I have got to stop blogging at 3am. I know the last entry says it was posted at about 1:30am, but that's just when I began composing it; I actually futzed around with it for hour and a half, and finally went to bed shortly after 3.
That morning I got a call on my cell phone. Who was it but Toothpaste Maniac. Since I'm never awakened by a phone call on weekdays, I somehow got it into my head, in my semi-conscious state, that it was Saturday. So I looked at the caller ID display, thought, I wonder why TM is calling, and answered with a cheery, "Hello!"
"Hello," she said. "Are you coming to Yoko-chu today?"
"Umm... huh?" I'd heard her say Yoko-chu (Yokota JHS), but somehow I thought she meant Yoko-sho, the elementary school. Why would I be going to the elementary school on a Saturday?
"Are you coming to Yoko-chu today?" she repeated.
Something was wrong, and I became aware that I was really disoriented—my immediate family will testify that I'm a difficult person to communicate with when I've just woken up. I also began to realize that today might not be Saturday, but I didn't dare ask TM what day it was, because that would only make things worse. I looked at my watch: ten minutes to 9. Then I realized... Tuesday!
"Oh no! Gomen nasai! I'm so sorry!"
TM started to laugh. "Overslept?"
"Oh man, the alarm... I don't know what happened. I'll be right there."
"Okay, because you have a class with me first period."
Ghaa! I have so few classes at that school, to be late to one made my tardiness twice as bad. "Ah! I'll hurry."
"I'll leave a note on your desk. When you get here, please come to class 2-3."
I scrambled to get ready and ran to school. In the front of the school yard was the principal with a couple of administrators, examining a decorative carved stone. Lovely. They wished me good morning, and I gave a sheepish "sumimasen" (excuse me), which they inexplicably found amusing.
Trying to be discreet, I snuck into the teachers' room where only a handful of teachers were. I made my way quickly to my desk to find the note TM had left for me. But one of the other JTEs was across the room using a computer. "Emily!" she sang. "Good morning!"
"Good morning," I groaned. "I'm an idiot."
Toothpaste Maniac gets her nickname from an exchange we had within my first month of teaching. Brushing your teeth after every meal is something that's preached in schools in the US, but we rarely practice it—never, if you went to my schools. But at my schools in Japan all the kids and most of the teachers brush their teeth immediately after lunch. I thought it a bit strange at first (cos newbies tend to think different = strange), and then decided that it was, well, actually a very good idea. So I brought my own toothpaste and brush to leave in my desk at each junior high.
A couple of days after I'd started brushing regularly at Yokota JHS, one of my JTEs came up to me after lunch and gestured to the tube of Crest in my hand. "I haf hiss," she said while brushing her teeth.
Looking down at the tube, I said, "Crest?" I hadn't seen it in Japan, but I remembered that she'd spent several months in England.
She nodded, her mouth still full of foam. "I co'eck hoofpase. I'm a hoofpase maniac."
Priceless.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
Introductions (and digressions)
The longer I keep this blog, the greater the chance that someone I work with will read it. It's not really gossip when the people I'm talking to don't know the people I'm talking about, but where those two groups converge, I have to be more careful. Additionally, when the latter group's native language is different from my own, unintentional offense may result, and I would be at a disadvantage to defend myself, because my Japanese sucks.
Since I really don't feel like dealing with those sorts of problems, I've decided to create nicknames for many of the people I write about. Of course any of these people, if they were to read something I wrote about them, would recognize themselves easily, and maybe some friends and co-workers would recognize them, too. But since I'm not printing lies, I'm not as concerned that they might know what I write about them as I am that they might think just anybody on the planet can learn about their personal lives.
And in case anyone is wondering if I'm just stealing an idea from Azrael... yeah, I am. That doesn't mean it's not a good one.
Today I will introduce Kool-Aid Man. Kool-Aid Man is one of the gym teachers at Yokota JHS, and his desk is next to mine. He gets this nickname for often answering, "Oh, yes!" to my questions. Not quite what the real Kool-Aid Man would say, but his enthusiasm is about right.
"Kool-Aid Man, does this kanji mean 'summer'?"
"Oh, yes!"
At the enkai in July to mark the end of the first trimester, Kool-Aid Man and my JTE and I were having a conversation, and while listening to my JTE I ate a bit of what was left on my plate with my chopsticks. Kool-Aid Man saw this and said, "Oh, Emily, chopsticks, very good!"
I rolled my eyes. "Mainichi! Kyuushoku! I've eaten lunch next to you every day for one year! OF COURSE I can use chopsticks!!"
I mentioned this to some of the new Unnan City JETs shortly after they arrived last month. Kool-Aid Man got a lot of sympathy: "Well, that's how Japanese people break the ice. They find something they can compliment you on. He was just trying to start a conversation." Ordinarily, they'd have been right. I've lost count of the number of times I've been complimented on my chopstick skills, and usually reply to such praise with a simple "Domo."
But Kool-Aid Man has no excuse, because:
To Western Girl's first complaint, I agree, "Just get used to it" is probably the best response. Whether old people are nosy is another topic of discussion, but if they are, they are nosy about everyone.
But the more I thought about Western Girl's second complaint, the more I thought the publishing company had missed an enormous opportunity to teach students about relating to foreigners. Japanese Friend's complacency ignores what real Japanese people can do to prevent this problem.
I mean, think about it: when was the last time you complimented someone on their ability to use a knife and fork? If you can think of any time at all when you did this, it was probably a compliment offered to someone very young, probably about two or three years old. Two- and three-year olds in Japan can use chopsticks easily. Granted, it is a tricky business to learn how to use them, but it doesn't take a very long time; Mabel even found, when she first arrived in Japan, that the hungrier she was, the better she could control her chopsticks.
Japanese people also never ask each other if they can use chopsticks, and I am highly aware that they ask me only because I'm foreign. Many questions, of course, fall into the category of Things One Only Asks of Foreign People, like, "Are you from America?" and, "Do you speak Japanese?" While these two are fair (if oft heard) questions, it seems clear to me that any foreigner who has lived in Japan for more than a month probably knows how to use chopsticks, and so I think that this would be clear to any Japanese person, as well; what remains of this question, then, is the distinction between the one asking the question and the one answering it.
It reminds me of a young woman from Africa I met a few years ago—I confess to having forgotten what country she was from. She told me that when she first came to the U.S. she stayed with a host family for a time. Her host mother gave her a tour of the house, showed her where the bathroom was, and then asked if she knew how to use the toilet. In fact, I don't think she even asked; she just launched into an explanation of how to use the contraption. The young woman, of course, was deeply offended. In comparison, being asked about chopsticks is pretty mild, but the idea is the same. "You are foreign, so you do not know our ways."
I would have liked to have offered the following flowchart to use before asking foreigners if they can use chopsticks:
In summary: Chopstick comments make me feel infantile, and I never like to feel infantile. Chopstick comments make me feel foreign, and being foreign gets old really fast. The overall effect is like my freshman year of college—living at home, not knowing anybody. Freshman year sucked.
I would keep this rant to myself and avoid offending Japanese friends, but I am not the only person who feels this way. If there was just one bit of advice I could get to stick in my students' heads, it would be, "Foreigners are not strange and mysterious creatures; don't treat us like we are."
Interestingly, though, I can't recall any student ever commenting on my chopstick use; I've just had teachers say to some kids, "Hey, look, Emily-sensei is really good at using chopsticks, huh?" So maybe things are getting better.
But where was I? Ah, Kool-Aid Man. So the chopstick comment is the only strike against him; on the whole he's one of my favorite teachers. He doesn't mind when I bug him every so often to pronounce some kanji a student has written in an English assignment so I can look it up in my dictionary. And he pays (the right kind of) attention to me during enkais—a favor that goes a long way in my book.
Since I really don't feel like dealing with those sorts of problems, I've decided to create nicknames for many of the people I write about. Of course any of these people, if they were to read something I wrote about them, would recognize themselves easily, and maybe some friends and co-workers would recognize them, too. But since I'm not printing lies, I'm not as concerned that they might know what I write about them as I am that they might think just anybody on the planet can learn about their personal lives.
And in case anyone is wondering if I'm just stealing an idea from Azrael... yeah, I am. That doesn't mean it's not a good one.
Today I will introduce Kool-Aid Man. Kool-Aid Man is one of the gym teachers at Yokota JHS, and his desk is next to mine. He gets this nickname for often answering, "Oh, yes!" to my questions. Not quite what the real Kool-Aid Man would say, but his enthusiasm is about right.
"Kool-Aid Man, does this kanji mean 'summer'?"
"Oh, yes!"
At the enkai in July to mark the end of the first trimester, Kool-Aid Man and my JTE and I were having a conversation, and while listening to my JTE I ate a bit of what was left on my plate with my chopsticks. Kool-Aid Man saw this and said, "Oh, Emily, chopsticks, very good!"
I rolled my eyes. "Mainichi! Kyuushoku! I've eaten lunch next to you every day for one year! OF COURSE I can use chopsticks!!"
I mentioned this to some of the new Unnan City JETs shortly after they arrived last month. Kool-Aid Man got a lot of sympathy: "Well, that's how Japanese people break the ice. They find something they can compliment you on. He was just trying to start a conversation." Ordinarily, they'd have been right. I've lost count of the number of times I've been complimented on my chopstick skills, and usually reply to such praise with a simple "Domo."
But Kool-Aid Man has no excuse, because:
- He's a charismatic, outgoing guy who doesn't need to resort to petty compliments to get a conversation going.
- He's known me for a year.
- We were already in the middle of a conversation.
To Western Girl's first complaint, I agree, "Just get used to it" is probably the best response. Whether old people are nosy is another topic of discussion, but if they are, they are nosy about everyone.
But the more I thought about Western Girl's second complaint, the more I thought the publishing company had missed an enormous opportunity to teach students about relating to foreigners. Japanese Friend's complacency ignores what real Japanese people can do to prevent this problem.
I mean, think about it: when was the last time you complimented someone on their ability to use a knife and fork? If you can think of any time at all when you did this, it was probably a compliment offered to someone very young, probably about two or three years old. Two- and three-year olds in Japan can use chopsticks easily. Granted, it is a tricky business to learn how to use them, but it doesn't take a very long time; Mabel even found, when she first arrived in Japan, that the hungrier she was, the better she could control her chopsticks.
Japanese people also never ask each other if they can use chopsticks, and I am highly aware that they ask me only because I'm foreign. Many questions, of course, fall into the category of Things One Only Asks of Foreign People, like, "Are you from America?" and, "Do you speak Japanese?" While these two are fair (if oft heard) questions, it seems clear to me that any foreigner who has lived in Japan for more than a month probably knows how to use chopsticks, and so I think that this would be clear to any Japanese person, as well; what remains of this question, then, is the distinction between the one asking the question and the one answering it.
It reminds me of a young woman from Africa I met a few years ago—I confess to having forgotten what country she was from. She told me that when she first came to the U.S. she stayed with a host family for a time. Her host mother gave her a tour of the house, showed her where the bathroom was, and then asked if she knew how to use the toilet. In fact, I don't think she even asked; she just launched into an explanation of how to use the contraption. The young woman, of course, was deeply offended. In comparison, being asked about chopsticks is pretty mild, but the idea is the same. "You are foreign, so you do not know our ways."
I would have liked to have offered the following flowchart to use before asking foreigners if they can use chopsticks:
- Has this person lived in Japan for more than one month?
- Yes: STOP. This person can use chopsticks.
- No: Go to the next question.
- Are you dining with this person now and are they using chopsticks?
- Yes: STOP. This person can use chopsticks.
- No: Go to the next question.
- Have you ever dined with this person, and did they use chopsticks then?
- Yes: STOP. This person can use chopsticks.
- No: Ask at your own risk.
In summary: Chopstick comments make me feel infantile, and I never like to feel infantile. Chopstick comments make me feel foreign, and being foreign gets old really fast. The overall effect is like my freshman year of college—living at home, not knowing anybody. Freshman year sucked.
I would keep this rant to myself and avoid offending Japanese friends, but I am not the only person who feels this way. If there was just one bit of advice I could get to stick in my students' heads, it would be, "Foreigners are not strange and mysterious creatures; don't treat us like we are."
Interestingly, though, I can't recall any student ever commenting on my chopstick use; I've just had teachers say to some kids, "Hey, look, Emily-sensei is really good at using chopsticks, huh?" So maybe things are getting better.
But where was I? Ah, Kool-Aid Man. So the chopstick comment is the only strike against him; on the whole he's one of my favorite teachers. He doesn't mind when I bug him every so often to pronounce some kanji a student has written in an English assignment so I can look it up in my dictionary. And he pays (the right kind of) attention to me during enkais—a favor that goes a long way in my book.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Breaking the Silence
Internet! And I discovered that Nita Town owns my phone line. No matter that my apartment is in Yokota, or that, strictly speaking, neither Nita nor Yokota exist any longer. All that matters is what's contained in some computer database somewhere.
I uploaded all of my Mt. Fuji photos from last month. Take a look at them—the view from almost-the-top is still pretty cool.
The typhoon that blew through the other day doesn't seem to have done much damage in Yokota. Classes were cancelled Tuesday, but teachers still had to show up. Classes were cancelled again yesterday, and rather than endure the same mind-numbing boredom as Tuesday, I took the day off. I took today off, too, but only because I slept through my alarm and woke up half an hour after school had started, then found out from my JTE that I didn't have any classes anyway.
I walked to Picco Picco for lunch, craving a hamburger. They have a stash of manga for customers to read, as well as several children's books. Today there was a book I'd never seen before about a cat who lives a million lives, each life full of adventure: sailing oceans, living in palaces in the company of kings, queens; he himself is a king among cats. Then in another lifetime he meets a lady cat, and they fall in love and have lots of little kittens, and they grow old together. And one day she dies... and the old cat cries and cries... clutching her limp body to his belly, huge tears, wet and frantic eyes to heaven, his mouth open wide, the roof of his mouth and his rough pink tongue, he wails... and he dies, too, and never lives again. And I could not look at that picture anymore, so I had to leave.
I uploaded all of my Mt. Fuji photos from last month. Take a look at them—the view from almost-the-top is still pretty cool.
The typhoon that blew through the other day doesn't seem to have done much damage in Yokota. Classes were cancelled Tuesday, but teachers still had to show up. Classes were cancelled again yesterday, and rather than endure the same mind-numbing boredom as Tuesday, I took the day off. I took today off, too, but only because I slept through my alarm and woke up half an hour after school had started, then found out from my JTE that I didn't have any classes anyway.
I walked to Picco Picco for lunch, craving a hamburger. They have a stash of manga for customers to read, as well as several children's books. Today there was a book I'd never seen before about a cat who lives a million lives, each life full of adventure: sailing oceans, living in palaces in the company of kings, queens; he himself is a king among cats. Then in another lifetime he meets a lady cat, and they fall in love and have lots of little kittens, and they grow old together. And one day she dies... and the old cat cries and cries... clutching her limp body to his belly, huge tears, wet and frantic eyes to heaven, his mouth open wide, the roof of his mouth and his rough pink tongue, he wails... and he dies, too, and never lives again. And I could not look at that picture anymore, so I had to leave.
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