 |
| a child's artwork from an international collection celebrating Amnesty International's 75th anniversary, as seen at Tottori's TIME Festival last November |
Sometimes internationalization means being
taught how to make a paper airplane when you think you’re making a paper crane.
Sometimes it means several elementary
school teachers and your principal on their computers and electronic
dictionaries, searching for English translations of the various
Japanese-specific vegetables (i.e. gobo = burdock root) you’ve already accepted
as unknown but edible.
Or taking a deep breath and indulging the
innocently rudimentary English advances of a middle-aged farmer as your JTE and
eight of your thirteen-year old male students observe curiously, unsure of
whether to erupt into hormonal laughter or act cool about something that is
apparently completely normal in their ALT’s (i.e. your) world. In short, it
means pretending to be comfortable in a situation even when you want to crawl
under a rock and dig a hole to Canada
Or finding yourself in exhausted
conversations about your home and native land – about ice hockey, maple syrup, “Bancoobah,”
the Rockies and “aulola.” And as much as you once thought you’d dispel (or, at
least, avoid contributing to) the stereotypes, you’ve now mostly happy that
they exist. It makes the late-night talks in smoky bars so much easier when you
can nod and smile, and then, in turn, “ooh” and “ahh” over the wonders of Japan – sumo,
sushi, Kyoto ,
Mount Fuji , and sakura blossoms, respectively. Common ground, however superficial,
is nothing to turn your foreign nose up at.
Or attempting to continue the following conversation
Mother: Echo-sensei
desuka? (Are you Miss Echo?)
Me: Hai.
(Yes.)
Mother: Echo-sensei
wa Kitty suki desuka? (Do you like Hello Kitty?)
Me: (laughing) Hai, daisuki desu! (Yes, I love her!)
with the mother of a third grade elementary
school student you can’t put a face to, but who has apparently gone home to
talk about your Hello Kitty pencil case and matching notebook. How to explain that
the former was cheap and necessary, the latter a coincidental gift from your Japanese
teacher? Easy. You don’t. Instead, you love Kitty for all she’s worth.
Sometimes internationalization means momentarily
abandoning a mountain of notebooks that won’t correct themselves in order to
humor your bored Kocho-sensei (Principal)
in a brokenly bilingual conversation about European travel, fear of heights,
and ancient Japanese architecture (none of which either of you has vocabulary
for in the other’s native tongue) as the rest of the staffroom continues
working – shuffling papers while listening with various degrees of interest –
as you both smilingly struggle to give and grasp meaning through gestures,
guessing, and good ol’ Google.
Sometimes it means joining your Mochigase junior
high school students’ parents in twice-weekly rehearsals of a choral arrangement
of this popular Japanese pop song to be performed in front of their children, spouses, and friends at the annual school cultural
festival in November.
Or piecing together an “international
medley” of Ikimono Gakari (see above song), Michael Jackson, and Funky Monkey
Babys on your violin for Kawahara Junior High’s cultural festival.
Sometimes internationalization means finding
yourself heading to Coca Cola West Park on a sunny Saturday morning to watch
your Mochigase Junior High School girls play volleyball, not realizing what a
mission you’re about to embark on. It means propitiously bumping into your
track-and-field Kawahara boys in the parking lot and, after they’ve recovered
from the tremendous shock of seeing you, harassing them into giving you
directions to the volleyball courts with a vague promise to come watch their
races later (you do). It means hustling over to the gym, only to be waylaid by
a team of giggling girls nervously testing out their English on your back (“Hello.
Hello. Nice to meet you!”) just as you’re about to enter the building. You
stop. Turn. Smile. Ask them how they are. Where they’re from. Do they play
volleyball? What time do they play? Explain that you’re there to watch a game,
but you are late. Apologize and say goodbye. Enter building, hoping to find
someone to ask, or better yet, someone to follow to your destination. No such
luck. There are parents and toddlers, coaches and players coming and going from
somewhere, but it’s not obvious. In an attempt to avoid your first gaijin smash of the day, you do what you
know – you approach a group of junior high boys and start speaking to them.
Slowly. Using sentences straight out of their textbook. “Excuse me. I want to
go to…” Wasting no time, they call over their team’s resident English expert.
“Can I help you?” he asks with feigned confidence. You ask simply. He answers. You
thank him sincerely, and race away up the stairs as his teammates sugoi* and burst into hearty applause. You
enter the gymnasium, pick out your team from the eight currently playing, slip
into a seat with a sigh, and settle in. 10:26 AM. The game finishes four
minutes later. Sugoi, indeed.
*Sugoi!
is an exclamation expressing amazement, approval, or surprise. It’s been
explained to me as “wow!” “that’s great!” and “no way!”
