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.

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.

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

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To mask, or not to mask?

Another kid at my school was out with the flu today. In the morning report, I heard them remarking to one another that it was because he was so bad at remembering to wear a mask. Everyone agrees on this: a gauze mask is the most effective way to guard oneself against the flu virus. As I listen in on this conversation, my expression is neutral, but my heart scoffs with all the scoffiness I can muster. I like to consider myself above all this foolery with masks.

Then I hear my name. I hate it when they do this: talk about me while I'm sitting right there, and then nobody bothers to explain to me why I'm being talked about. But, this time, I've got enough context to decipher the gist of what they're saying.

Basically, I'm the only person at my school who isn't wearing a mask at all times. I tried it for a while, just to keep others happy, but the truth about masks is: they're nasty. They're itchy and they make breathing difficult, so, at least in my case, that means that I'm constantly adjusting them. With my hands. So the germs on my hands are easily passing to my face--to my mouth and nose and eyes and all those places that I'm usually very careful to not touch while I'm trying to avoid getting sick.

But if everyone in Japan is obsessed with wearing surgical masks to stay healthy during cold and flu season, then there must be some evidence demonstrating their effectiveness, right? In all my perusing of the internets, I was unable to find a single article or study affirming that these types of masks do much of anything to keep a healthy person from getting sick. An article in the New York Times cites research presented at the Interscience Conference on Antimicrobial Agents and Chemotherapy in San Francisco. Researchers concluded:

Surgical masks are designed to trap respiratory secretions (including bacteria and viruses) expelled by the wearer and prevent disease transmission to others. Surgical masks are not designed to prevent inhalation of airborne particles.

I wish there were a means for me to present this argument to the teachers who eye me and my uncovered face suspiciously as I pass them in the halls every day.

I'm left with a bit of a moral dilemma. Is it better to stand my ground as a person who doesn't come from a culture where it's normal to wear a gauze mask in public when you're trying to keep from getting sick? I mean, not only are they incredibly uncomfortable, but there's no scientific evidence that they're actually helpful! However, I am living in their country, and if wearing a mask makes them feel better about me, should I just bury my pride and go along with it?

When it doesn't go against my moral principles, I always do my best to be culturally sensitive and to not offend the people around me with my flamboyant gaijin ways. Eventually, I suppose I'll just have to cave and go along with it.

Ain't got nobody and monkey sat in my miso cucumbers.

Yesterday was the last day of school before summer vacation. This doesn't mean that a new school year will start up again in September; in Japan, the school year runs from April to March. But it does mean that I have now been in Japan for eleven months and have successfully (at least in some sense) experienced every stage of the junior high school year.

I've been pondering and attempting to come up with a word that concisely summarizes my first year in Japan. If it were a Japanese word, I would definitely have to go with sumimasen, a phrase which can very conveniently be adapted to mean either "Thank you," "Excuse me," or, "I'm sorry," depending on the situation. But as far as English descriptors go, I'll have to settle with four:

Lonely. Restrained. Introspective. Revolutionary.

As I think my blog has faithfully reflected, being a foreign English teacher in Moka, Japan has been difficult. At work, there's a lot of feeling like I have to hold back and conform to social expectations, and both at work and at home, my friend pool is a bit spare. Though I don't necessarily miss America, per se, I have come to appreciate just how friendly and outgoing Americans are in comparison to some other cultures. I don't know how I'd get through it all if it weren't for Skype and the little people who appear in a small video chat box on my computer screen from time to time.

And yet, for all their difficulty, I can state confidently that my time and experiences in Japan have been meaningful, uplifting, and have led me towards positive introspection and change. As a teacher, I see that I've grown considerably in my approach to ESL instruction and in my interactions with Japanese junior high schoolers. And the challenges and the loneliness of this place teach me daily to rely on God and to see her even in the places where the concept of a loving and omniscient God is never even given the slightest acknowledgment. Revolutionary.

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Yesterday evening I also had the unique opportunity to patronize a certain dining establishment which has, since its opening, attained a certain level of small fame. It's just your average little whole-in-the-wall izakaya, aside from the small detail that two of the waiters on staff are...monkeys. Yep, that's right: I went to a monkey bar. The monkeys wore weird little uniforms, brought us hot towels to wipe our hands, and poured our beer. I must admit, the whole thing made me a bit uncomfortable, both for sanitary reasons (my appetite wasn't exactly piqued when I walked in the front door and the whole place smelled exactly like a pet shop) and out of concern for the general wellbeing of the animals themselves. The highlight of the evening was certainly when the younger monkey suddenly lost control and began to jump all over our table, turning over dishes and planting a foot right in the middle of the lovely platter of miso cucumbers that I had been attempting to savor. At the end of the evening, the monkeys were made to put on a show for us, attaining such feats as jumping rope, riding on rocking horses, performing traditional Japanese folk dances, and even playing basketball.

I have absolutely no interest in ever going back to this place, but at least I got some cool pictures.

Only in Japan.

A Few Simple Reasons

There are several little things that make life in Japan lovely. Here are just a few:

1. Sometimes, the English translations on signs and packagings are so strange that they read like poetry.

A sign on the Utsunomiya Line train.

The glare sort of interfered with this one, but it says, "I threw my cigarette butt in the drain. That is to say, I hid it in the drain."

2. The children are always excited to meet me.

I didn't know which teacher's room to go to, so I just went to the teachers' room.

3. It forces me to be creative.

Our own desperate version of Girl Scouts' Thin Mints: one Mentos (or Mento, as Jennifer put it, in the singular) between two squares of Meiji chocolate. Yum.

Earthquake!

So, I'm sitting on my bed in my room, lookin' up stuff on the internets, when suddenly it feels like the earth beneath me has a chill and gives a little shiver. My bed jolts suddenly and violently, followed by a series of smaller, less detectable jolts. Oh the thrill of living in Japan!

I'm always a little surprised and not a little amused when I meet Americans who aren't from California who think that we Californians must have it real rough: what with all the earthquakes we're always having. The truth is, folks (and I hesitate here, for fear that my confession will strike a sudden surge in immigration to California, causing the Golden State to at last buckle beneath the weight of its many inhabitants and finally drop off into the Pacific), that I lived in California for twenty-three years and only once -- that's right once -- in my entire time there did I feel an earthquake. True, I didn't live right above a fault line, and perhaps I'm just not very sensitive to the things. But, in general, Californians don't go through their daily lives agonizing that the ground beneath their feet is unstable. They don't Velcro their china to the shelves. For most Californians, earthquakes just don't occupy a lot of space in their daily thoughts.

Before I came to Japan, I'd felt one earthquake in my life. Since moving to Japan, I've felt...well, lots. And I love it! There's something truly exhilarating about being reminded that the earth beneath you is big and powerful and constantly moving and changing. I think I often take the earth for granted. When I feel an earthquake, it's as if the earth is saying, "I'm here. I'm quite large. Don't forget me."

Okay, I won't.

Snapshot

On the last stretch of my bike ride home this afternoon, I rounded the corner and saw an old woman standing on a sheet metal roof, using a long tool to pluck persimmons from an already leaf-bare tree.

Good morning! It's Japan!

Yesterday was a long day. I spent half an hour on a bus to get to the train station to spend one-and-a-half hours on a train to get to Tokyo. Once there, I went to the Tokyo National Museum and walked around looking at Japanese art and artifacts for two-and-a-half hours. After that, I got lunch, visited Harajuku for some brief shopping, then hopped on the Yamanote Line back to Ueno, where I boarded another train for one-and-a-half hours, then finally took a bus back to Moka.

Naturally, I was looking forward to sleeping in on Sunday. No such luck. Because at eight o'clock in the morning, this happened.