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.
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