Nishidai Elementary; it wasn't. The minute I walked through the front door of the school this morning, a fifth-grade girl spotted me and began imploring, "Please, don't go back to America." By the end of fourth period, when the same girl erupted into sobs and the teacher and some of her classmates joined in, I finally gave into the pressure of the moment and let the tears fall. When the principal came by the room after the lesson to thank me for my hard work, I found myself temporarily rendered mute. Finally, I managed to squeak out a "Thank you." In English.
I know that a lot of it is just to be polite: the teachers going on and on about how much they will miss me, the principal telling me that she felt she and I had made a special connection, the children shyly passing me letters that thank me for all the "fun English" I taught them over the past two years. But each of these gestures strikes a resonant emotional chord in me. To them, my going home to America is a bit sad; but, from my perspective, it's my whole life. They are saying goodbye to just me; I'm saying goodbye to hundreds of children and their teachers, all of whom have held an integral role in constructing my experience in this country. I feel so much pressure--most of it coming from my own end--to imbue these final days with meaning. To make every moment count. But each goodbye I say is a little unsatisfying: there's no momentous sense of moving on from one era of my life to the next. It just sort of slips sloppily by, with a few sniffles, an awkwardly elongated procession of bowing, and me, regretting that I don't know the proper formulaic Japanese phrase for this sort of situation, settling with just saying that I'm grateful, and then not even doing that properly.
As sad and difficult as it is to say goodbye, both today and last Friday, as I rode my bike down that specific route home from elementary school for the last time, there was also a sense of relief at being done. Even though, over the last year, my elementary school visits have transformed from something to be dreaded to my favorite part of my profession, I'm still very unsatisfied with my job in general. At junior high school I'm rendered useless by the main English teachers' determination to exclude me as much as possible from the actual practice of teaching. And, while elementary school proves to be much more personally rewarding in the fact that I get to design my own lesson plans and teach most of the lesson on my own, maintaining a physical energy and vocal volume sufficient to hold the attention of a classroom full of young children is so exhausting that I could never see myself sticking with it long-term. I'm looking forward to being finished with all of it.
But I'm not looking forward to saying goodbye to two more elementary schools and--the big kahuna--Yamazaki Junior High School, where I've spent Monday through Thursday every week for the past two years, developing relationships and learning a lot about Japanese culture and about myself. I'm planning to give my goodbye speech in Japanese. I just hope, when it comes time for me to do so, I'm able to get the words out.
20100622
The Way It Is
Here is an excerpt from a recent email I sent to a dear friend...
I'm really starting to feel done with being in Japan. Certainly, the prospect of saying goodbye to the place and the people that have constituted my home for the past two years is sad. There are lots of things I will miss. A lot. And I could certainly see myself living in Japan again some day, if the right job and community presented itself. But this really hasn't been the environment "for me." I feel bored and discontent. Most mornings, I dread going to work. And many evenings I dread coming home, too. I've been wondering a lot lately whether it was a good decision for me to stay a second year. It's probably been the most difficult year of my life. But being in Japan for twenty-two months has been way more meaningful than being here for just eleven months. I feel like I've learned so much (and un-learned plenty, as well), that I couldn't have accomplished in America. And I'm sure I'll continue to process and learn from my experiences here long after I've left Japanese soil.Get ready, America. You'll be seeing me real soon.
I'm looking forward to coming back to California. I'm gonna buy a car. I'm gonna be in my sister's wedding and help my other sister plan hers (yeah, both my little sisters are getting married within five months of each other). I'm gonna visit friends that I haven't seen for a year or two or even longer. I'm gonna try to figure out what to do with my life (not as exciting a prospect, currently, but still, I'm optimistic). The other day while I was bored at work with nothing to do, I made a list of the most important stuff I want to accomplish in the two months after I return from Japan. Visiting you was definitely on there.
20100501
May Day Surprises
To get into the spirit of spring, I made these little bouquets to leave on the doorknobs of unsuspecting gaijin friends.
I would have loved to have made some May Day bouquets for my Japanese friends--despite them not knowing what May Day is--but there's just one problem: I don't know where any of my Japanese friends live. Inviting one's friends to one's home is not common practice in Japan. Dinner parties are always held at restaurants. And, well, when it comes down to it, my house is just a preferable place to hang out. It's much more spacious than your typical Japanese apartment. And who could fail to appreciate the added bonus that I don't have any grandparents living with me?
I would have loved to have made some May Day bouquets for my Japanese friends--despite them not knowing what May Day is--but there's just one problem: I don't know where any of my Japanese friends live. Inviting one's friends to one's home is not common practice in Japan. Dinner parties are always held at restaurants. And, well, when it comes down to it, my house is just a preferable place to hang out. It's much more spacious than your typical Japanese apartment. And who could fail to appreciate the added bonus that I don't have any grandparents living with me?
20100430
Japanese-y Creations and the Sources of my Inspiration
Let me just say that I feel as though I've completed an important rite of passage. I have stepped over the threshold into a new realm of personal identity. At last, I can call myself a true cook. I have made ice cream. From scratch. Without a machine. And it was delicious.
This is kurogoma (black sesame seed) ice cream. Since the first time I sampled this unique flavor a little less than a year ago, I've been enamored with the distinctive creamy-nutty quality that makes it, quite possibly, my favorite flavor of ice cream (Maybe even better than mint-choco-chip. Just maybe.). And, if the taste weren't already enough cause to hanker for a bowl of icy goma goodness, top it off with the exciting bonus of getting to eat something that looks like it should have just come out of a cement mixer. See the full recipe here.
Tonight, however, my creative juices flowed not through culinary canals, but rather into a reservoir of of a more crafty nature. A few days ago, after thoroughly admiring some innovative scrapbooking techniques by giddy giddy, I was all pumped up to make a shadowbox/scrapbook/diorama/collage of my own. Well, shadowboxes are lots of fun, but tonight I only had the energy to make one, rather than a full-on collage of shadowboxes. My own creation ended up looking very Japanese: it kind of reminds me of a butsudan, a Buddhist family alter found in Japanese homes. My version, of course, is not explicitly religious; rather, it commemorates a small paper crane that was anonymously left in my bicycle basket and which I discovered, with much delight, as I was leaving school one afternoon. Anonymous gifts from students are the best. Even if it's just origami.
20100403
From the Yamabeguchi Bus Stop
Leaving day. Shigemi drove me up into the mountains so I could see a spectacular view of the town from above. Rice paddies were stacked like a giant staircase up the hillside. It’s hard to imagine the effort that must go into growing food up there on such steep terrain, and the enormous amount of work that went into leveling these “steps” out in the first place, hundreds of years ago.
On the way up the mountain, I saw a house of similar age and architecture to the one I’ve been staying in the last five nights, only the one I spotted had a straw, rather than a tin, roof (Shigemi told me on the day I arrived that the tin roof had been installed about twenty-five years ago). There is a different kind of life going on here, one that I don’t usually get to witness in the booming metropolis (or so it now seems) of Moka.
The amazake that I spent eleven hours making yesterday turned a bit sour, which means that the temperature dropped below 50°C while it was cooking. I don’t mind the sourness so much – in fact I rather like it – but I know it’s not the way it’s supposed to taste, and so I feel a bit bad that the family is now stuck with the rest of the batch.
I’m waiting at the bus stop now. The bus should be here in about ten minutes. It feels like I just got here, and yet the time before I arrived (i.e. Nagasaki) seems so long ago.
On the way up the mountain, I saw a house of similar age and architecture to the one I’ve been staying in the last five nights, only the one I spotted had a straw, rather than a tin, roof (Shigemi told me on the day I arrived that the tin roof had been installed about twenty-five years ago). There is a different kind of life going on here, one that I don’t usually get to witness in the booming metropolis (or so it now seems) of Moka.
The amazake that I spent eleven hours making yesterday turned a bit sour, which means that the temperature dropped below 50°C while it was cooking. I don’t mind the sourness so much – in fact I rather like it – but I know it’s not the way it’s supposed to taste, and so I feel a bit bad that the family is now stuck with the rest of the batch.
I’m waiting at the bus stop now. The bus should be here in about ten minutes. It feels like I just got here, and yet the time before I arrived (i.e. Nagasaki) seems so long ago.
20100402
Wonder-full.
Now, at last, I understand the reason for the existence of quarter tones. I will never be able to relive this moment. A realization that’s been plaguing me all day: I am in Japan, and in four months and two days, I will not be.
This is real Japan, with a realness that I’ve been utterly missing out on for the last year and a half: the click-pop of the strings of the sanshin as I warm my legs beneath the blanket of the charcoal-heated kotatsu. I am living in a world that I never could have dreamed existed in even the most imaginative years of my childhood.
Japan. It has tortured and changed me. I have loved and hated it in almost equal measure. What will I be, exactly four months from now, when I say goodnight to my last day on this island for who knows how long? Perhaps I will never come back. I am prepared for that. But, oh! I will miss this country so much!
Today was Good Friday. It was also the last full day of my homestay on a Japanese farm, organized through the network of the WWOOF program. Through email, I got in touch with Shigemi, the woman of the house, and we agreed that I would come stay with her, her 86-year-old mother, and her two teenage children for a certain period of time, during which I would work on her farm in exchange for room, board, and a chance to learn a little bit of what she has to teach (which is a lot).
I almost didn’t come. Standing in front of the ticket machine at the train station, I nearly decided that it all sounded too difficult and I was feeling too homesick and depressed lately, and I just wanted to go home. I had a bit of an emotional breakdown. I called Josiah and told him I was having second thoughts. He encouraged me and, in the end, I went ahead and bought that train ticket. And, wow. I am so glad I did. I learned things I never expected, like how to prepare takoyaki (bits of octopus fried in batter and rolled into spheres about the size of golf balls) and that, if your house is cold enough, you don’t have to refrigerate perishable food but can just leave it out on the kitchen table for days at a time (the house was definitely cold enough). The entire experience was a little bit miserable. But it was also a little bit life changing.
Just a little.
Shigemi finished practicing the sanshin and put it back in its case. When I said, “Maybe this is my only chance to ever hear this instrument played," she replied, “No! When you go to Okinawa you will find that they have one in every house.”
When I go to Okinawa? Yes, I suppose I do want to go. “Yes,” said Shigemi, “you have to go.” It seems that every word of conversation that passes from Shigemi to me is a bit awkward, but it's also laden with wisdom. I nodded. "Okay," I said.
After five days, I’ve just about come to like being here. But five days was enough. Or, maybe, it was more than enough. Maybe it was everything.
This is real Japan, with a realness that I’ve been utterly missing out on for the last year and a half: the click-pop of the strings of the sanshin as I warm my legs beneath the blanket of the charcoal-heated kotatsu. I am living in a world that I never could have dreamed existed in even the most imaginative years of my childhood.
Japan. It has tortured and changed me. I have loved and hated it in almost equal measure. What will I be, exactly four months from now, when I say goodnight to my last day on this island for who knows how long? Perhaps I will never come back. I am prepared for that. But, oh! I will miss this country so much!
Today was Good Friday. It was also the last full day of my homestay on a Japanese farm, organized through the network of the WWOOF program. Through email, I got in touch with Shigemi, the woman of the house, and we agreed that I would come stay with her, her 86-year-old mother, and her two teenage children for a certain period of time, during which I would work on her farm in exchange for room, board, and a chance to learn a little bit of what she has to teach (which is a lot).
I almost didn’t come. Standing in front of the ticket machine at the train station, I nearly decided that it all sounded too difficult and I was feeling too homesick and depressed lately, and I just wanted to go home. I had a bit of an emotional breakdown. I called Josiah and told him I was having second thoughts. He encouraged me and, in the end, I went ahead and bought that train ticket. And, wow. I am so glad I did. I learned things I never expected, like how to prepare takoyaki (bits of octopus fried in batter and rolled into spheres about the size of golf balls) and that, if your house is cold enough, you don’t have to refrigerate perishable food but can just leave it out on the kitchen table for days at a time (the house was definitely cold enough). The entire experience was a little bit miserable. But it was also a little bit life changing.
Just a little.
Shigemi finished practicing the sanshin and put it back in its case. When I said, “Maybe this is my only chance to ever hear this instrument played," she replied, “No! When you go to Okinawa you will find that they have one in every house.”
When I go to Okinawa? Yes, I suppose I do want to go. “Yes,” said Shigemi, “you have to go.” It seems that every word of conversation that passes from Shigemi to me is a bit awkward, but it's also laden with wisdom. I nodded. "Okay," I said.
After five days, I’ve just about come to like being here. But five days was enough. Or, maybe, it was more than enough. Maybe it was everything.
20100316
Curiosity
For some reason, there's something about seeing me whizzing by on my bike after school that drives Japanese elementary students wild. They're standing by the street with their friends, they turn, see me coming, and suddenly they're hopping up and down, waving their hands over their heads, and shouting, "Meghan Sensei! Meghan Sensei! Haro! Haro!" I won't pretend it's not a nice confidence booster for me. I wave back enthusiastically, shoot them a smile, and return their salutation, adding "Goodbye!" as I speed past.
But the other afternoon, as occasionally happens, a group of about six kids were standing in the middle of the sidewalk and I was obliged to slow down for them. Seizing the opportunity, they immediately began to drill me with questions in rapid-fire Japanese:
"Are you going home now?"
"Yes."
"To America?"
"No, I live in Japan."
"Really?! Where in Japan?"
"In Moka."
"Eh?!...no way."
"Yes, I live in Moka."
"Where in Moka?"
"In Namiki-cho. Do you know where that is?"
"...No. Do you understand Japanese? (asked, as have been all preceding questions, in Japanese)"
"Yes."
"Can you read hiragana [phonetic Japanese writing system used mostly to write the grammatical parts of sentences]?"
"Yes."
"Can you read kanji [Chinese characters]?"
"A little."
"Amazing. Are you married?"
"No."
"How old are you?"
"What do you think?"
"Fifty."
"Fifty?!" They all burst into hysterics.
"Do you like Japanese food?"
"Yes."
"Do you drive?"
"Not in Japan."
"Do you $#!*?"
"Um...what?"
"Do you $#!*?" The child who used the word I didn't know began to elaborately act out his meaning. My mind made the linguistic connection and it quickly became clear what he was trying to ask me:
"Do you poop?"
I was a bit taken aback; I had to answer him in English, "You're crazy."
He stared back in confusion. "Eh?"
"Crazy," I repeated. "Bye-bye."
So concludes another successful lesson on American culture.
But the other afternoon, as occasionally happens, a group of about six kids were standing in the middle of the sidewalk and I was obliged to slow down for them. Seizing the opportunity, they immediately began to drill me with questions in rapid-fire Japanese:
"Are you going home now?"
"Yes."
"To America?"
"No, I live in Japan."
"Really?! Where in Japan?"
"In Moka."
"Eh?!...no way."
"Yes, I live in Moka."
"Where in Moka?"
"In Namiki-cho. Do you know where that is?"
"...No. Do you understand Japanese? (asked, as have been all preceding questions, in Japanese)"
"Yes."
"Can you read hiragana [phonetic Japanese writing system used mostly to write the grammatical parts of sentences]?"
"Yes."
"Can you read kanji [Chinese characters]?"
"A little."
"Amazing. Are you married?"
"No."
"How old are you?"
"What do you think?"
"Fifty."
"Fifty?!" They all burst into hysterics.
"Do you like Japanese food?"
"Yes."
"Do you drive?"
"Not in Japan."
"Do you $#!*?"
"Um...what?"
"Do you $#!*?" The child who used the word I didn't know began to elaborately act out his meaning. My mind made the linguistic connection and it quickly became clear what he was trying to ask me:
"Do you poop?"
I was a bit taken aback; I had to answer him in English, "You're crazy."
He stared back in confusion. "Eh?"
"Crazy," I repeated. "Bye-bye."
So concludes another successful lesson on American culture.
20100315
Guilt
It's 3:15 on a Friday afternoon—still one-and-a-half hours until it's time for me to leave school—and I have nothing to do. My plan was to watch the kids do sports practice after school, but today is PTA observation day, and the schedule is all funky. So I'm sitting at my desk, studying Japanese.
Suddenly my principal is standing over me and saying, "Go home now." I'm taken aback and cannot help but reply, "Really?" He said the same thing yesterday, because there was a teachers' meeting (they usually dismiss me early when there's a teachers' meeting after school, on account of the obvious fact that I won't be able to understand or participate in most of what's being said). And he let me go early on Wednesday, too, because it was about to start raining. I'm paid on salary, so it's no money out of my pocket; I can't help but feel as though three days in a row is getting to be a bit scandalous.
As I pack up my things and clear my desk for the day, I am plagued by an overbearing sensation of guilt. "I should have tried harder to pretend to be busy," I scold myself, "How embarrassing to be sent home early while all the Japanese teachers have to stay for another three hours or more!"
I'm in the locker room putting on my snow pants (I ride my bike and it's still really cold out) when it suddenly occurs to me: "Wait a minute...I'm an American! I don't have to feel guilty about leaving work early when my boss tells me it's okay. There are things in this world that are more important to me than my job. Lots of things. It's a beautiful day outside, and I've been given the chance to get out and enjoy a little bit of it. Why on earth should I beat myself up over it?"
I am not Japanese.
Sometimes I forget.
Suddenly my principal is standing over me and saying, "Go home now." I'm taken aback and cannot help but reply, "Really?" He said the same thing yesterday, because there was a teachers' meeting (they usually dismiss me early when there's a teachers' meeting after school, on account of the obvious fact that I won't be able to understand or participate in most of what's being said). And he let me go early on Wednesday, too, because it was about to start raining. I'm paid on salary, so it's no money out of my pocket; I can't help but feel as though three days in a row is getting to be a bit scandalous.
As I pack up my things and clear my desk for the day, I am plagued by an overbearing sensation of guilt. "I should have tried harder to pretend to be busy," I scold myself, "How embarrassing to be sent home early while all the Japanese teachers have to stay for another three hours or more!"
I'm in the locker room putting on my snow pants (I ride my bike and it's still really cold out) when it suddenly occurs to me: "Wait a minute...I'm an American! I don't have to feel guilty about leaving work early when my boss tells me it's okay. There are things in this world that are more important to me than my job. Lots of things. It's a beautiful day outside, and I've been given the chance to get out and enjoy a little bit of it. Why on earth should I beat myself up over it?"
I am not Japanese.
Sometimes I forget.
20100310
Graduation Day
But graduation from what? This is what I wondered to myself as I watched the third-year students of Yamazaki Junior High School march into the gym this morning to take their positions for sotsugyoshiki, the commencement ceremony.
The very fact that we use the word "commencement" in English to describe graduation from an educational institution indicates a sharp contrast in our attitude toward the event and the meaning that the ceremony signifies. In America, graduation ceremonies stand to celebrate academic achievement, as well as to point optimistically toward the future that our alma mater has (hopefully) prepared us for.
In a Japanese graduation ceremony, one has a hard time finding signs of any such things as "celebration" and "optimism." What you do find, however, are tears. Buckets of them. To be fair, I don't think there were nearly as many sobs wrenching from the throats of students, parents, and teachers this year as there were last year. But the reputation still stands: graduation day is a day to cry. Everything about the ceremony seems to be specifically engineered toward the purpose of making everyone feel really, really sad. Whether it's the solemn funeral-like atmosphere, the sappy funeral-like music, or speech after speech emphasizing that EVERYTHING YOU'VE BEEN THROUGH TOGETHER IS NOW OVER. YOU CAN NEVER COME BACK. THIS IS SAD. FEEL SAD.
For me, however, there are some positive points to this day. For starters, it's the one day out of the year that I really get to dress up. Despite the fact that it was a bitterly cold day, with snow on the ground and the temperature never rising more than a couple degrees above freezing, I enjoyed wearing pearls and makeup and a formal black dress. I have a few fans among the first-year girls at my school and, as I walked down the hall this morning, my getup elicited exclamations of, "Beautiful!" "Sooooo cute!" "Cameron Diaz!"
Hey, I'll take it.
After the ceremony, the graduates have a short while to talk to friends and teachers before heading home with their families. I went around shaking hands and giving hugs, telling kids "Omedeto!" (Congratulations!) and "Gambatte!" (Good luck!). One boy--Ryohei--flagged me down. I went up to him and shook his hand.
Ryohei is a small kid and not a very good English student. But he's always very enthusiastic about speaking up and volunteering to answer questions in English class. It's a characteristic that quickly made him one of my secret favorites. I greeted him cheerfully. He said, "Ms. Meghan..." then faltered. I congratulated him on graduating and wished him good luck. He seemed momentarily taken aback by my use of non-English, but then composed himself, looked deep into my eyes, and said, "Ms. Meghan...I love you."
"Oh. Thank you."
Awkward moment.
I will really miss this year's graduates. It's quite a different feeling from last year, when I had only been in the country for six months and didn't feel like I'd made a strong connection with many members of the graduating class. This year's third graders were a fun group and I really enjoyed teaching them. It's a weird feeling: it's not as though I can ever have a seriously deep connection with my students, at least not on the same level as their Japanese teachers do. But I did have some good inside jokes with several of them. And there were the few who always seemed a bit aloof, but who lit up every time I greeted them by name. In some ways, they're the ones I'll miss the most.
Two more weeks until closing ceremony and spring break. As I mount my bicycle and ride through the frigid air to a job where I spend a whole lot of time doing nothing (I'll be spending even more time sitting at my desk doing just that now that a third of the students are out of school), I tick the days off one by one and whisper to myself, "Gambatte."
The very fact that we use the word "commencement" in English to describe graduation from an educational institution indicates a sharp contrast in our attitude toward the event and the meaning that the ceremony signifies. In America, graduation ceremonies stand to celebrate academic achievement, as well as to point optimistically toward the future that our alma mater has (hopefully) prepared us for.
In a Japanese graduation ceremony, one has a hard time finding signs of any such things as "celebration" and "optimism." What you do find, however, are tears. Buckets of them. To be fair, I don't think there were nearly as many sobs wrenching from the throats of students, parents, and teachers this year as there were last year. But the reputation still stands: graduation day is a day to cry. Everything about the ceremony seems to be specifically engineered toward the purpose of making everyone feel really, really sad. Whether it's the solemn funeral-like atmosphere, the sappy funeral-like music, or speech after speech emphasizing that EVERYTHING YOU'VE BEEN THROUGH TOGETHER IS NOW OVER. YOU CAN NEVER COME BACK. THIS IS SAD. FEEL SAD.
For me, however, there are some positive points to this day. For starters, it's the one day out of the year that I really get to dress up. Despite the fact that it was a bitterly cold day, with snow on the ground and the temperature never rising more than a couple degrees above freezing, I enjoyed wearing pearls and makeup and a formal black dress. I have a few fans among the first-year girls at my school and, as I walked down the hall this morning, my getup elicited exclamations of, "Beautiful!" "Sooooo cute!" "Cameron Diaz!"
Hey, I'll take it.
After the ceremony, the graduates have a short while to talk to friends and teachers before heading home with their families. I went around shaking hands and giving hugs, telling kids "Omedeto!" (Congratulations!) and "Gambatte!" (Good luck!). One boy--Ryohei--flagged me down. I went up to him and shook his hand.
Ryohei is a small kid and not a very good English student. But he's always very enthusiastic about speaking up and volunteering to answer questions in English class. It's a characteristic that quickly made him one of my secret favorites. I greeted him cheerfully. He said, "Ms. Meghan..." then faltered. I congratulated him on graduating and wished him good luck. He seemed momentarily taken aback by my use of non-English, but then composed himself, looked deep into my eyes, and said, "Ms. Meghan...I love you."
"Oh. Thank you."
Awkward moment.
I will really miss this year's graduates. It's quite a different feeling from last year, when I had only been in the country for six months and didn't feel like I'd made a strong connection with many members of the graduating class. This year's third graders were a fun group and I really enjoyed teaching them. It's a weird feeling: it's not as though I can ever have a seriously deep connection with my students, at least not on the same level as their Japanese teachers do. But I did have some good inside jokes with several of them. And there were the few who always seemed a bit aloof, but who lit up every time I greeted them by name. In some ways, they're the ones I'll miss the most.
Two more weeks until closing ceremony and spring break. As I mount my bicycle and ride through the frigid air to a job where I spend a whole lot of time doing nothing (I'll be spending even more time sitting at my desk doing just that now that a third of the students are out of school), I tick the days off one by one and whisper to myself, "Gambatte."
20100211
Name That Tune
For all of you folks who have lived in or visited Moka at some point, here's one to take you back. Relax, imagine that you're in at little corner in the southeast of Tochigi Prefecture, it's a cloudy day, and the clock's about to strike noon. Now click the link below.
12:00 in Moka - meghanjanssen
Posted using ShareThis
12:00 in Moka - meghanjanssen
Posted using ShareThis
20100202
But What Do Gaijin Eat?
Today I’ll let you in on a little secret I’ve been feeling a bit guilty about for the last year and a half or so. I didn’t just choose to name this blog “Gaijin Cuisine” because it rhymes (well, uh, kind of). Back in August 2008, when I was setting up a space where I could electronically catalog my experiences in Japan for all to read and follow religiously, I had in my heart the vision that it would be written from the angle of a food blog.
Well, if you follow this blog very closely (as I know you do), you’re aware that it hasn’t exactly lived up to my initial ambitions. I don’t usually write about food here. Or, when I do, it’s seldom a central theme to my writing. But now I feel I have an avenue by which all that is about to change.
I’ve been a fair-weather vegetarian for quite some time now. Ever since my sophomore year in college, when I decided I would be participating in a short-term mission trip to Kenya the following summer, my motto has been: “If you might possibly make someone uncomfortable or offend them by not eating it, then just eat it.” I carried that principle on with me through the rest of college and beyond, always feeling that it was better to keep my mouth shut when a friend suggested going to a burger place for dinner, rather than butting in, “Well, uh, I’d rather not. Because, uh, they don’t have any vegetarian options there and conventional beef-production practices are detrimental to the environment, to the cows themselves, and to the future generations of this planet.” No, that usually doesn’t fly in most circles. So I just went with the flow.
Since moving to Japan, I’ve eaten things that I didn’t even know existed before I came here. Some of them have been outstandingly delicious; and some, like raw shrimp, I now avoid at all costs. I’ve learned to appreciate certain kinds of fish as they come into season, and to savor the first persimmons of fall with an enthusiasm that I never would have foreseen. This is a country with rich culinary traditions; every meal has the potential to be a deeply memorable (whether in a good way or a bad way) experience. And I’ve been pretty eager to not miss out on any such experiences. So far.
I could easily go into lengthy detail as to my reasons for deciding to go vegetarian in Japan. But, for now, suffice it to say that my personal moral convictions regarding the decision to eat meat have finally outweighed my hesitancy to offend others by not eating the same things they do. It wasn’t an easy decision. Most of the vegetarians that do exist in this country are foreigners. If a Japanese person ever really prods me (which I doubt would ever happen, but for the sake of speculation...) as to why I don’t eat meat, I’m still not sure how I will manage to provide a satisfactory answer. The easiest thing would be to half-lie and blame it on my upbringing: “My family never ate a lot of meat while I was growing up, so I never developed a strong liking for it.” That’s only half true. What it really boils down to, for me, is: “All things considered, it’s just not worth it.”
What this means for my blog, at least for the time being, is that I have a fresh opportunity to share with the world my experiences abroad on a meal-by-meal basis. Being vegetarian means that I can’t eat the school lunches, so that’s five more meals per week that I have to work out on my own. I started the week out strong with vegetable enchiladas and a spinach salad on Monday, and sweet potato stew with rice on Tuesday (today). And tomorrow…more enchiladas?
Tonight’s offering: a picture of a cupcake. A vegan cupcake. The recipe comes from the cookbook, Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World. The authors, Isa Chandra Moskowitz and Terry Hope Romero, promise in the introduction, “A surefire way to get people to look at your blog is by posting pictures of cupcakes,” so I’m going to give it a go. These come from the recipe for “Your Basic Chocolate Cupcake” with “Peanut Buttercream Frosting” and “Rich Chocolate Ganache Topping.” I had a lot of fun with these. And, boy oh boy, were they rich.
Well, if you follow this blog very closely (as I know you do), you’re aware that it hasn’t exactly lived up to my initial ambitions. I don’t usually write about food here. Or, when I do, it’s seldom a central theme to my writing. But now I feel I have an avenue by which all that is about to change.
I’ve been a fair-weather vegetarian for quite some time now. Ever since my sophomore year in college, when I decided I would be participating in a short-term mission trip to Kenya the following summer, my motto has been: “If you might possibly make someone uncomfortable or offend them by not eating it, then just eat it.” I carried that principle on with me through the rest of college and beyond, always feeling that it was better to keep my mouth shut when a friend suggested going to a burger place for dinner, rather than butting in, “Well, uh, I’d rather not. Because, uh, they don’t have any vegetarian options there and conventional beef-production practices are detrimental to the environment, to the cows themselves, and to the future generations of this planet.” No, that usually doesn’t fly in most circles. So I just went with the flow.
Since moving to Japan, I’ve eaten things that I didn’t even know existed before I came here. Some of them have been outstandingly delicious; and some, like raw shrimp, I now avoid at all costs. I’ve learned to appreciate certain kinds of fish as they come into season, and to savor the first persimmons of fall with an enthusiasm that I never would have foreseen. This is a country with rich culinary traditions; every meal has the potential to be a deeply memorable (whether in a good way or a bad way) experience. And I’ve been pretty eager to not miss out on any such experiences. So far.
I could easily go into lengthy detail as to my reasons for deciding to go vegetarian in Japan. But, for now, suffice it to say that my personal moral convictions regarding the decision to eat meat have finally outweighed my hesitancy to offend others by not eating the same things they do. It wasn’t an easy decision. Most of the vegetarians that do exist in this country are foreigners. If a Japanese person ever really prods me (which I doubt would ever happen, but for the sake of speculation...) as to why I don’t eat meat, I’m still not sure how I will manage to provide a satisfactory answer. The easiest thing would be to half-lie and blame it on my upbringing: “My family never ate a lot of meat while I was growing up, so I never developed a strong liking for it.” That’s only half true. What it really boils down to, for me, is: “All things considered, it’s just not worth it.”
What this means for my blog, at least for the time being, is that I have a fresh opportunity to share with the world my experiences abroad on a meal-by-meal basis. Being vegetarian means that I can’t eat the school lunches, so that’s five more meals per week that I have to work out on my own. I started the week out strong with vegetable enchiladas and a spinach salad on Monday, and sweet potato stew with rice on Tuesday (today). And tomorrow…more enchiladas?
Tonight’s offering: a picture of a cupcake. A vegan cupcake. The recipe comes from the cookbook, Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World. The authors, Isa Chandra Moskowitz and Terry Hope Romero, promise in the introduction, “A surefire way to get people to look at your blog is by posting pictures of cupcakes,” so I’m going to give it a go. These come from the recipe for “Your Basic Chocolate Cupcake” with “Peanut Buttercream Frosting” and “Rich Chocolate Ganache Topping.” I had a lot of fun with these. And, boy oh boy, were they rich.
20100201
Keeping Warm
I just went outside to check and, yes, it's still snowing. The whole concept of it snowing at the place where I live is a relatively new one for me. As someone whose sensory memories of snow have been largely fabricated from descriptions pulled out of children's books and memorable lines of poetry, I'm quickly held in thrall by even a few hours of coat-drenching sleet. Tonight I stood out in the darkness (which, with the street lights reflecting off the white on the ground, was really not that dark at all), and was held in awe by the astonishing stillness. How surprising, that a little change in the weather can make you feel like you're suddenly standing in some parallel universe and everything familiar is a billion light years away.
But I don't stay outside for long. Last winter's boots--which are soon headed for retirement--just aren't up to the challenge of the weather. Eventually I have to shun the cold and climb back under my kotatsu, a steaming mug of soy hot cocoa in my hands.
One handy remedy I've recently discovered for getting through these winter days is miso soup. It's especially good for those sluggish mornings where my blood can't seem to pump fast enough to get me out the door and to work on time. It's also surprisingly easy to make. After a little experimentation, I've settled on a vegetarian miso soup recipe that I can be satisfied with.
Vegetarian Miso Soup*
Makes 2 servings
Ingredients:
-one small piece of kombu
-four cups cold water
-eight or so little shriveled pieces of dried wakame
-tofu -- like, 100g or so -- cut into small cubes
-three green onions, chopped
-three tbsp red miso (or white is okay, too, just don't get the kind that already has dashi added to it [see note below])
-a dash of soy sauce (optional)
-a dash of sesame oil (optional)
Directions:
Place cold water in a pot. Clean the kombu with a damp clean cloth. Add it to the pot, and let soak for 30 minutes. Bring water to a boil, and remove the kombu. Set asside (you can use it again tomorrow morning!). Add the wakame. The wakame will rehydrate within a minute or two, but let it simmer for at least five minutes. Add the tofu and stir for a minute. Add the green onions. Remove from heat.
Here, I like to place a strainer over the pot and add the miso by pressing it through the strainer, as this makes it easier to mix it into the broth. Stir until dissolved. Add optional ingredients. Serve.
*But, wait: isn't all miso soup vegetarian? Well, no, it's not. A basic ingredient in miso soup is dashi, which is traditionally made with fish flakes. The Japanese put dashi into just about everything, so that it ends up in places you would never expect, like otherwise seemingly vegetarian soups and noodle broths. In this recipe, the boiled kombu serves as the dashi. There are other possible alternatives, such as dried shitake mushrooms, that I have yet to experiment with, and there is a trove of recipe resources on the Internet that I've yet to explore; I'm simply sharing the fruits of my own adventures in my own little kitchen.
I'm glad to know that it's easy to produce an animal free (and delicious) alternative to traditional miso soup preparation methods in my own home, especially since--as of today--I've embarked on a fresh mission to be a vegetarian. This means that I've had to cancel my school lunch plan and commit to preparing three meals a day in order to feed myself. I will keep you updated on the progress of this mission as it unravels.
But I don't stay outside for long. Last winter's boots--which are soon headed for retirement--just aren't up to the challenge of the weather. Eventually I have to shun the cold and climb back under my kotatsu, a steaming mug of soy hot cocoa in my hands.
One handy remedy I've recently discovered for getting through these winter days is miso soup. It's especially good for those sluggish mornings where my blood can't seem to pump fast enough to get me out the door and to work on time. It's also surprisingly easy to make. After a little experimentation, I've settled on a vegetarian miso soup recipe that I can be satisfied with.
Vegetarian Miso Soup*
Makes 2 servings
Ingredients:
-one small piece of kombu
-four cups cold water
-eight or so little shriveled pieces of dried wakame
-tofu -- like, 100g or so -- cut into small cubes
-three green onions, chopped
-three tbsp red miso (or white is okay, too, just don't get the kind that already has dashi added to it [see note below])
-a dash of soy sauce (optional)
-a dash of sesame oil (optional)
Directions:
Place cold water in a pot. Clean the kombu with a damp clean cloth. Add it to the pot, and let soak for 30 minutes. Bring water to a boil, and remove the kombu. Set asside (you can use it again tomorrow morning!). Add the wakame. The wakame will rehydrate within a minute or two, but let it simmer for at least five minutes. Add the tofu and stir for a minute. Add the green onions. Remove from heat.
Here, I like to place a strainer over the pot and add the miso by pressing it through the strainer, as this makes it easier to mix it into the broth. Stir until dissolved. Add optional ingredients. Serve.
*But, wait: isn't all miso soup vegetarian? Well, no, it's not. A basic ingredient in miso soup is dashi, which is traditionally made with fish flakes. The Japanese put dashi into just about everything, so that it ends up in places you would never expect, like otherwise seemingly vegetarian soups and noodle broths. In this recipe, the boiled kombu serves as the dashi. There are other possible alternatives, such as dried shitake mushrooms, that I have yet to experiment with, and there is a trove of recipe resources on the Internet that I've yet to explore; I'm simply sharing the fruits of my own adventures in my own little kitchen.
I'm glad to know that it's easy to produce an animal free (and delicious) alternative to traditional miso soup preparation methods in my own home, especially since--as of today--I've embarked on a fresh mission to be a vegetarian. This means that I've had to cancel my school lunch plan and commit to preparing three meals a day in order to feed myself. I will keep you updated on the progress of this mission as it unravels.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
