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.
20100622
The Way It Is
Here is an excerpt from a recent email I sent to a dear friend...
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.
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