Some days I sit down and write and others I sit down and can’t. Today feels like the latter but these are words so what you see is a contradiction. I wonder what the news looks like in America. What kind of coverage you are getting and what kind of coverage you think this deserves.
My high school was what, 2,000 students? Okay, 2,000 students. So let’s take the graduating classes of Lincoln High School from the last 20 years and drown them. Crush them under a building, a car—save the mess of thrashing limbs, debris, sea foam leaking from agape mouths and go ahead and mechanically funnel the ocean directly into their lungs—whatever. They’re gone. And mark them as tallies that'll headline. Pixilated on a TV screen, bolded in the morning paper. Somehow society makes the death of one man more personal than the death of 10,000. One man has a name, an obituary. 10,000 men have a one followed by four zeros. Things like this happen and we don’t take it personally because, well, because it isn’t. Because this is 9,800 miles, a skin color and a language away. We’ve never met these people and we never would have if they were still around. Nothing in your life changes. This morning I stood at the kitchen doorway and watched my host mother hang up the phone with a friend in Ofunato, then punch a wall.
Personal.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Nothing to do with anything
I can’t make you understand. And I’m not sure I’d want you to if you could, on account it wouldn’t be all mine anymore. I also am unsure how it would make you feel. Not the way I feel. It wouldn’t make you feel how I feel. There is console in knowing that no one ever knows how far other people feel the things they might be supposed to feel. Might be supposed to, might be supposed to. All I know is this: you are your own personality, a real everlasting thing, different from anything else. You are unmerge-able, like the sea or the wind. And here you are, and you are not profoundly excited at the thought of living, and I can’t imagine why. And I’m not sure I’d want to if I could.
I’d say most of it was Virginia Woolf. The good parts, anyway. The parts about being nice looking. ‘Not pretty, possibly,’ she drew herself up, ‘but yes, most people would say I was handsome.’ The moment you knew you’d never be beautiful. It must have been quick and subtle, the way the holy ghost passes in and out of a room. Something or other about a heart being too heavy to hold. Something or other. (Omoi.) Stop it, Sarah. You’re not thinking in English anymore. This language won’t break from your fingertips. (Chotto.) Or leak from your pen. It's in my head though. It’s all in my head, I swear, and I wish I could give you more than my word.
Welcome to the day when the whole world turns against you. Wait, no, the ground pulls out from under you. More apt, don’t you think?
You don’t know this kind of quiet. So I’m saying, dear god, someone please shuffle your feet. Someone sniffle or flip a page in your notebook. Everyone’s thinking the same, too. Everyone knows we’re all just as afraid of our own silence, and that none of us have the stomach to break it. And all the sudden the happiest girl in the world is terrified. Terrified of the dark, of the cracks in the sidewalk. And the word ‘damaging’ is stuck in my head since you put it there, like song lyrics you’re embarrassed to know. Words like, “sorry it took a natural disaster,” and “not something 10,000 miles will change.” Words of mine I could never speak, “I miss you. I’ve missed you since I met you. I’ve loved you since you left me.” Words and lies and aches and guts. All the guts you know you have and the strength you thought you had. Damaging damaging damaging damaging. It was something like, “Quit being so happy, Sarah. Today’s just like any other.” And, “that’s what’s so great; I’m this happy everyday.” Then the country’s long/lat(itude) shifts and, “Why do you look so sad, Sarah?” “Why don’t you?” It was something like being unadorned rather than plain. And wishing I’d never met you. Wishing you the kind of hurt I invented just so you might trash that Scarlett O’Hara disclosure. So afraid to be hurt you want to take the lead and hurt first. Something like that. Who can say for sure.
So here I am, and you're here too. Existence needs us. And please don't say it again, don't tell me again that you're “just being yourself.” You talk about it like it’s some sort of achievement. That’s not an achievement. That’s lack of imagination. I deserve the greatest happiness in the world. I know, I know. And I’d give it all to you if I could. If it’d keep me from scratching at night. Or give faces to the figures I can't get out of my dreams. I just want them to have faces, is all. Something about a washed out line at lonely. Missing what you never had. How it would make sense if we didn’t destroy the people we loved. Yet that seems to be all we know. How you’ll never be any different because I won’t let you be. Something or other like that.
I’d say most of it was Virginia Woolf. The good parts, anyway. The parts about being nice looking. ‘Not pretty, possibly,’ she drew herself up, ‘but yes, most people would say I was handsome.’ The moment you knew you’d never be beautiful. It must have been quick and subtle, the way the holy ghost passes in and out of a room. Something or other about a heart being too heavy to hold. Something or other. (Omoi.) Stop it, Sarah. You’re not thinking in English anymore. This language won’t break from your fingertips. (Chotto.) Or leak from your pen. It's in my head though. It’s all in my head, I swear, and I wish I could give you more than my word.
Welcome to the day when the whole world turns against you. Wait, no, the ground pulls out from under you. More apt, don’t you think?
You don’t know this kind of quiet. So I’m saying, dear god, someone please shuffle your feet. Someone sniffle or flip a page in your notebook. Everyone’s thinking the same, too. Everyone knows we’re all just as afraid of our own silence, and that none of us have the stomach to break it. And all the sudden the happiest girl in the world is terrified. Terrified of the dark, of the cracks in the sidewalk. And the word ‘damaging’ is stuck in my head since you put it there, like song lyrics you’re embarrassed to know. Words like, “sorry it took a natural disaster,” and “not something 10,000 miles will change.” Words of mine I could never speak, “I miss you. I’ve missed you since I met you. I’ve loved you since you left me.” Words and lies and aches and guts. All the guts you know you have and the strength you thought you had. Damaging damaging damaging damaging. It was something like, “Quit being so happy, Sarah. Today’s just like any other.” And, “that’s what’s so great; I’m this happy everyday.” Then the country’s long/lat(itude) shifts and, “Why do you look so sad, Sarah?” “Why don’t you?” It was something like being unadorned rather than plain. And wishing I’d never met you. Wishing you the kind of hurt I invented just so you might trash that Scarlett O’Hara disclosure. So afraid to be hurt you want to take the lead and hurt first. Something like that. Who can say for sure.
So here I am, and you're here too. Existence needs us. And please don't say it again, don't tell me again that you're “just being yourself.” You talk about it like it’s some sort of achievement. That’s not an achievement. That’s lack of imagination. I deserve the greatest happiness in the world. I know, I know. And I’d give it all to you if I could. If it’d keep me from scratching at night. Or give faces to the figures I can't get out of my dreams. I just want them to have faces, is all. Something about a washed out line at lonely. Missing what you never had. How it would make sense if we didn’t destroy the people we loved. Yet that seems to be all we know. How you’ll never be any different because I won’t let you be. Something or other like that.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Notes on Self-discovery
I am pretty good at:
• Volleyball
• Basketball
• Ping-pong (emphasis on this one)
• Sound effects
• Walking into doors (not entirely my fault, as the Japanese prefer glass sliding doors to the swinging ones I’m used to)
• Polite manners
• Solitude
• Riding a bicycle in a skirt
• Finding my way home
• Involuntarily drawing attention
• Using chopsticks (thank you Jake Hacker)
• Reading in the wind
I am not so good at:
• Baseball
• Acting normal
• Keeping composure while people stare
• Not yelling “B*TCH, PLEASE!” at cars in the bike lane
• Riding a bicycle in a skirt against a typhoon
• Spotting glass doors
• Keeping track of time
• Falling asleep
• Waking up
• Brushing my hair
• Remembering to hang my laundry
• Being understood
• Coloring inside the lines
• Eating competitions
• Having enough leg-room
Other random facts:
• Kids like me
• Spiders don’t scare me
• No matter how many times I eat a tomato, I still very much dislike their taste
• I’ll try just about anything once
• It is possible to fall in love with someone’s personality with zero history of communication
• Sitting down and staring at a wall is a luxury, not a bore
• I carry my camera around when I people watch so that when the victims get suspicious, I have the equipment to quickly look the other way and pretend I am occupied with something else
• When people stop me for my picture, my face almost always turns bright red
• If I laugh long and hard enough, everyone around will start laughing too
• The walls and ceiling of my bedroom are covered with glow-in-the-dark stars (too much time has passed that this has not been shared)
• One Piece rules
I am pretty good at:
• Volleyball
• Basketball
• Ping-pong (emphasis on this one)
• Sound effects
• Walking into doors (not entirely my fault, as the Japanese prefer glass sliding doors to the swinging ones I’m used to)
• Polite manners
• Solitude
• Riding a bicycle in a skirt
• Finding my way home
• Involuntarily drawing attention
• Using chopsticks (thank you Jake Hacker)
• Reading in the wind
I am not so good at:
• Baseball
• Acting normal
• Keeping composure while people stare
• Not yelling “B*TCH, PLEASE!” at cars in the bike lane
• Riding a bicycle in a skirt against a typhoon
• Spotting glass doors
• Keeping track of time
• Falling asleep
• Waking up
• Brushing my hair
• Remembering to hang my laundry
• Being understood
• Coloring inside the lines
• Eating competitions
• Having enough leg-room
Other random facts:
• Kids like me
• Spiders don’t scare me
• No matter how many times I eat a tomato, I still very much dislike their taste
• I’ll try just about anything once
• It is possible to fall in love with someone’s personality with zero history of communication
• Sitting down and staring at a wall is a luxury, not a bore
• I carry my camera around when I people watch so that when the victims get suspicious, I have the equipment to quickly look the other way and pretend I am occupied with something else
• When people stop me for my picture, my face almost always turns bright red
• If I laugh long and hard enough, everyone around will start laughing too
• The walls and ceiling of my bedroom are covered with glow-in-the-dark stars (too much time has passed that this has not been shared)
• One Piece rules
Sunday, October 10, 2010
October 10, 2010
It’s hard for me to write now because this feels more like a diary than a travel guide, as it used to. I’ve never really kept a diary. I’ve started several, though. From what I remember, they aren’t meant to be shared. It’s Sunday night and my favorite Japanese drama comes on in 15 minutes, at which point one of my kids will barge into my room and drag me away from whatever I am occupied by, and we’ll watch “Ryoma, The Hope” together. Sometimes Aiko will fall asleep with her thumb in her mouth and either Junko or I will have to carry her to bed. And sometimes Junko San will cry and I’ll have to pretend that I didn’t notice. I keep busy with school and Japanese studies and an unhealthy sum of reading. I sleep hard. I bike often. Many quiet weeknights I get out of school just as the sun is setting, and I start biking towards it. And it doesn’t matter where it is taking me because if I pedal hard enough, I know I’ll catch it. That’s all that really matters. I used to keep track in my head of where I turned, so I could find my way back, but I don’t anymore. Somehow here, when I’m lost, it’s never for long. I still don’t know my way around town because I take a different route just about every day. And I don’t stop until I’m satisfied with my view of the sky. And it really does feel like I’m closer to the sun, though I know that’s silly.
All this weekend we’ve been celebrating the Buddhist gods. There’s a huge festival, starting 200 meters away from my window, with food and games and entertainment and just about everything else you could ask for in a day. Beating drums woke me up Saturday morning to a near empty house. Most of my family left town to commemorate the fourth anniversary of the death of Junko San’s husband and the kids’ father. I left because I needed new shoes, and because I couldn’t handle such a still, silent room. I figured I could do my Japanese homework at the mall, since people watching tends to consequent productivity. I don’t know how that makes any sense. I’ve just accepted it. That didn’t happen though, because when I sat down in the food court and started to take out my notebook, I looked up to see eight white guys eating udon noodles a few tables over. At first I didn’t know how to react to such an unusual occurrence. In a way I felt it somewhat of an intrusion—that whole “this town ain’t big enough for the both of us” kind of thing. After creepily peering at them from behind my notebook for a few minutes, I decided that I should probably take the initiative to find out their intentions with my town. I walked up to their table and said something that came out a little more offensive than I’d anticipated. But I quickly discovered that they were very friendly and were, in fact, not trying to take over Izumo by contaminating it with culturally numb Americans. We spent a good portion of the day together, and I even took them to the roof for what I think to be an especially impressive view of the city. I figured this was okay because they would only be here for another week and therefore didn’t have the time to corrupt my top-secret thinking spot with another human’s presence.
I spent most of the rest of this weekend at the festival, going with different people, taking pictures, losing and eventually recovering children. I missed dinner tonight because I got lost chasing the sun again, hit a curb in the dark, fell on the pavement and laughed until my knee stopped throbbing. My family was worried because no matter how long I’m gone or how lost I’ve been, I always seem to make it home right before dinner. I took a shower and walked out wrapped in a towel, as usual. There is only one shower in my house, as most Japanese homes have, and it happens to be downstairs by the kitchen. The stairs, leading to my room and the living space of the house, pass right by the kendo shop. This has never been a problem until tonight, when Ito San had company in the shop. So I’m standing in the kitchen in a towel, waiting for the voices to cease in the kendo shop so I can get to my room without old Japanese men seeing my bare shoulders and dripping hair. My host moms, still doing dishes, and Aiko couldn’t relieve the predicament while laughing hysterically at me. I’m thinking that maybe I could sneak up the stairs subtly, but that’s near impossible because the stairs are obnoxiously creaky and are stationed conveniently obvious to the store and its contents. It really wasn’t funny; I don’t know why everyone was laughing so hard. Finally Aiko takes my hand and leads me through the kitchen and past the tearoom and everything else I thought existed of the downstairs. Apparently not though, because we came to this room I’d never seen in the two months I’ve lived here, and up these stairs that I think were spiral, but I can’t be sure because I couldn’t even make out my hand intertwined with Aiko’s in the relentless dark. The whole time she was whispering to me like we were set out on a secret mission—a Japanese underground railroad where the purpose was far less momentous but the concealment just as vital. Anyway, we came out on the roof underneath my hanging laundry. It was rather thrilling. I walked past Isamu and he screamed, “Sarah-chyan’s naked!” and I countered, “Am not!” reinstating another strike of laughter downstairs.
So that’s the past 2 hours and the highlights of yesterday.
There’s no way I could describe each detail of my life here in Japan. In a lot of ways it’s just like anybody else’s. I still hit the snooze button twice on my alarm clock, the rain doesn’t wait for my clothes to dry, I’m constantly losing things, and everyday I’m reminded that bad things happen to really great people. Last week there was one day where a really intense storm hovered over Izumo. It rained all day and saturated my clothes on the bike ride home from school. I’ve biked in the rain plenty of times here, but not like this. The droplets were heavy and cold and stung like BB pellets. I couldn’t stop shivering and tried to take my mind somewhere away from the bitterness of the weather. I started thinking of everything inside my body, beneath my skin, how warm it would be and how every organ was still mechanically performing regardless of the external. And I felt holy, like my body was offering itself as a sanctuary and everything I was meant something more than a breathing being. I don’t know how else to say it; I’m not even religious… I’m sorry this makes little sense. I don’t ever make any sense anymore. The point is, all you can really ask for is the recognition that you are alive with a purpose, and that we have the choice and the power to fight what dies inside us while we live.
What really bothers me is how no one really understands each other. No one really knows anyone until they know themselves. That kills me.
I have to sleep now before I keep trying to force nonsense into words.
It’s hard for me to write now because this feels more like a diary than a travel guide, as it used to. I’ve never really kept a diary. I’ve started several, though. From what I remember, they aren’t meant to be shared. It’s Sunday night and my favorite Japanese drama comes on in 15 minutes, at which point one of my kids will barge into my room and drag me away from whatever I am occupied by, and we’ll watch “Ryoma, The Hope” together. Sometimes Aiko will fall asleep with her thumb in her mouth and either Junko or I will have to carry her to bed. And sometimes Junko San will cry and I’ll have to pretend that I didn’t notice. I keep busy with school and Japanese studies and an unhealthy sum of reading. I sleep hard. I bike often. Many quiet weeknights I get out of school just as the sun is setting, and I start biking towards it. And it doesn’t matter where it is taking me because if I pedal hard enough, I know I’ll catch it. That’s all that really matters. I used to keep track in my head of where I turned, so I could find my way back, but I don’t anymore. Somehow here, when I’m lost, it’s never for long. I still don’t know my way around town because I take a different route just about every day. And I don’t stop until I’m satisfied with my view of the sky. And it really does feel like I’m closer to the sun, though I know that’s silly.
All this weekend we’ve been celebrating the Buddhist gods. There’s a huge festival, starting 200 meters away from my window, with food and games and entertainment and just about everything else you could ask for in a day. Beating drums woke me up Saturday morning to a near empty house. Most of my family left town to commemorate the fourth anniversary of the death of Junko San’s husband and the kids’ father. I left because I needed new shoes, and because I couldn’t handle such a still, silent room. I figured I could do my Japanese homework at the mall, since people watching tends to consequent productivity. I don’t know how that makes any sense. I’ve just accepted it. That didn’t happen though, because when I sat down in the food court and started to take out my notebook, I looked up to see eight white guys eating udon noodles a few tables over. At first I didn’t know how to react to such an unusual occurrence. In a way I felt it somewhat of an intrusion—that whole “this town ain’t big enough for the both of us” kind of thing. After creepily peering at them from behind my notebook for a few minutes, I decided that I should probably take the initiative to find out their intentions with my town. I walked up to their table and said something that came out a little more offensive than I’d anticipated. But I quickly discovered that they were very friendly and were, in fact, not trying to take over Izumo by contaminating it with culturally numb Americans. We spent a good portion of the day together, and I even took them to the roof for what I think to be an especially impressive view of the city. I figured this was okay because they would only be here for another week and therefore didn’t have the time to corrupt my top-secret thinking spot with another human’s presence.
I spent most of the rest of this weekend at the festival, going with different people, taking pictures, losing and eventually recovering children. I missed dinner tonight because I got lost chasing the sun again, hit a curb in the dark, fell on the pavement and laughed until my knee stopped throbbing. My family was worried because no matter how long I’m gone or how lost I’ve been, I always seem to make it home right before dinner. I took a shower and walked out wrapped in a towel, as usual. There is only one shower in my house, as most Japanese homes have, and it happens to be downstairs by the kitchen. The stairs, leading to my room and the living space of the house, pass right by the kendo shop. This has never been a problem until tonight, when Ito San had company in the shop. So I’m standing in the kitchen in a towel, waiting for the voices to cease in the kendo shop so I can get to my room without old Japanese men seeing my bare shoulders and dripping hair. My host moms, still doing dishes, and Aiko couldn’t relieve the predicament while laughing hysterically at me. I’m thinking that maybe I could sneak up the stairs subtly, but that’s near impossible because the stairs are obnoxiously creaky and are stationed conveniently obvious to the store and its contents. It really wasn’t funny; I don’t know why everyone was laughing so hard. Finally Aiko takes my hand and leads me through the kitchen and past the tearoom and everything else I thought existed of the downstairs. Apparently not though, because we came to this room I’d never seen in the two months I’ve lived here, and up these stairs that I think were spiral, but I can’t be sure because I couldn’t even make out my hand intertwined with Aiko’s in the relentless dark. The whole time she was whispering to me like we were set out on a secret mission—a Japanese underground railroad where the purpose was far less momentous but the concealment just as vital. Anyway, we came out on the roof underneath my hanging laundry. It was rather thrilling. I walked past Isamu and he screamed, “Sarah-chyan’s naked!” and I countered, “Am not!” reinstating another strike of laughter downstairs.
So that’s the past 2 hours and the highlights of yesterday.
There’s no way I could describe each detail of my life here in Japan. In a lot of ways it’s just like anybody else’s. I still hit the snooze button twice on my alarm clock, the rain doesn’t wait for my clothes to dry, I’m constantly losing things, and everyday I’m reminded that bad things happen to really great people. Last week there was one day where a really intense storm hovered over Izumo. It rained all day and saturated my clothes on the bike ride home from school. I’ve biked in the rain plenty of times here, but not like this. The droplets were heavy and cold and stung like BB pellets. I couldn’t stop shivering and tried to take my mind somewhere away from the bitterness of the weather. I started thinking of everything inside my body, beneath my skin, how warm it would be and how every organ was still mechanically performing regardless of the external. And I felt holy, like my body was offering itself as a sanctuary and everything I was meant something more than a breathing being. I don’t know how else to say it; I’m not even religious… I’m sorry this makes little sense. I don’t ever make any sense anymore. The point is, all you can really ask for is the recognition that you are alive with a purpose, and that we have the choice and the power to fight what dies inside us while we live.
What really bothers me is how no one really understands each other. No one really knows anyone until they know themselves. That kills me.
I have to sleep now before I keep trying to force nonsense into words.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
September 21, 2010
Day 1 with the Australians. There are 15 of them.
There is really no need for background information here, I’ve decided.
From now on, my words will mirror my thoughts (censored).
So I meet them at lunch, where we make noodles together and they seem pretty cool and their accents rule. We eat and they tell me about Australia and I tell them about Japan, surprising myself with how much I knew. Then they are introduced to my class and that was okay too; I translated as well as I could and felt nice because everyone was impressed. After an hour of introductions the Australians had planned excursions to JA, which is The Japan Agriculture Company, and then to meet the mayor at City Hall. I was invited to join the group, which everyone seemed happy about. My counselor came too, who is one of my 3 English teachers. I will refer to him as Sensei (teacher) because I can’t spell his name. Sensei has one of those ‘I’m-only-doing-this-because-it’s-my-duty’ attitudes, with everything, but foreigners especially. I would say that he hasn’t quite warmed up to me yet, but he honestly hasn’t warmed up to anyone. Anyhow, his dismay towards the Australians and his task as their translator was rather obvious to me.
So we’re walking to the bus and these kids are trying to speak Japanese to me, and I’m thinking, bro, stop trying to show off your 4-7 years of Japanese language study in conversation with an American girl while PRONOUNCING YOUR WORDS WRONG. We arrive at the conference room in JA and we’re sitting in a large rectangle waiting for the president of the company to greet us. So I start looking around at all these Australian kids, I mean really looking. And this one girl’s got on black eyeliner, heavy and smeared with paint-chipped blue nail polish. This other kid looks like he hasn’t showered in weeks, and the girl next to him is wearing a napkin disguised as a skirt and silver snake earrings twisting along her jaw line. Then we’ve got 2 nose rings, 1 beanie, and 18 elbows resting the table. Finally the president arrives and he tells us about JA. Sensei translates. The students ask questions. Sensei translates. This routine repeats itself for another 15 minutes until the president gifts us with 2,000-yen coupons to a department store across the street, and we part.
We’re standing in the parking lot and Sensei announces to everyone that we must meet back here at 4:10, when we will walk to City Hall and meet the Mayor, giving us 1 hour to shop with our coupons. I look around the store for a while, and then realize I don’t need anything from a department/grocery store. I decide that 2,000-yen (about 20 dollars) would be better spent by Junko San and that I would just give it to her when I got home. So for the majority of this hour, I explain to the Australians what things are and answer questions like, “Sarah, how much does this cost?” by remaining silent and pointing to the price tag, the whole time thinking, I DIDN’T MAKE THAT WALLET. I HAD NO PART IS IT’S MANUFACTURE OR IT’S PRICING. I CAN READ NUMBERS JUST AS WELL AS YOU CAN. HOW WOULD I KNOW ANY BETTER THAN YOU HOW MUCH IT COSTS? READ THE PRICE TAG. I DON’T CARE HOW CUTE YOU OR YOUR ACCENT IS, YOU ARE DUMB. Eventually I buy some cookies with my own money because I’m hungry, and I sit next to Sensei, who’s watching the department store television. It is showing sumo wrestling. He actually talks to me, which I was very alarmed and happy about. He is not one to do that. But he asked me if I was homesick, and I said I wasn’t. Because I’m not. And he told me that last year this one Australian got really homesick on the third day and wouldn’t stop crying and she had to talk to her parents on the phone for about an hour. A pay phone. A public pay phone in this very store. So I told him that a few minutes ago, one of the girls asked me if I knew where the calling cards were. I asked her why she needed one because I was curious, and she said so she could call her parents—which I knew already, I just felt like being the obnoxious one for once. But I was really wondering why she would need to talk to her parents in the first 24 hours of being in Japan. It's strange to me, that's all.
At 4:05 we leave the sumo and go to the meeting spot in the parking lot. No one is there. At 4:08 Sensei returns to the store to round up the students. 4:10 comes around—no one is there. At 4:15 I see about half of the group meandering across the lot, in no hurry to be anywhere but in their own material conversation. At 4:18 Sensei returns, with a few more students, though 2 are still missing. The whole time I’m thinking, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT IN JAPAN, ‘BE HERE AT 4:10’ CLEARLY MEANS 4:05? MAYBE THIS IS OKAY IF YOU ARE GOING TO A PARTY IN AUSTRALIA, BUT IT IS NOT OKAY WHEN YOU ARE A GUEST IN A FOREIGN CITY WHO’S MAYOR YOU ARE LATE TO MEET. UGH. By this time, Sensei is just about to explode with frustration. He’s even clenching both hands at the roots of his thick, dark hair. This universally means business.
Finally everyone’s here, 10 minutes after expected, and we start heading toward City Hall not far across the street. Some girl asks me in Japanese if my cookie tastes good, and I’m thinking, IT’S A COOKIE. IT’S A FREAKING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE AND I’M ON MY LAST BITE. OF COURSE IT TASTES GOOD. So I answer, “Umm, yeah,” and I suppose my speech filter caused her to doubt my understanding, so she says, “I mean, is it yummy?” And I’m like, GIRL I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID. So I say, “I know.” Sensei and I are leading, and as we’re crossing the street the green walking sign starts blinking, and I yell, “Everyone make this light!” No one makes the light. Opposite from the Australians, I start laughing and Sensei is shaking his head in irritation saying, “I knew it. I knew it.”
Then we’re waiting for the elevator inside City Hall to take us to the 3rd floor, where the Mayor’s, among many other important offices, are located. Sensei is tapping his foot and keeps jamming the already lit arrow pointing up, and I see Junko San out of the corner of my eye. She’s almost running towards me in excitement and I won’t lie; I have never in my life been happier to see a tiny Japanese person. I’m thinking, OH MY GOD FINALLY, A CIVILIZED NATIVE. We exchange quick words, mostly about why she’s in City Hall, and then she sees the look on Sensei’s face and knows to leave as the elevator arrives. So we’re walking down the hallway on the third floor just brimming with esteemed people, and these kids are talking SO LOUD. I’m shhsh-ing them and doing the whole elevator-arms motion that is supposed to communicate, KEEP IT DOWN, but it only worked half as well as I’d hoped. We sit down in another rectangle and, thank you mother of Jesus, the Mayor is delayed. What happened next I can hardly believe. And as it pains me to write, I tell you in shame of my own skin color that these kids actually start eating the candy they bought at the store IN THE MAYOR’S CONFERENCE ROOM. ARE YOU SERIOUS? So I hide my face in my hands, because it seemed to be the obvious thing to do at such a grave time, and this guy next to me starts laughing. I look up and realize that I’ve never seen him before, and he introduces himself as the Mayor’s personal Irish college-student translator, or something along those lines. He was nice.
We were asked to briefly introduce ourselves once the Mayor was seated, so we did. I was last, because I am clearly best. The Mayor smiled a lot when I spoke said something I couldn’t understand once finished. I think he liked me though, mostly because I was wearing a school uniform, and because I’m not an idiot. Before heading to another room for a group picture, we were all presented with the most beautiful pair of chopsticks I have ever seen, which I am still rather excited about. This may be the worst part yet, though you well know it has competition: after the group picture, two of the Australian girls whom I hadn’t officially met stood on either side of the Mayor of Izumo, making visible clothing contact with his suit, while one reached her arm out and took a picture. I think I almost died, thinking, I KNOW YOU DID NOT JUST TAKE A MYSPACE PICTURE WITH THE MAYOR. THIS CANNOT BE REAL LIFE. Sensei didn’t see this, but I assume he really would have died.
Relieved to be out of such a distressful environment, we board the bus making way back to the school. While thinking there can’t possibly be any more rumpus from now on, the girl next to me sticks her head out of the window and starts yelling at this woman in the car next to us. “KONNICHIWA. OGENKI DESU KA.” And this poor young woman looks afraid the girl might actually jump out through the window and into her car, shaking her head vigorously and forcing a grin. I brush off the annoyance and divert my attention to some other students. But soon I hear it again, “KONNICHIWA!” This time her hand is out too, and she’s wholeheartedly waving it at an elderly Japanese woman. OH MY GOD WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT OLDER JAPANESE WOMEN DESERVE BUDDHA’S LEVEL OF RESPECT? WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO HER? WHY ARE YOU MAKING EYE CONTACT?? Near tears, I lowered my head and remained silent for the short trip back to school.
The funny thing is, I really like these Australian kids. They are very nice and rather interesting, and I feel like we would probably become fast friends if we were in, say, Australia or America. But since we are not, I will have to either look past their severely lacking knowledge of Japanese customs, or teach them, neither of which I’m fond of doing.
After leaving the Australians for the night, Sensei and I talked all the way back to our transportation mechanisms (his car, my bike). I’m fairly certain that if Sensei doesn’t like me by the end of today, he at least sincerely appreciates me.
On the bike ride home, just as I was passing City Hall and recapping what had happened there, I saw this strange looking guy on this strange looking bike. And while we passed each other he said this strange word to me and I said it back. I kept biking until we had each gone another 50 meters, making our distance 100m, and then realized the word was ‘hey,’ and he was a black man on a basket-less bicycle. And that these were 3 things I had not encountered in a month. Without thought, I turned around and started biking his direction, clearing ground as fast as I felt—half-wind, half-wolf. I didn’t really know what I would say when I caught up to him, or how I would get him to stop, but it didn’t matter because I was stalled by the light and lost his track. I really wish I would have immediately acknowledged his marvel.
I talked all through dinner about my day and my family and I laughed about it for quite a while after that and I was so happy to just be. And I still am. So that’s that.
Day 1 with the Australians. There are 15 of them.
There is really no need for background information here, I’ve decided.
From now on, my words will mirror my thoughts (censored).
So I meet them at lunch, where we make noodles together and they seem pretty cool and their accents rule. We eat and they tell me about Australia and I tell them about Japan, surprising myself with how much I knew. Then they are introduced to my class and that was okay too; I translated as well as I could and felt nice because everyone was impressed. After an hour of introductions the Australians had planned excursions to JA, which is The Japan Agriculture Company, and then to meet the mayor at City Hall. I was invited to join the group, which everyone seemed happy about. My counselor came too, who is one of my 3 English teachers. I will refer to him as Sensei (teacher) because I can’t spell his name. Sensei has one of those ‘I’m-only-doing-this-because-it’s-my-duty’ attitudes, with everything, but foreigners especially. I would say that he hasn’t quite warmed up to me yet, but he honestly hasn’t warmed up to anyone. Anyhow, his dismay towards the Australians and his task as their translator was rather obvious to me.
So we’re walking to the bus and these kids are trying to speak Japanese to me, and I’m thinking, bro, stop trying to show off your 4-7 years of Japanese language study in conversation with an American girl while PRONOUNCING YOUR WORDS WRONG. We arrive at the conference room in JA and we’re sitting in a large rectangle waiting for the president of the company to greet us. So I start looking around at all these Australian kids, I mean really looking. And this one girl’s got on black eyeliner, heavy and smeared with paint-chipped blue nail polish. This other kid looks like he hasn’t showered in weeks, and the girl next to him is wearing a napkin disguised as a skirt and silver snake earrings twisting along her jaw line. Then we’ve got 2 nose rings, 1 beanie, and 18 elbows resting the table. Finally the president arrives and he tells us about JA. Sensei translates. The students ask questions. Sensei translates. This routine repeats itself for another 15 minutes until the president gifts us with 2,000-yen coupons to a department store across the street, and we part.
We’re standing in the parking lot and Sensei announces to everyone that we must meet back here at 4:10, when we will walk to City Hall and meet the Mayor, giving us 1 hour to shop with our coupons. I look around the store for a while, and then realize I don’t need anything from a department/grocery store. I decide that 2,000-yen (about 20 dollars) would be better spent by Junko San and that I would just give it to her when I got home. So for the majority of this hour, I explain to the Australians what things are and answer questions like, “Sarah, how much does this cost?” by remaining silent and pointing to the price tag, the whole time thinking, I DIDN’T MAKE THAT WALLET. I HAD NO PART IS IT’S MANUFACTURE OR IT’S PRICING. I CAN READ NUMBERS JUST AS WELL AS YOU CAN. HOW WOULD I KNOW ANY BETTER THAN YOU HOW MUCH IT COSTS? READ THE PRICE TAG. I DON’T CARE HOW CUTE YOU OR YOUR ACCENT IS, YOU ARE DUMB. Eventually I buy some cookies with my own money because I’m hungry, and I sit next to Sensei, who’s watching the department store television. It is showing sumo wrestling. He actually talks to me, which I was very alarmed and happy about. He is not one to do that. But he asked me if I was homesick, and I said I wasn’t. Because I’m not. And he told me that last year this one Australian got really homesick on the third day and wouldn’t stop crying and she had to talk to her parents on the phone for about an hour. A pay phone. A public pay phone in this very store. So I told him that a few minutes ago, one of the girls asked me if I knew where the calling cards were. I asked her why she needed one because I was curious, and she said so she could call her parents—which I knew already, I just felt like being the obnoxious one for once. But I was really wondering why she would need to talk to her parents in the first 24 hours of being in Japan. It's strange to me, that's all.
At 4:05 we leave the sumo and go to the meeting spot in the parking lot. No one is there. At 4:08 Sensei returns to the store to round up the students. 4:10 comes around—no one is there. At 4:15 I see about half of the group meandering across the lot, in no hurry to be anywhere but in their own material conversation. At 4:18 Sensei returns, with a few more students, though 2 are still missing. The whole time I’m thinking, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT IN JAPAN, ‘BE HERE AT 4:10’ CLEARLY MEANS 4:05? MAYBE THIS IS OKAY IF YOU ARE GOING TO A PARTY IN AUSTRALIA, BUT IT IS NOT OKAY WHEN YOU ARE A GUEST IN A FOREIGN CITY WHO’S MAYOR YOU ARE LATE TO MEET. UGH. By this time, Sensei is just about to explode with frustration. He’s even clenching both hands at the roots of his thick, dark hair. This universally means business.
Finally everyone’s here, 10 minutes after expected, and we start heading toward City Hall not far across the street. Some girl asks me in Japanese if my cookie tastes good, and I’m thinking, IT’S A COOKIE. IT’S A FREAKING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE AND I’M ON MY LAST BITE. OF COURSE IT TASTES GOOD. So I answer, “Umm, yeah,” and I suppose my speech filter caused her to doubt my understanding, so she says, “I mean, is it yummy?” And I’m like, GIRL I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID. So I say, “I know.” Sensei and I are leading, and as we’re crossing the street the green walking sign starts blinking, and I yell, “Everyone make this light!” No one makes the light. Opposite from the Australians, I start laughing and Sensei is shaking his head in irritation saying, “I knew it. I knew it.”
Then we’re waiting for the elevator inside City Hall to take us to the 3rd floor, where the Mayor’s, among many other important offices, are located. Sensei is tapping his foot and keeps jamming the already lit arrow pointing up, and I see Junko San out of the corner of my eye. She’s almost running towards me in excitement and I won’t lie; I have never in my life been happier to see a tiny Japanese person. I’m thinking, OH MY GOD FINALLY, A CIVILIZED NATIVE. We exchange quick words, mostly about why she’s in City Hall, and then she sees the look on Sensei’s face and knows to leave as the elevator arrives. So we’re walking down the hallway on the third floor just brimming with esteemed people, and these kids are talking SO LOUD. I’m shhsh-ing them and doing the whole elevator-arms motion that is supposed to communicate, KEEP IT DOWN, but it only worked half as well as I’d hoped. We sit down in another rectangle and, thank you mother of Jesus, the Mayor is delayed. What happened next I can hardly believe. And as it pains me to write, I tell you in shame of my own skin color that these kids actually start eating the candy they bought at the store IN THE MAYOR’S CONFERENCE ROOM. ARE YOU SERIOUS? So I hide my face in my hands, because it seemed to be the obvious thing to do at such a grave time, and this guy next to me starts laughing. I look up and realize that I’ve never seen him before, and he introduces himself as the Mayor’s personal Irish college-student translator, or something along those lines. He was nice.
We were asked to briefly introduce ourselves once the Mayor was seated, so we did. I was last, because I am clearly best. The Mayor smiled a lot when I spoke said something I couldn’t understand once finished. I think he liked me though, mostly because I was wearing a school uniform, and because I’m not an idiot. Before heading to another room for a group picture, we were all presented with the most beautiful pair of chopsticks I have ever seen, which I am still rather excited about. This may be the worst part yet, though you well know it has competition: after the group picture, two of the Australian girls whom I hadn’t officially met stood on either side of the Mayor of Izumo, making visible clothing contact with his suit, while one reached her arm out and took a picture. I think I almost died, thinking, I KNOW YOU DID NOT JUST TAKE A MYSPACE PICTURE WITH THE MAYOR. THIS CANNOT BE REAL LIFE. Sensei didn’t see this, but I assume he really would have died.
Relieved to be out of such a distressful environment, we board the bus making way back to the school. While thinking there can’t possibly be any more rumpus from now on, the girl next to me sticks her head out of the window and starts yelling at this woman in the car next to us. “KONNICHIWA. OGENKI DESU KA.” And this poor young woman looks afraid the girl might actually jump out through the window and into her car, shaking her head vigorously and forcing a grin. I brush off the annoyance and divert my attention to some other students. But soon I hear it again, “KONNICHIWA!” This time her hand is out too, and she’s wholeheartedly waving it at an elderly Japanese woman. OH MY GOD WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING? DON’T YOU KNOW THAT OLDER JAPANESE WOMEN DESERVE BUDDHA’S LEVEL OF RESPECT? WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO HER? WHY ARE YOU MAKING EYE CONTACT?? Near tears, I lowered my head and remained silent for the short trip back to school.
The funny thing is, I really like these Australian kids. They are very nice and rather interesting, and I feel like we would probably become fast friends if we were in, say, Australia or America. But since we are not, I will have to either look past their severely lacking knowledge of Japanese customs, or teach them, neither of which I’m fond of doing.
After leaving the Australians for the night, Sensei and I talked all the way back to our transportation mechanisms (his car, my bike). I’m fairly certain that if Sensei doesn’t like me by the end of today, he at least sincerely appreciates me.
On the bike ride home, just as I was passing City Hall and recapping what had happened there, I saw this strange looking guy on this strange looking bike. And while we passed each other he said this strange word to me and I said it back. I kept biking until we had each gone another 50 meters, making our distance 100m, and then realized the word was ‘hey,’ and he was a black man on a basket-less bicycle. And that these were 3 things I had not encountered in a month. Without thought, I turned around and started biking his direction, clearing ground as fast as I felt—half-wind, half-wolf. I didn’t really know what I would say when I caught up to him, or how I would get him to stop, but it didn’t matter because I was stalled by the light and lost his track. I really wish I would have immediately acknowledged his marvel.
I talked all through dinner about my day and my family and I laughed about it for quite a while after that and I was so happy to just be. And I still am. So that’s that.
Monday, September 20, 2010
- The Best of Me by The Starting Line is the theme song to a Japanese Disney anime show.
- English teacher: Sarah, have you heard of the movie Oceans?
Sarah: No, but I know the movie Oceans 11.
English teacher: Oceans…?
Sarah: E-le-ven. Oceans 11.
English teacher: Oceans a-lovin?
Sarah: No. Eleven. The number. Eleven. Ju-ichi (Japanese). Eleven.
English teacher: Ah, I see. Ok. Oceans A-lovin.
- English teacher: Sarah, please give the class example sentences using these words. (Points to words written on the board.) They will repeat each word after you, to practice pronunciation, and then the whole sentence.
Sarah: (Nervous, can’t think of sentences quick enough—starts playing with tunnel in ear. Accidently pushes tunnel out of loose lobe and it soars across the room.)
Oops.
Class: Oops.
September 17, 2010
Aiko wore a sky-blue satin dress; a small lock of her hair was braided and tied back to the side with the rest of it. She added a pearl necklace at the last minute. Isamu wore a button-up shirt, dress shorts, and a tie—a real one—with hiking boots and striped socks. They looked very nice. I spent an hour getting ready this night. This was mostly because I seem to have forgotten how to put on makeup and had to start over numerous times, wet-naps at disposal. I practiced my speech all day. ALL DAY. Biking to school, I spoke it out loud. During P.E., I muttered it repetitively in between setting and spiking and bumping and serving. Friends edited it over and over. I said it in the mirror as I put on mascara…I HAD IT DOWN. I SWEAR TO YOU, I HAD IT DOWN. It is vital I get this point across. So I wrote it on a small piece of paper so I could continue practicing up until the very second of my execution. I walked out of my room with two different shoes on. Fortunately, my family noticed, and then proceeded to argue which one better suited my outfit. I went with the girls’ choice; Isamu has a lot to learn.
When we arrived at the hotel, a very informal tea ceremony was held in the lobby. Japanese cake and Japanese green tea (which is nothing like the American sorts) was served by pretty women dressed in kimonos. After tea, my attendance was requested to an exclusive men’s meeting in a separate room. I don’t know why they invite me to these things. It’s not like I can offer much in a room of elderly Japanese men. So I sat with my legs crossed at the ankles, never the knee, and I practiced my speech, and I wondered if Aiko’s nose had stopped bleeding while she and the rest of the family waited in the lobby. (Apparently the excitement of an event to dress up for was intense enough to initiate a nosebleed.) They sang the Rotary song, just like the Tallahassee Sunrise Rotary Club, with the significant exception of shockingly impressive voices. I’m pretty sure you have to pass some sort of singing test to obtain Japanese citizenship. I’ll have to look into it. But the whole room fills with deep voices that bounce off the walls in all the right directions. And the floor vibrates and you look down at your feet and can almost see the pulse crawl up your legs to your spine, launching goose bumps and residing in your eardrums long after the song is ended. I really don’t think anything in the world sounds like a singing group of elderly Japanese men, except for a singing group of elderly Japanese men. Aiko’s nosebleed hadn’t given up. Half of a tissue was crammed in her tiny nostril for another 20 minutes.
The speech was rolled up in my sweating palm, dampness fading my lead handwriting. I was so afraid to lose it. Even though I knew the lines by heart, holding onto something real is much more comforting. I think that is why people write. Eventually I shoved it beneath the strap of my watch, held between that and my wrist, though continued to check its safety every minute. I was hoping for a podium to lean on and maybe steady myself from falling. Also so I could flatten the crinkled paper and peer down at it for reference when I froze. That did not happen. In fact, quite the opposite. Upon entrance to the dining hall, I noticed I would be put on stage with a microphone and a spotlight. That way, if such distress was too overwhelming, my vomit would be illuminate and radiating for the audience’s viewing pleasure.
Each 18 round tables in the dining hall sat 6. As usual, the women and family of the Rotarians were seated at separate tables, making the entire room segregated by sex—except for me. My foreign name card was placed among men. The man to my right was the principal of my school. Being already rather familiar with him, I introduced myself to the man to my left, whom I’d never seen. I was relieved to hear he spoke some English. He told me he practiced kendo, which is cool, since that’s the only traditional Japanese sport I know anything about, and that he had two kids: an 18 year old boy who is in his last year of high school, and a daughter who is in college and moved out. He then added, to my discomfort, “So my house has one empty bedroom.” This addition was confusing to me at first, but directly after such an awkward implication, a familiar Rotarian came up to my table and unknowingly clarified. Standing in-between the man and I, he elatedly told me that the man I was talking to would most likely be my next host father.
I don’t really know what to say, because I can’t describe how this made me feel. At the least I was unprepared. Since I have been here, changing host families has not once crossed my mind. I understand it is part of the process and what every exchange student experiences, I just hadn’t thought about it. So as these two men attentively waited to catch a hint of recognition upon my face, I just kind of stared blankly across the room for what seemed like minutes, imperceptibly panicking and trying not to wince at the needles jabbing my insides. This long moment of adaption passed and I gave them a big smile—a real one—because, once settled, this news was really quite alright.
However, being the over-analyzer that I have recently accepted I am, I can’t say I wouldn’t have appreciated such an alarming report to have waited maybe 10 minutes to be broken—when my speech was said and done. Obviously this was not the case, and my head swarmed with completely unnecessary doubts about the quantity of nightlights in my next family’s house as I stepped on stage. It was not particularly what I wanted to be consuming such a large apartment in my brain at such a critical time.
As predicted, I was defeated by the crowd and forgot most everything under the spotlight. I had to read most of my speech from that crinkled scrap of paper, yet kept my composure and somehow got compliments from half the room on my pronunciation and flawless grammar. I wouldn’t dare question how these things fall into place, though I am grateful.
After dinner there was a skit preformed by some Rotarians. You definitely did not need to understand Japanese to laugh at this. The president was a fully costumed Gandhi and the Secretary was dressed in a speedo, flippers, and a shark hat. There was also someone in an army suit holding a Japanese fan, and a man dressed as a geisha, make-up and all. There really isn’t anything more to say about that. Unfortunately, I was too amused to pick up my camera and capture such a ridiculous affair. Sorry.
Oh, there were also dancers. They did a silly dance, but they did it very well. And I wondered how so without laughing, recognizing that I wouldn’t have been able to. Then I noticed one dancer who was exceptionally precise, and he seemed so sure of himself and his silly dance. He looked at the audience dead on, conquering every doubt, and so I realized that you can pull of anything if you think you can.
I later found out that it was a group of mentally disabled dancers. I had suspected nothing.
I had coffee for dessert and couldn’t sleep for hours.
September 20, 2010
I went to an art museum in Matsue and saw some art. It was nice art. Some I recognized, thanks to Mrs. Hobbs. Some was photography and made me want use my camera towards something creative. Some was rather disturbing sculpture and reminded me of friends back home. And then there was a view overlooking a lake, which was my favorite.
1) Failed attempt at serious face. Had to look away so I wouldn't laugh.
2) Yes, that is an FSU shirt. Yes, this is real life.
3, 4, 5) Matsue view.
6) Matsue Lake
7) Me on sculpture.
- English teacher: Sarah, have you heard of the movie Oceans?
Sarah: No, but I know the movie Oceans 11.
English teacher: Oceans…?
Sarah: E-le-ven. Oceans 11.
English teacher: Oceans a-lovin?
Sarah: No. Eleven. The number. Eleven. Ju-ichi (Japanese). Eleven.
English teacher: Ah, I see. Ok. Oceans A-lovin.
- English teacher: Sarah, please give the class example sentences using these words. (Points to words written on the board.) They will repeat each word after you, to practice pronunciation, and then the whole sentence.
Sarah: (Nervous, can’t think of sentences quick enough—starts playing with tunnel in ear. Accidently pushes tunnel out of loose lobe and it soars across the room.)
Oops.
Class: Oops.
September 17, 2010
Aiko wore a sky-blue satin dress; a small lock of her hair was braided and tied back to the side with the rest of it. She added a pearl necklace at the last minute. Isamu wore a button-up shirt, dress shorts, and a tie—a real one—with hiking boots and striped socks. They looked very nice. I spent an hour getting ready this night. This was mostly because I seem to have forgotten how to put on makeup and had to start over numerous times, wet-naps at disposal. I practiced my speech all day. ALL DAY. Biking to school, I spoke it out loud. During P.E., I muttered it repetitively in between setting and spiking and bumping and serving. Friends edited it over and over. I said it in the mirror as I put on mascara…I HAD IT DOWN. I SWEAR TO YOU, I HAD IT DOWN. It is vital I get this point across. So I wrote it on a small piece of paper so I could continue practicing up until the very second of my execution. I walked out of my room with two different shoes on. Fortunately, my family noticed, and then proceeded to argue which one better suited my outfit. I went with the girls’ choice; Isamu has a lot to learn.
When we arrived at the hotel, a very informal tea ceremony was held in the lobby. Japanese cake and Japanese green tea (which is nothing like the American sorts) was served by pretty women dressed in kimonos. After tea, my attendance was requested to an exclusive men’s meeting in a separate room. I don’t know why they invite me to these things. It’s not like I can offer much in a room of elderly Japanese men. So I sat with my legs crossed at the ankles, never the knee, and I practiced my speech, and I wondered if Aiko’s nose had stopped bleeding while she and the rest of the family waited in the lobby. (Apparently the excitement of an event to dress up for was intense enough to initiate a nosebleed.) They sang the Rotary song, just like the Tallahassee Sunrise Rotary Club, with the significant exception of shockingly impressive voices. I’m pretty sure you have to pass some sort of singing test to obtain Japanese citizenship. I’ll have to look into it. But the whole room fills with deep voices that bounce off the walls in all the right directions. And the floor vibrates and you look down at your feet and can almost see the pulse crawl up your legs to your spine, launching goose bumps and residing in your eardrums long after the song is ended. I really don’t think anything in the world sounds like a singing group of elderly Japanese men, except for a singing group of elderly Japanese men. Aiko’s nosebleed hadn’t given up. Half of a tissue was crammed in her tiny nostril for another 20 minutes.
The speech was rolled up in my sweating palm, dampness fading my lead handwriting. I was so afraid to lose it. Even though I knew the lines by heart, holding onto something real is much more comforting. I think that is why people write. Eventually I shoved it beneath the strap of my watch, held between that and my wrist, though continued to check its safety every minute. I was hoping for a podium to lean on and maybe steady myself from falling. Also so I could flatten the crinkled paper and peer down at it for reference when I froze. That did not happen. In fact, quite the opposite. Upon entrance to the dining hall, I noticed I would be put on stage with a microphone and a spotlight. That way, if such distress was too overwhelming, my vomit would be illuminate and radiating for the audience’s viewing pleasure.
Each 18 round tables in the dining hall sat 6. As usual, the women and family of the Rotarians were seated at separate tables, making the entire room segregated by sex—except for me. My foreign name card was placed among men. The man to my right was the principal of my school. Being already rather familiar with him, I introduced myself to the man to my left, whom I’d never seen. I was relieved to hear he spoke some English. He told me he practiced kendo, which is cool, since that’s the only traditional Japanese sport I know anything about, and that he had two kids: an 18 year old boy who is in his last year of high school, and a daughter who is in college and moved out. He then added, to my discomfort, “So my house has one empty bedroom.” This addition was confusing to me at first, but directly after such an awkward implication, a familiar Rotarian came up to my table and unknowingly clarified. Standing in-between the man and I, he elatedly told me that the man I was talking to would most likely be my next host father.
I don’t really know what to say, because I can’t describe how this made me feel. At the least I was unprepared. Since I have been here, changing host families has not once crossed my mind. I understand it is part of the process and what every exchange student experiences, I just hadn’t thought about it. So as these two men attentively waited to catch a hint of recognition upon my face, I just kind of stared blankly across the room for what seemed like minutes, imperceptibly panicking and trying not to wince at the needles jabbing my insides. This long moment of adaption passed and I gave them a big smile—a real one—because, once settled, this news was really quite alright.
However, being the over-analyzer that I have recently accepted I am, I can’t say I wouldn’t have appreciated such an alarming report to have waited maybe 10 minutes to be broken—when my speech was said and done. Obviously this was not the case, and my head swarmed with completely unnecessary doubts about the quantity of nightlights in my next family’s house as I stepped on stage. It was not particularly what I wanted to be consuming such a large apartment in my brain at such a critical time.
As predicted, I was defeated by the crowd and forgot most everything under the spotlight. I had to read most of my speech from that crinkled scrap of paper, yet kept my composure and somehow got compliments from half the room on my pronunciation and flawless grammar. I wouldn’t dare question how these things fall into place, though I am grateful.
After dinner there was a skit preformed by some Rotarians. You definitely did not need to understand Japanese to laugh at this. The president was a fully costumed Gandhi and the Secretary was dressed in a speedo, flippers, and a shark hat. There was also someone in an army suit holding a Japanese fan, and a man dressed as a geisha, make-up and all. There really isn’t anything more to say about that. Unfortunately, I was too amused to pick up my camera and capture such a ridiculous affair. Sorry.
Oh, there were also dancers. They did a silly dance, but they did it very well. And I wondered how so without laughing, recognizing that I wouldn’t have been able to. Then I noticed one dancer who was exceptionally precise, and he seemed so sure of himself and his silly dance. He looked at the audience dead on, conquering every doubt, and so I realized that you can pull of anything if you think you can.
I later found out that it was a group of mentally disabled dancers. I had suspected nothing.
I had coffee for dessert and couldn’t sleep for hours.
September 20, 2010
I went to an art museum in Matsue and saw some art. It was nice art. Some I recognized, thanks to Mrs. Hobbs. Some was photography and made me want use my camera towards something creative. Some was rather disturbing sculpture and reminded me of friends back home. And then there was a view overlooking a lake, which was my favorite.
1) Failed attempt at serious face. Had to look away so I wouldn't laugh.
2) Yes, that is an FSU shirt. Yes, this is real life.
3, 4, 5) Matsue view.
6) Matsue Lake
7) Me on sculpture.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
September 10, 2010
I have figured out the Japanese High School male population and their activity affiliation:
Tan + Athletic build + Self-satisfied = Baseball
Pale + Athletic build + Self-satisfied = Basketball
Tan + Athletic build + Timid = Tennis
Pale + Scrawny + Self-satisfied = Table tennis/Ping-pong
Tan + Scrawny + Timid = Marching Band
Pale + Scrawny + Timid = Art Club
* Few exceptions
* There are no fat Japanese boys. They are either skinny with muscles, or sticks.
WHERE DO I FIT IN!!???
September 12, 2010
Yesterday afternoon, after a lovely skype date with Bailey Glazer and Amy Murray, I embarked on a long and treacherous exploration of biking to the Izumo mall in search for stargazing/cocktail attire. Now, I had been to the “you me” mall once before, but it had been moneyless and only for a brief time between classes. My exploration began by scouting out the route. This entails climbing on the 3rd floor roof of my house and locating the massive hot-pink cube that rests on the 4th floor roof of the “you me” mall. It wasn’t hard to spot, but getting there once on ground level proved to be more of a nuisance.
This mall is nothing like any other mall I’ve seen. There is a Wal-Mart sized grocery store on only half of the first floor, and the stores are not enclosed by walls, nor do they have official entrances. They are more just open spaces outlined by the walkways. Each of these stores plays music very loudly, and since they are all open, walking into the mall is like walking through the fairgrounds—hundreds of attractions constantly competing for your attention. The first artists I recognized playing were Motion City Soundtrack and Joanna Newsom. Katy Perry is also pretty prevalent. I probably paced each story of the mall about 4 times before actually finding where I wanted to go. Buying things in Japan hasn’t been much trouble thus far. Employees are overly courteous, very much unlike the ones I’m used to who seem too absorbed in their own self-interests to even meet your glare. When you walk into a Japanese store, an employee will immediately thank you just for considering the store and offer any help you might need. When you feel the need to try something on, you barely have the time to lift your head in search for the fitting room before someone is at your side, taking your clothes and loading you with more gratitude. Of course, you remove your shoes before entering the fitting room, and there are even face covers provided which you slip on in case…actually I don’t really know why you would want to cover your face when trying on clothes—maybe to keep your makeup flawless or something. I wore one for the thrill of putting a translucent bag over my head. When you are ready to make your purchase, the staff will usually give a slight bow and further thanks upon your approach to the counter. To pay, you generally put your yen or credit card in the money tray, which is a definite companion to every register in Japan. The register member will always hand your card back with two hands. Always. And will probably give another slight bow as well.
I had never had trouble making a purchase in Japan until my last one yesterday evening. For some reason, there was a question about my card that could neither be delivered nor received with my little knowledge of Japanese and the staff’s completely absent knowledge of English. After what seemed forever of both parties embarrassingly apologizing for the communication troubles, the customer in line behind offered to do her best to translate.
*Note: The difference between Americans and Japanese—While an American employee would be clearly aggravated by a foreigner’s attempt to buy something without speaking the native language, a Japanese employee embarrassingly regrets that he/she does not know the foreign language, and relieves the situation with excessive apologies.
Final result: Employees speaks to the customer/translator behind me for a good 15 seconds, passing on what she means to ask me. Customer/translator looks at me, points to the card, and says, “One, or two?” I look around at each of the staff members, eagerly leaning over the counter and hopefully awaiting a clear answer. Still no trace of what subject is being numerically questioned, I say one. Thankfully, the moment I respond, simultaneous sighs of relief break from each participant, and the transaction is finally complete. I don’t think I will ever know the significance of the bizarre things that were never communicated at that store.
Aiko just tried to teach me to make an Origami crane. I failed, but followed it with a tadpole, which I am quite fond of.
I have figured out the Japanese High School male population and their activity affiliation:
Tan + Athletic build + Self-satisfied = Baseball
Pale + Athletic build + Self-satisfied = Basketball
Tan + Athletic build + Timid = Tennis
Pale + Scrawny + Self-satisfied = Table tennis/Ping-pong
Tan + Scrawny + Timid = Marching Band
Pale + Scrawny + Timid = Art Club
* Few exceptions
* There are no fat Japanese boys. They are either skinny with muscles, or sticks.
WHERE DO I FIT IN!!???
September 12, 2010
Yesterday afternoon, after a lovely skype date with Bailey Glazer and Amy Murray, I embarked on a long and treacherous exploration of biking to the Izumo mall in search for stargazing/cocktail attire. Now, I had been to the “you me” mall once before, but it had been moneyless and only for a brief time between classes. My exploration began by scouting out the route. This entails climbing on the 3rd floor roof of my house and locating the massive hot-pink cube that rests on the 4th floor roof of the “you me” mall. It wasn’t hard to spot, but getting there once on ground level proved to be more of a nuisance.
This mall is nothing like any other mall I’ve seen. There is a Wal-Mart sized grocery store on only half of the first floor, and the stores are not enclosed by walls, nor do they have official entrances. They are more just open spaces outlined by the walkways. Each of these stores plays music very loudly, and since they are all open, walking into the mall is like walking through the fairgrounds—hundreds of attractions constantly competing for your attention. The first artists I recognized playing were Motion City Soundtrack and Joanna Newsom. Katy Perry is also pretty prevalent. I probably paced each story of the mall about 4 times before actually finding where I wanted to go. Buying things in Japan hasn’t been much trouble thus far. Employees are overly courteous, very much unlike the ones I’m used to who seem too absorbed in their own self-interests to even meet your glare. When you walk into a Japanese store, an employee will immediately thank you just for considering the store and offer any help you might need. When you feel the need to try something on, you barely have the time to lift your head in search for the fitting room before someone is at your side, taking your clothes and loading you with more gratitude. Of course, you remove your shoes before entering the fitting room, and there are even face covers provided which you slip on in case…actually I don’t really know why you would want to cover your face when trying on clothes—maybe to keep your makeup flawless or something. I wore one for the thrill of putting a translucent bag over my head. When you are ready to make your purchase, the staff will usually give a slight bow and further thanks upon your approach to the counter. To pay, you generally put your yen or credit card in the money tray, which is a definite companion to every register in Japan. The register member will always hand your card back with two hands. Always. And will probably give another slight bow as well.
I had never had trouble making a purchase in Japan until my last one yesterday evening. For some reason, there was a question about my card that could neither be delivered nor received with my little knowledge of Japanese and the staff’s completely absent knowledge of English. After what seemed forever of both parties embarrassingly apologizing for the communication troubles, the customer in line behind offered to do her best to translate.
*Note: The difference between Americans and Japanese—While an American employee would be clearly aggravated by a foreigner’s attempt to buy something without speaking the native language, a Japanese employee embarrassingly regrets that he/she does not know the foreign language, and relieves the situation with excessive apologies.
Final result: Employees speaks to the customer/translator behind me for a good 15 seconds, passing on what she means to ask me. Customer/translator looks at me, points to the card, and says, “One, or two?” I look around at each of the staff members, eagerly leaning over the counter and hopefully awaiting a clear answer. Still no trace of what subject is being numerically questioned, I say one. Thankfully, the moment I respond, simultaneous sighs of relief break from each participant, and the transaction is finally complete. I don’t think I will ever know the significance of the bizarre things that were never communicated at that store.
Aiko just tried to teach me to make an Origami crane. I failed, but followed it with a tadpole, which I am quite fond of.
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