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.

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.

Saying Goodbye

I had the privilege of attending the pool-closing ceremony at one of my elementary schools yesterday, during one of my regular visits. The event marked the end of an important summer pastime as the activity now passes officially into hibernation until next July. The entire school (no less than seventy-some students with the teachers and staff) gathered barefoot around the edge of the pool and hung their heads solemnly in memory of the times they’d had there over the last two months.

The principal opened the service with a few somber words, encouraging the mourners not to be too downhearted about the passing of their beloved swimming pool. She spoke of other sports that they would enjoy in the upcoming months—sports better suited to the autumn and winter weather. She congratulated the congregation on their achievements this summer, and encouraged them to find consolation in training hard for the upcoming Sports Day.

Next, six students—one representative from each grade level—lined up along the deep end of the pool, the bright blue waters spread out longways before them and reflected off their similarly moist eyes. One by one, they said a few words of their own.

The first and second-grade students kept it short, stating simply that they’d had fun swimming this summer. The third-grade student shared how he’d broken his former time on the 100 meters, and a girl from the fourth grade reminisced about the fun games she and her classmates had played. The fifth-grade girl, on her turn, stepped forward and recited a short speech detailing her enthusiasm for the fun times she anticipated having in the pool next year when it reopens. And the boy from sixth grade, with head bowed and shoulders quaking ever so slightly, lamented that this had been his last time to swim in the pool at elementary school.

All gazed stoically across the vibrant blue rectangular expanse, knowing that, within the span of their yet brief lives, they were witnessing the end of an era: the school maintenance man had already pulled the plug on the filtration system. In a month the vibrant blue would give way to a rich and marshy green, and the pool, in the height of its glory, would exist only as a fond memory in their tender little minds.

At least, that is, until next summer.



So long, fair swimming pastime: gone before I ever had the chance to appreciate you. You brought so much joy into the lives of those around you. I only regret that I didn’t get to know you better. Next time, I won’t let you get away so easily.

reality setting in

Last night I visited a big yellow castle; I watched people drink beer out of mugs with pictures of cute cartoon cats on them; I sat on tatami mats and belted lyrics into a microphone as they appeared on a TV screen. For the second time in the three-and-a-half weeks that I've been living here, I had one of those "Whoa: I'm in Japan" moments.

The first one came only two days ago when I payed my first visit to sho gakko (elementary school) and gave four English lessons to first through fourth graders. Midday, I had lunch with the ni nensei (second year) class. The children I sat with seemed eager to explain to me how to eat Japanese food and inquired several times as to how I felt about nattou (nasty rotten soybean snot food that I tasted for the first time on Thursday). I explained to them in my meager Japanese that I didn't understand much, but this didn't stop them from repeating their questions over and over, speaking very slowly as if this would somehow assist me to recognize the completely unfamiliar words they were using. As the "conversation" reached a lull, I simply allowed myself to look around the room at the students and their teacher, chatting, laughing, and shoveling mouthfuls of rice and nattou with their chopsticks. Every single one of these kids was so stinking cute. And that's when it hit me. All of a sudden, like the image in a 3D mystery picture coming into focus after I had been staring at it forever and seeing nothing but fuzz. I am freaking in Japan! Before leaving California, I had wondered and wondered just how long it would take for it to set in. And now I have the answer: precisely three weeks after arriving in the country.

Maybe this seems like a long time; but, at this moment, lying on my bed in my tatami-floored room, typing away on my MacBook, I sort of feel like I'm back in my bubble of non-reality. This morning I went out for brunch with my roommate, Jennifer, and two of our new Japanese friends, Toshi and Kosuke. I had a mayonnaise pizza (!?!?!?) which was shockingly delicious. In the afternoon I rode my bike in the rain to the grocery store and regretted not bringing an umbrella because the acidity of the precipitation here really fries my hair. This evening we watched half a Hayao Miyazaki film on Jennifer's laptop and now I'm getting ready for bed so that I can get up early and get ready for school again tomorrow. And the whole thing sort of just feels like a haze.

Last night was the second time I've been out for karaoke since arriving in Japan. The first was at the "second party" of my enkai (company party) that followed Undokai two weeks ago. That had been crazy. (Imagine sitting in a tiny karaoke bar with half of your co-workers, including your principal, all of whom are fantastically drunk and all-too eager to pick out songs for you to leap up on stage to preform. Some of these songs are going to be quite tame, like The Beatles' "Yellow Submarine." And inevitably one of these songs is going to be Madonna's "Like a Virgin." But you just have to say "hai" and go with the flow.) Going out last night with people more my age made for a very different karaoke experience. There were ten of us in all--six Americans and four Japanese--and we went to a karaoke bar that looked like and enormous cartoon castle and rented out our own room for three hours. It's no wonder that karaoke has achieved popularity outside of Nippon.

I apologize for the rambling nature of this particular post. Again I'm sort of weighed down by the fact that I don't often have the time or energy to sit down and blog. And, when I do, the overwhelming array of things I could write about is so daunting that I have an incredibly difficult time focusing on any one thing but feel pressure to somehow compress all my experiences from the last week or two into three or four barely coherent paragraphs. Forgive me. For next time, I'll do my best to squeeze an hour out of my hazy existence to compose a blog entry when I'm not already dead tired and struggling to account for the last two weeks that I haven't been updating my friends and family on the numerous ongoings of my new Japanese life. Until then.