If You Could Read My Mind

You’d know:

As much as I dislike waiting (or running) for the bus, I love riding it. Peaceful and temperately temperatured, it is the perfect place to troll Facebook, shoot a few emails, catch a couple of winks, get lost in a book, listen to music, or just gaze out the window to soak in the Japanese countryside.

Where technology is concerned, I have little interest in how things work. As long as they do.

Where work is concerned, I’m hard to please. Not enough to do, and I create projects to feel a sense of purpose. Too in-demand, and I go home stressed-out and too cranky to socialize. Once was the former, the latter has been true...(it feels like) forever. Thank goodness for summer vacation.

Being legitimately useful is more important to me than keeping up appearances.

Summer vacation is: get up. Go to school. Twiddle my thumbs. Sweat. Go home. Shower. Pack/clean/freak out. Shower. Get ready to go to another farewell enkai. Enjoy (ideally). Come home. Move things around/throw away some things/freak out. Shower. Go to bed, praying for six solid hours of sleep.

Japan is turning me into a robot.

Reading Rand’s capitalist “Atlas Shrugged” while living in a collectivist country is a complete mind-fudge, causing me to reconsider values and philosophies I once accepted as absolutes. It’s both terrific and terrifying.

I’m beginning to understand too much.

I would have regretted coming home after one year. Too much time and energy have been invested for that. However, as much as life is good and busy and fun and fulfilling here, being away from Canada for three years would be a mistake.

I am making my getaway just before I turn Japanese.

Sometimes, at the end of a long day, I don’t want a ride home with you. Yes, it’s sweet of you to offer. Yes, I appreciate the gesture. But sometimes, after nine-plus hours of choosing my words – be they English or Japanese – carefully, I just want to ride the beautifully air-conditioned bus home in solitude. It’s not you, it’s me.

I’m attracted to men who (in some way) remind me of my dad and brothers. This is because my dad and brothers are (in many ways) freakin’ awesome!

Pre-Japan, I was waffling between minister, teacher, and nurse. Now I know that I can’t be a teacher if I want kids, and can’t be a preacher if I want a personal life. By process of elimination, I've narrowed it down to nursing.

I sometimes wonder if I’m a fool to be trading one beautifully imperfect career path for another that will no doubt be just as flawed. Then I remind myself that any profession involving people will have challenges. What’s the point, otherwise?

I often wonder if the Japanese government wouldn't have more success offering scholarships and bursaries to their own students to go overseas and be immersed in English.

…how often it is blown by the bureaucracy, paperwork forests, and manpower hours involved in what would be, in Canada, a two-minute confirmatory telephone call.

Being in a classroom can make you feel like a superhero. Or a super-zero. 

People are people are people are people. Albeit, very, very different people. That said, Canadians and Kiwis are basically cousins. As are Singaporeans, except that they've swallowed encyclopedias in three or four languages between bites of humble pie.  

Goodbyes are not so much for those leaving as they are for those left behind. I try to remind myself of this when I cannot bear the thought of another one.

I’m not personally down with public crying, but fully support others doing so. Unless, of course, they’re crying because of me. While shaking my hand.

I am either setting a personal best for emotional preparedness or I am perfectly numb. Either way, I’m rockin’ it (or I'm a robot).

I believe in reverse culture shock. And I worry about it.

…there's a lot of static. That’s what sayonara-ing until 11+ nearly every night of the weeks then waking up at 5 am to resume more practical preparations will do to a person.

I’m “smashing” left, right, and center – toasting teachers at farewell enkais by telling them I respect them but don’t want to be like them (because they work too long and hard) and stubbornly sticking to rules that penalize only me (because I’m a principled idiot who refuses special treatment) at work while misplacing things and throwing (inner) tantrums in the so-called privacy of my personal life.

Lately, I've had my fingers in so many proverbial pies that I basically feel a bit ill all of the time. It’s not nice, but necessary, if I am to be (as much of) all things to all people (as I can) before I never see (some of them) again.

For better or worse, I am leaving Japan the way I entered; out of my mind with stress, sweat, and sleep-deprivation, auto-pilot mode activated, and, for some reason, smiling.

Crazy going slowly am I...

Be grateful. Be gracious. Be grateful. Be gracious. (Rinse. Repeat.)

Feelings

Difficult to name, impossible to ignore.

The feeling(s):

-      when a group of junior high school san nensei (third graders) pass you in an energetic, post-soji (cleaning time) state, and greet you with exuberant waves to which you respond with a cheery “good afternoon”, which they echo. Then, as you are still just within earshot, you hear one ask, “dou imi?” (“What’s the meaning [of those words]?”)

-      when the guidance counselor brings up the fact that you’ve only got two months left and how it’s sad, but how you must be looking forward to going home. All in Japanese. And then you do your best to find a way to convey your mixed emotions on the subject, and realize the clearest, most concise answer you can give is to say “hanbun, hanbun” (half, half) and hope she can guess your meaning.

-       when sending professional but personable emails to your successors explaining the logistics of getting to school, school-life, and life in general in a place you've called home for two years.

-       when a bright but incredibly shy first-grade junior high student approaches you after class with a white wool coaster and cup holder she made herself..

...while another gives you some hand-made
foam "macaroons"and a note in romaji.

-        of sudden and suffocating loneliness that inexplicably sneaks up on you in a staffroom full of people who would help if you knew how to let them.

-       when your elementary school students ask you not to forget them, and you promise you won’t, knowing that you will them, and they will you. It’s a matter of self-preservation.

-       when your favorite Japanese Teacher of English (JTE) proudly shows you a book of “new” (including the Beatles, the Carpenters, and the Barenaked Ladies) English songs she hopes to incorporate into future classes, and you think, “she will be fine without you. They will be fine without you.”

-       when another JTE (who has always meant well, even if he’s never managed to take your could-be contributions and sure-would-be-worth-a-try's seriously) tells you that his plan for the third graders to write you goodbye letters is “more difficult than I thought” because “they don’t know you outside class.” Translation: They cannot come up with five original sentences to say to you because almost all your attempts to contribute to class in a personal yet educational manner have been thwarted by me.

-       after a JTE you’ve been attempting to fake a healthy working relationship with for the past twenty-two month turns to you, telling you that he would like to know what the (amazing!) JTE at your other school does with her students (because the exam results of his students were “not good” and entrance exams for high school are looming), and all you can think is, “where do I start?!” followed by, "Why are you asking me NOW?!"

-       of a gratitude so deep that it would be impossible to put into words even if a common language were a reality. As it is, you cannot articulate yourself gracefully in Japanese, nor can many of the people concerned understand the nuances and intricacies of how you’d love to tell them in English. 

-       when, your official quitting time (4 pm) looming on a sunny Friday afternoon, you know you’ve got another three-plus hours of prep and marking to do if you want a smooth start Monday morning, and you think to yourself, “could be worse. I could be a teacher for real. This could be my reality until I retire.”

-       of knowing, for a fact, that this is the reality of the teacher sitting beside you. The reality, in fact, of nearly all of the teachers you work with. Bless them.

-       when you pour yourself into an activity or worksheet only to have the kids meet it with lukewarm interest and half-hearted participation.* Can you blame them? It’s sixth period, they’re tired, and they still have two hours of club activities after school. And besides, English hasn’t been fun since its novelty in elementary school, when the emphasis was on oral communication and interaction, rather than copying grammar points and memorizing passages on (among other topics) the bombing in Hiroshima.

*Thankfully, this one went over well!

-       when you’re correcting writing assignments where students were supposed to write an email to friend or to you (due to the inclusion of colloquial expressions), and you stumble across several “Hi Grandma. What’s up?”

-       when one of your favorite, most promising students stops in the hallway to chat as you’re taking a photo of this: 

It was hotter in the classrooms.

and you tell him, “it’s very hot. I want to show my family.” To which he replies, “oh, in Russia…very cold?”

-       when you’re up before the sun on a Saturday to prep a Monday morning goodbye lesson before heading to a weekend Frisbee tournament with some of your favorite people.

Beautiful - inside and out!

-      when you make the difficult decision not to hike Mt. Fuji with thirty-some friends, several of whom have become your nearest and dearest in Japan, simply because, with two and a half weeks of last lessons, formal farewell parties, and goodbye speeches (to say nothing of the practical to-do's that accompany transcontinental relocation), something’s got to give. 

-       of sobering finality in the goodbyes with Japanese students, co-workers, and locals (not so with the jet-setting foreigners and internationally-minded Japanese friends who you will, God-willing, see again).  

-       of not being ready to go, but knowing that it's time.

Anything Could Happen

A continual source of wonderful and 分かりません (“I don’t understand.”), my weekly elementary school visits are one of the things I will miss most (and least) about my time in Japan. While “expect the unexpected” applies to all aspects of my life here, nowhere it is more true than in the world of elementary school.  

Due to the relatively new required presence of JETs in elementary schools and the accompanying uncertainty of the administration regarding exactly what purpose their genki gaijin is supposed to fulfill (Internationalization? English communication? A human jungle gym and hand-shake machine?), you could find yourself in any number of the following situations:

After spending another Sunday evening stressing over how best to give a bilingual 自己紹介 (self-introduction) to a bunch of six-year olds and ultimately deciding (as usual) to just bring everything, a monthly morning assembly could run long, resulting in your anticipated twenty-minute presentation getting slashed to less than five.   

You could show up, armed with both student (full-color, few words) and teacher (containing English model conversations and Japanese-only instructions on how to employ them) editions of the Gr. 5 and Gr. 6 “Hi Friends” textbooks and a brain bursting with ideas to jazz up whatever page the students are currently studying, only to find the ALT who visits three weeks out of four will be leading the English classes while you learn kanji with the third graders.

While wandering the halls before class, popping into classroom after classroom to greet students with a “hello” or “good morning”, a streak of mischievous lightning could glue herself to your leg as a chorus of her six-year-old classmates swarm into the hallway calling out a mix of English greetings and Japanese questions while giggling hysterically.   

In a similar situation, a whisp of a girl with wise eyes and self-assurance beyond her eight years could appear before you, stating without a trace of non-native accent, “My name is Kokoro. Nice to meet you.”

Back in the near-empty staffroom, sipping green tea while waiting for first period to begin, your ears could perk up at the sound of children singing. Abandoning your drink to follow the music, you could find yourself in the hallway outside your first graders’ classroom as they chirp their way through a katakanized version of “I Can Sing a Rainbow”, heart bursting and holding back tears.

As you wait to meet with the Gr. 5 and Gr. 6 home room teachers during a scheduled prep period, last year’s Gr. 6-now-Gr. 3 teacher could approach you with a detailed lesson plan, saying “Echo-sensei, let’s study English numbers with the third graders.” His enthusiasm for English (currently compulsory only for Gr. 5 and Gr. 6) and your mutual respect could keep you smiling when the fifth grade teacher shows up five minutes before class and says, “No plan. Your ideas?”  

While standing in line with the third graders, waiting to obtain a tray to fill with food and deliver to a desk, you could find yourself holding the class pet instead.

These are カブトムシ, also known as Japanese rhinoceros beetles.
(This photo is courtesy of the world wide web.)

While eating, you could be peppered with questions about your favorite things (blue, dogs, baseball, strawberries, and pizza or okonomiyaki, for the record), your marital status, and whether you return home to Canada every night. You could be complimented on your blue eyes, your blonde hair, your skillful use of chopsticks, your ability to eat fish. Or, your attempts to make conversation could fall on indifferent or uncomprehending ears, resulting in an unusually, but not unpleasantly, quiet classroom...

...allowing you to enjoy your curry rice, squid rings,
and salad in peace.

Following an intense game of tag on a hot June afternoon, you could be sprawled on the gym floor in a circle of six-year olds furiously flapping their hands and blowing on you in an attempt to cool you down. (Coincidentally, you could have, long ago, bid your days of germaphobia goodbye in order to preserve your sanity.)

The special ed kids (integrated into the class for most subjects with the presence of a teacher’s aid) could repeatedly gravitate (and, on occasion, literally adhere) to you, as if sensing a kindred spirit who is, at times, just as confused and agitated as they are.

During a grade three home economics class, you could be more comfortable with the reality that all of your pint-sized peers are wielding massive knives than with the attention you receive for your so-called “Canadian” (read: rudimentary) pear-peeling technique.

You could be filmed singing "Head and Shoulders" with the first graders by the local TV company. You could also be lent a recorder, invited to play the piano at a moment's notice, have a pair of taiko sticks thrust into your hands...

...or just be asked to watch.

You could develop four crushes on four teachers at four schools (for a grand total of four) whose attractiveness could be attributed almost entirely to the nature of their nurturing work.   

Some of them could develop crushes on you. (But you won’t know unless there’s alcohol involved.)

When invited to participate in a P.E. swimming class at your next (and last) visit, you choose your words carefully. “I would love to, but I don’t have a Japanese swimsuit. So, maybe I can't...?"

Nor are you prepared to shell out for a head-to-toe wet-suit
you will never wear again.

The response of your fellow female teachers could surprise you.

“Oh, bikini?”

Nodded affirmation.

“Daijobu!” (“No problem!”)

“Maybe with a t-shirt and shorts?” you suggest, hope rising. The water is clear and blue, the kids are freaking cute, and it would sure beat hanging out on the side lines in a pool of sweat.

“T-shirt iranai. No t-shirt okay. Male teachers will be happy. Mitai, mitai! Want to see!” 

I would tell you how this story ends but I haven’t decided yet. 

You could question the discipline methods, the collectivist culture, and the reluctance to attempt an answer without being completely sure of its correctness, arguing that, while all may work within the Japanese education system, they make learning a foreign language darn near impossible. But could you challenge them?

Standing at the front of the room holding your greatest (but not great) attempt at the kanji for “world peace”, the teacher could ask his grade six shodo (Japanese calligraphy) class for feedback. This could result in enthusiastic exclamations of “umai, umai, metcha umai!” (“Skillful, skillful, very skillful!”), encouraging him to press, “In English?” A pause, then a shower of English praise; “Good!” “Great!’ “Beautiful!” And just as you’re thinking, “okay, I’m embarrassed, time to wrap this up”, one brave soul, no doubt encouraged by a friend, could blurt out, “Shey-ku-shi!”

You could argue, but the kid's got a point.
World peace is kinda sexy.    

After an especially raucous sixth period English class with a Grade 6 class at a different school, the home room teacher could turn to you with an admiring, slightly amazed smile and say, “Echo-sensei, I think you are a good teacher. Every class is better and better.”

Having your hand firmly (a rarity in Japan) shaken in thanks by one teacher while another brings you a glass of iced black coffee (it’s the thought that counts), you wonder if these could be the same men who, two years earlier, avoided your gaze, evaded your ideas, and essentially did all they could to ignore your very foreign presence?  

Due to one of many misunderstandings at the start of your stay in Japan, your favorite elementary school 教頭先生　Vice Principal could turn to you at 4 PM each time you visit and say, very sincerely, “Echo-sensei, please don’t miss you-ah bus.”

It could be crystal clear that you are no expert on educational philosophies in Canada, the touchy subject of ownership of the Senkaku Islands, or the challenges of an aging population in both countries. Yet, this same individual could make time at your every visit to discuss them, then apologize for disturbing you and “corrupting your work”.

Kyoto sensei at yet another school could ask, as you are leaving at 4:30 PM, “中学校まで？” [Are you going] to the junior high school?” (Which happens to be just a five-minute walk down the road). You could seize the opportunity to express how, in your opinion, there is a direct correlation between the excessive work culture and the dwindling birthrate in Japan, how foreigners do not want to stay here to raise their families, and that you are absolutely not going to the junior high school (although you will end up doing some prep at home later that evening). Or, you could smile politely, pretend not to understand, and give a sweetly noncommittal answer.

After school, a rock-and-roll English enthusiast of a teacher who you met for the first time earlier that day could drive past your bus stop, offer to give you a lift into town, and then divulge details of his “secret” divorce and upcoming marriage as if you were some long-lost friend.

Although the list could go on and on, I’m purposefully posting it today. Tomorrow is the first of my four last elementary school visits. Things could get messy. Kids could get crazy. Tears could be shed. Anything could happen.