Not Just Ninjas

I just stumbled upon this wonderful article by Gene Weingarten in the Washington Post Magazine of April 8, 2007.  In January, the paper organized a “stunt” with Joshua Bell, the world-famous violinist, to play for an hour at a D.C. subway station during morning rush hour. The results are heartbreaking (in a good way) and I think you will enjoy this article, especially if you are a musician of any sort.

“It was a strange feeling, that people were actually, ah . . .”

The word doesn’t come easily.

“. . . ignoring me.”

Bell is laughing. It’s at himself.

“At a music hall, I’ll get upset if someone coughs or if someone’s cellphone goes off. But here, my expectations quickly diminished. I started to appreciate any acknowledgment, even a slight glance up. I was oddly grateful when someone threw in a dollar instead of change.” This is from a man whose talents can command $1,000 a minute.

Read more…

The weather’s been warming up, which means I can locomote by bike again! Biking to school is so much more enjoyable than driving. I pass all sorts of businesspeople, also on bikes, on the way to their jobs. We bow and smile and “Ohio gozaimasu” to each other. I see grandmas getting up to care for their property, shop owners tidying up, cats on the prowl.

Most kids pedal their way to school, as Noshiro is small enough to navigate entirely by bike. I pass every sort of plaid on my way to work… it’s kind of like Scotland and tartans, only here it’s kids and school-specific plaid uniforms. As I get within a few blocks of my school, I start to see my students. They’re always surprised to see me…. maybe adults are supposed to be in cars? They know I have one… perhaps they wonder why I’m slumming it with them? It’s an easy answer: one part California hippie fossil fuel consciousness and one part exercise.

I’ve never really been inspired to burn calories via bike. Perhaps it’s because I’ve lived in car-infested areas like Berkeley or San Diego or LA where you suck up more fumes than anything else. However, I just read the account of a woman, just out of college, who biked the Silk Road with a few friends in China. 5,000 kilometres in 4 months, riding through punishing mountainous terrain in Eastern China. This adventure has inspired me to rediscover Japan by bike. If only I had the vacation time, I would circumnavigate Hokkaido, complete the 88 temple pilgrimage in Shikoku, and do laps around Lake Biwa. For now, I’ve settled for rediscovering the countryside around me.

After 9 months here, I figured I pretty much knew everything there was to know about Noshiro. But there are those little streets between the arteries that still beg for exploration. I’ve found new temples and shrines in neighborhoods tucked away in the rural expanse. I’ve discovered beautiful tiny access roads that drift between the rice fields, which have all just been flooded with water for the upcoming planting season. I’ve biked to the next closest city, about 25 km to the east, following the serpentine Yoneshiro river. Along the river is an overgrown forgotten park full of blooming cherry trees and dilapidated playground equipment. Clusters of vertical polished stones indicate a small graveyard here or there.

In the middle of my ride, I stopped to talk to some older ladies to ask where I was, as I’m not sure where my town Noshiro ends and the next, Futatsui, begins. When I asked these women where I was, they said something like “Noshiro inaka desu yo!” and cackled, which roughly translates to “man, you’re in deep-country-side-boondocks-Noshiro!”

Farmers in their tractors pass me on the road, calling out to ask me if I’m tired or cold (no to both!). Farmers farther off in their fields bow slightly in my direction as I pass and do the same. I watch as everyone manicures their rice and vegetable fields, leveling the wet heavy muck, or patiently hoeing the dirt into rows for produce. The birds are out, grey herons and white egrets that stumble warily out of the river brush as I ride by.

I am falling in love with Tohoku all over again as green overtakes the countryside, and spring slowly manifests itself. And I can’t wait to see what happens next, what lies around the next curve.

It’s been three weeks. But that’s because I was at the wedding. A Japanese wedding for one of my co-workers, where the bride wore white and red and pink and white. Where the guests laughed but didn’t smile. Where there was karaoke, but a suspicious lack of dancing. Where the guests get presents instead of the couple of honor. Oh yeah, and the cake was steaming, billowing clouds of vapor.

And then I was sick, for like 5 days of mind-altering I can’t even remember my name but somehow I have no visible symptoms sick. That was the week of sleeping and more sleeping.

And then I was in Kyoto, hunting monkeys, jumping from train to train, climbing castle keeps, hoping for cherry blossoms, getting a suntan, a suntan on the beach, sucking every possible drop of goodness out of the kansai region before heading back to Noshiro. A trip I won’t write more about here because, hey, a) and then b) there’s this podcast I’m supposedly contributing to now, where I’m telling everyone, anyone who will listen about the best and strangest parts of Japan that I can find. So I’ve got to keep something up my sleeve for you there.

And now I’m here. Watching spring wrestle with winter for dominance in Noshiro. This means that I wake up to gloriously sunny (if slightly cold) weather, which is followed by snow at some point during the day, and then, inexplicably, more sun. The school year starts fresh on Monday; I’m in a suit for the first time since I began teaching in Japan, required costuming to welcome the new students to school. I just watched my first opening ceremony, which was an odd combination of the sober and the comical. The kids are all outside with their sports clubs in the sun, running through drills with a steady stream of “Gambare!” (“do your best!)”

And tomorrow I’ll still be here. Waiting for my first chance in weeks just to stop and do nothing and breathe, hoping for a weekend where I can lie in peace and revel in boredom.

Some of you may have noticed that the frequency of posts has been slowing of late. We’ve been living here for 7+ months now, and there’s only got so many quirky foreigner moments you can have before this formerly foreign place starts to seem normal. Allow me to catalogue for you a few of the smaller Japan Moments that have come our way:

The Steam Truck
For the longest time, Chris and I could hear this eerie off kilter whine in the distance. And it would creep closer. And very occasionally, we would catch up with this truck on its way through town… steam whistling out the top, with some kind of machinery in the back, like a huge kettle on wheels. But why? Was this person delivering hot water for busted winter pipes? Or maybe making deliveries to more rural areas with an inconsistent water supply? (::cough:: Futatsui ::cough::) Mystery solved as soon as my Japanese skills caught up with my curiosity. I just went out and asked the dude behind the wheel last week… it’s a yam truck. Like, quick, go out and get your piping hot yams. Even though this technically answers my question, I still can’t quite believe that the high demand for yams requires a roving truck.

The Shocker
There’s usually a variety of pools in an onsen: indoor and out, hot and cold, sauna, waterfall, jets, different minerals in different pools, you name it. But I had a new kind of onsen experience last weekend. I noticed the kanji for electricity by this pool, but didn’t think much of it; maybe it meant something different when it’s next to that other thing I can’t read, whatever. We get in, and notice little holes on the side of the wall. When you get close enough to the holes, BAM!, electric shock. I don’t know what this is and why it doesn’t kill you or how it’s supposed to be good for you. All I can tell you is it was uncomfortable and creepy. We got out right away.

Further research indicates that this is a “denkiburo” or “electric bath”. It’s reportedly popular with older folk who have rheumatism.

Illegal Buns
We ran into an ex-pat in a pizza parlour. We discussed how, in Japan, you can have hot dogs on sticks or spaghetti in a bun, but under no circumstances do you see a hot dog actually in a bun. This guy further explained that he had tried to start up his own business to fill this gaping hole in the Japanese economy, and when filing his papers, he discovered to his chagrin that hot dogs in buns are not allowed. He’s can’t even sell hot dogs and buns separately, because what if the customer combined them? What if the officials noticed? Someone would have to be held responsible. His papers were denied. “You really should have known better than to open up a store selling hot dogs and buns. Together. I mean, really.” This story borders on urban legend for me, it sounds so ridiculous. I asked my Japanese teachers about it, who also thought it was silly, but also were unable to explain the dearth of dog+bun. I don’t know if it’s a phallic issue or what. Hello out there, if you know what’s up with this, please fill the rest of us in.

Just So, originally uploaded by chrissam42.

I love this little demonstration of the Japanese Way. The only thing that could make it more perfect is if the photo in the poster had the poster in it.

A few things have been keeping me busy since returning from the Sapporo Snow Festival a few weeks ago. I’ve been working with a senior student at the high school for a speech contest that was held on Feb. 16th. The theme was, amazingly enough, “internationalization”. For most of the 15 year olds participating, this meant talking about their experiences as or with exchange students. Two of the speakers had spent some time in America… the take home message about that country was two fold:

1. “Americans are very religious and will hang a flag on anything”

2. “Some rude American boy addressed me as ‘Hey, Chinese!’ instead of
‘Hey, Japanese!’, or even, God forbid, by my actual name”

I have to say, I’m not exactly thrilled that this is the extent of what our country has to offer Japanese exchange students. Maybe the nicer fuzzy stuff doesn’t make for as good a story…?

Anyway, I’ve been preparing with my student, Tomatsu, for like a month and a half. We discussed ideas for his speech, which he wrote and translated into English pretty proficiently all by himself. We edited, worked on pronunciation, speed, inflection, emotion, and general public speaking skills. Not only did he work on these points, he worked on them every day. We would go over particularly difficult words or vowel sounds that don’t exist in Japanese, and I would see obvious improvement the next day. He has a great ear, and I am so impressed with his work ethic and desire to speak English well.

That’s why is was particularly great when he came home with a trophy. Third place, baby! Not bad, considering he was up against experienced competitors, many of whom go to the advanced English school in Akita city. I am so proud. Give it up for Noshiro, WOOOOT!!!!

The week after the speech contest, I worked all week at Junior High #2, where I had two astonishing moments in class. You’d think that the word “sweater” is fairly innocuous, right? We were teaching this word to a room full of 8th graders, when my co-teacher stops to discuss sweat, and sweater, and were they related?… a natural enough tangent. Then we start discussing the Japanese drink, “Pocari Sweat”, and my thoughts on the appropriateness of the name (um… a sports drink? Yum?). Then, in Japanese, this conversation, unbeknownst to me, takes a screaming 90 degree turn, and I hear the word “animal” in Japanese, and I’m thinking “what the heck…” and then I get this:

“Stephanie-sensei, do you know the Japanese drink, Calipis?”
<hesitant nod>
“Do you think that drink sounds like “Cow piss?”

Fabulous. How exactly does one professionally answer that question? The worst part was, in the States, class would have been over at that point. Talking about cow piss with 13 year olds in class would have been a great way to ensure mayhem. In my school, they just sat there politely and discussed it. Maybe “piss” has a different ring to it in Japanese?…

Later that week at the same school, I ran a class by myself, as my co-teacher had to go hunt down a missing student. We began with a game where every student (9th graders) had to think up a question to ask me; it could be anything, and points were awarded by difficulty of question. Usually for this kind of activity, students will parrot questions from dialogues in the book, like “What do you want to be in the future?” and “Which do you like better, dog or cat?” Then I get this gem:

“Stephanie-sensei. You look like you are in shape. How many times a week do you exercise?”

For a split second there, I swear I thought I was being hit on. I have to say, this question was a side splitter for me, as a) it was coming from a 14 year old girl that I see maybe once every other month and b) there is no way that she got that from the book, and that just tickles me pink.

I wasn’t sure how I would respond emotionally to coming back to work after vacation. Upon returning to Noshiro, I had a week left until school started, which meant sitting in the office from 8:30 to 4, wiling the hours away in a meaningless fashion to pacify parents (yes, I’m at school, yes, I’m “working”, thanks for providing my paycheck).

However, there’s enough down time here that the timbre of this vacant week didn’t feel very different from a normal work week. As a surrogate for being home for the holidays, I used the home ec ovens to bake coffee cake for all the teachers. This is one of the foods I bake in America for the holidays, so I wanted to bring a little piece of that here to share with others. Japan doesn’t really have specific “breakfast foods”, and certainly no one’s ever had this mystery substance “coffee cake” before. It was a pretty big hit, except for those inexplicable individuals who have a low tolerance for cinnamon (how can you not like cinnamon???) I also tried to untangle the deeper mysteries of karate by attending practice a few times in the school dojo.

Shortly after school started, one of the English teachers approached me during a quiet moment in the teachers’ lounge. She asked if we had a dress code in the US. This was, of course, prompted by a student flouting the dress code at my current school. What had this juvenile offender done to rock the boat? Her hair was now a Little Less Black.

Dying one’s hair is expressly forbidden for students at my school, as are crazy piercings, jewelry, makeup, untrimmed fingernails, nail polish, skirt hems too high, pants too low, or non-school issued shoes (with shoe trim color coded by grade, of course). However, this creative student had only bent the rules… she had not dyed her hair, it had not been bleached; it was simply lighter than the day before. And the day before that. And the day before that. A subtle enough change over time for her to deny that she had done anything unnatural at all (though the school apparently has pretty straightforward before and after pictures). Nevertheless, non-black tresses (not mine) could be easily spotted amidst a sea of otherwise uniformly black hair.

Wanting to genuinely know the answer, I asked the teacher as innocently and politely as I could: “What’s the worst that can happen if one girl has dark brown hair?”

And neither I nor my colleague really know what to say. We both understand that hair color is in this case a proxy for a more complicated and less tangible issue: personal autonomy vs. institutional authority. As a homeroom teacher in a Japanese high school, it is the teacher’s duty to look after her students and make sure they are respectful during and after school. Unlike American schools, teachers as well as parents take their kids’ behavior very seriously, and are responsible for their actions.

My colleague is so stressed out because her options seem to be:
1. confront the student’s parent, basically calling her kid a liar, or
2. fail her duty as a homeroom teacher.

The parent has also gotten involved and threatened to take the matter to the school board. In a country that values group harmony, I don’t envy my colleague’s position. All I could do was tell her that I came from a country where, when I was 15, one of my best friends had a nose piercing, pink hair, and wore lingerie as outerwear to school. And she didn’t turn out to be a sociopath. I hope that helps, sensei.

Good luck, whatever you decide to do.

Have you ever noticed this striking similarity?

I’ve been going to Japanese class for about 4 weeks now. It is a struggle to get myself to go; it’s never fun to feel stupid, and this is inevitably part of a sharp learning curve. However, I feel like I’ve been getting a lot out of class, and it’s at a good pace for me. In addition, the class is full of kids who come with their families, and there is a real sense of camaraderie that you don’t get with the usual college student foreign language class. We’re all there learning Japanese because we have to make our way through this confusing country day after day.

Several of the other English teachers in town make a regular appearance, and we’ve taken to going out to dinner afterwards. This is a great time to hang out, because we are all busy with our different schedules and don’t always get a chance to see each other. Plus there’s the bonding experience of just having survived Japanese class together.

So imagine my surprise when my Japanese teacher pulled me and Frank (British ALT) aside last class and basically forbade us from going out after class. “Promise me you will go straight home on Tuesday nights after class,” she said. Before any of you get too mentally creative, let me stress that drinking is not the main focus of our excursions. I never have more than 1 glass of beer, and I am always home by 11pm to prepare for teaching the next day.

This is a totally perplexing situation to me. The complaint’s premise was that the Japanese class is a family environment, and we may upset others, they may get the “wrong idea”… what idea, you ask? That we are in class only to play around afterward, and will not study hard. We give the class a bad name by being social after our studies. There was also something about how Japanese women must not carouse after 9pm (which is ridiculous, because I see my students out all the time). We tried to get a little more info with some Q&A:

What if we go straight home and go out again half an hour later? (no)
What if I want to go out with someone who wasn’t in Japanese class? (no)
What if we remove the female equation, and only the guys go out? (no)
What about cultural exchange? We can teach others that this is common social behavior in America/Brittain! (no)
What if we don’t drink, we just go out and eat? (no)
What if I go out by myself to eat alone and have absolutely no fun whatsoever? (no)
What if I have come straight from school and haven’t eaten and there is no food in my house? (no)

I am so upset, more upset than I should be. Especially because our Japanese friend Reiko has been out with us twice already. If this was such a universal social faux pas in Japan, why would she have come with us? The message I am getting is… if you want to socialize after class on Tuesday nights, don’t come to Japanese class. I feel like there is no respect for the fact that I am foreign and do things differently, that is it not good enough to study Japanese and take an interest in the culture and try to communicate… I must act Japanese. Which is ridiculous. I’M HERE FOR CULTURAL EXCHANGE, DAMMIT! Plus I just hate to be told I can’t do something, especially something that is fun and is so harmless. I live in a small town. Let me socialize. It’s one of the few diversions we have here.

So, what to do? I can say screw it, and do what I want, and openly defy my Japanese teacher. But I have to live here in this community, and I don’t want that kind of reputation. Do I suck it up and do what I’m told? That doesn’t go down too well either, and results in me resenting class and my teacher. Perhaps we’re going to have to work on some Underground solution.

икони

Two funny photos from Sunday.