The Problem of My Job

Just read this short article about my job.

Thought I would share it.

Japan Times, Don't Blame JET

You Look American

I overheard a comment the other night that gave me a bit of pause.

You see, Little Brother JET (the replacement of Big Brother JET), who is very gung-ho, polite, and friendly, does not look anything like his predecessor either. Big Brother got his nickname partly because he has red hair (like me!) and so I figured we could pass, especially in Japan, as siblings.

But Little Brother JET is half Laotian by descent. He doesn’t look Asian to me, not exactly. I remember thinking the same of other half-this or half-that people I’d met before. She doesn’t look Japanese. She just looks American, to me. A dark-haired, brown-eyed sort.

But when we were doing our meet-and-greet with some group or another, and he mentioned his hereditary background, someone said, “Oh, that explains it. I thought you didn’t look American!”

What, then, does an American look like? I wondered.

Because after living here a year, I can almost see the difference between who looks Chinese, who looks Japanese, and who looks Korean.. kind of, almost. And I like to think I can spot British and Dutch and Italian. But when it comes to American, all bets are off. I assume that looking like an American looks like anything and everything, because it very often does.

I know a bunch of Americans. In the same way that, as a little kid, you just kind of assume everyone’s life experience is pretty much the same as yours, I tend to assume that people are American until I have reason to believe otherwise (an accent, a statement in a self-introduction). I’ve more than once mistaken dudes I have seen around the cities in Japan as being black Americans when they are actually from Africa. Not African Americans, dude, just African.

And the dark-eyed, dark-haired half Asians? Look just as American to me as African Americans, and dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian-descended Americans, and yeah, the pale-as-death Irish-rooted Americans too. It’s not that I maybe couldn’t have picked out the Asian in someone’s features, it’s that I never thought to look for it. My own heritage is half Dutch, the other half a mix of British, Irish, and some Native American too (plus some other stuff I can’t remember). The sheer variety of all that is sometimes a little bit mind-boggling for some of our Japanese students, because Japan tends to be pretty Japanese.

Some people get married outside of the nationality/culture/Japanese race; it’s not like it’s taboo or unheard of. But a lot more don’t. Because it’s who’s around. For a lot of Japanese, where you’re from and your nationality and your racial heritage is all connected to being Japanese.

Being American, though, is a whole different system. Virtually everyone there traces back to somewhere else before, at least partly.

What does it mean to look American? Is it a complexion? An eye shape or color? Is it a stance or swagger or haircut? Is it a fashion statement? Do I bear the stamp unconsciously, just because I was born of ‘mixed’ heritage in the state of Georgia, because I went to school in Tennessee, all the while pledging allegiance to the flag and memorizing things like “Give me liberty or give me death!”?

Whatever the reason, I am assumed on first glance to be foreign. I often feel like people ask me where I came from just out of politeness, although I suppose it’s possible that they can’t tell by my accent I’m not Australian, New Zealander, or European.

The other afternoon, Little Brother and I were up at Haga Castle. The caretaker there, an old man speaking only Kansai-ben chatted with us at length. I was proud of myself for following almost everything he said. He speaking pace was slow enough to allow this, and it made me kinda smug. I figured Little Brother was probably following it too, although he said later that it got difficult in places. Little Brother is good at Japanese (prrrobably better than me), but Kansai-ben is still kind of a trip for the newly-arrived; however versed one may be in classroom-taught proper Japanese, get yourself into the middle of nowhere (like, for example, Haga) and up on top of a mountain, and the local people aren’t going to talk that way. Anyway, after a few minutes of going on about the castle and the area and his job being to shut the gate when we left, he commented that kanojo wa nihongo zenzen wakar’en, na?

Hey guy! I do so understand Japanese! The conversation turned there and we realized that he’d not only recognized the half-Asian-ness of Little Brother, but he’d figured it was half Japanese, and assumed that was why he spoke Japanese and that this was what qualified him to be an English teacher in Japan. He missed the part where I was a teacher too; I guess he thought I was a visiting friend. I wasn’t offended, just kind of surprised. Like I said, Little Brother looks (sounds, acts?) really American to me. If anything, I kind of feel like my more reserved demeanor and conservative nature are more “Japanese” than his outgoing directness..!

To Nurture the Badass

When I woke up Wednesday morning, I felt like my body had been flung into a hardwood floor, perhaps more than once, on the evening before. Later in the day I discovered the bruises to prove it.

Because I had got to thinking again, and you know how dangerous that can be.. and I thought, you know, I’ve sweated through a shirt while outdoors in the afternoon climbing a mountain, but what I haven’t done in a while is sweat through a shirt indoors while punching at invisible targets. Basically, I hadn’t been to a karate class in an un-air-conditioned space in August in Japan.

Whyever not?!

Seeking to remedy this issue, I stopped in at the nearby sports center to inquire as to whether there were an available class. I did not perfectly understand the guy behind the counter, but he ended up writing down a bunch of stuff for me, all in kanji (really, I appreciate the implication assuming my literacy), the gist of which was, there are karate people, they get here at 7pm, they use that room right over there. Come on Tuesday and meet them.

Tuesday night, I toted myself and another ALT, I think I’ll call her Ze German (this is an almost totally racist application of nickname and may later be rethought; Ze German is the replacement for TheCat, and is strikingly her opposite in appearance. TheCat was short, dark, and Asian; Ze German is tall, fair, and blond/blue-eyed. But she also took German or participated in some kind of German club, so…), to the sports center, where she would have tennis and I would have “karate.”

It’s not actually karate, it’s Shorinji Kempo. They spent some time explaining the difference to me at different points during the class. On the ground, the punches are different, but the integration of self-defense and more natural stance work into the system is not foreign to my brand of karate.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

So there we were, but even just upon my arrival, the old dude behind the desk was trying to tell me he’d made a mistake (he actually just meant the I-sent-you-to-Shorinji-Kempo-when-you-asked-for-karate mistake, as well as a new revelation that the kids’ class started at 7, the adults were from like 8:30.. shoot). But then the sensei showed up and all seemed to be well. Older, with silvering hair that suggested he’d one day have the hairdo of Epic-sensei, he carried himself with that calm presence that martial arts guys sometimes have. The very self-assured, I can kick your ass if I have to, but I basically never have to kind of mien. He regarded me with a smile devoid of confusion or worry. My foreignness and potential inability to speak Japanese did not daunt him. My femaleness and potential inability to handle shit did not scare him.

True martial artists are rock stars, and beyond.

Before he’d even arrived, the kids began opening up the room, turning on the fan and opening the windows. I guess I expected there to be mats on the floor, but it was hardwood like any gym surface. Better for balance and harder on falling, I guess.

I recognized one of my elementary students in the class, the kid who plays janken like his life depends on the outcome of that rock-paper-scissors contest. I followed the class as best I could, encouraged by the presence of a girl beside me much younger and newer at all this than me. Encouraged, too, by the way the slumbering memory of how to move in a martial arts setting cocked its head and paid close attention.

All things considered, I was on fire. Of course, my arms had a tendency to resume the fighting position I’d practiced first, and my punches had a tendency to rotate. The guy assigned to work with me noted these things but was overall pretty impressed at how quickly I was picking stuff up. There was a zen meditation and I was also taught how to sit down and stand up and get into stance properly. We worked on ukemi, forward and backward rolls. All this and more I kind of remembered, and I threw myself into it all with intensity and alacrity. Maybe I’d been caged too long.

There was So. Much. Sweat. But that was okay, too. I noticed it and considered it a good sign of workin’ hard.

Another good sign of hard work is the soreness that follows. But apparently, your muscles will be mad in the morning if, after years of not doing a thing, you do it at 100% and many times. And, if you never really rolled correctly on your left side, you might end up with bruises to prove it. What cracks me up is that I have visible bruises on both my left shoulder and the back of my left hip (about where your backpack would sit.. ow), but not on the right. I did it properly, it seems, on that side. So Tuesday night felt good, even if there was so much sweat. Wednesday morning (and beyond), there was just So. Much. Pain, between my bruises and the ridiculous soreness of everything.

But that’s just the kind of thing that makes me want to try again, to see if it gets any easier.

I thought about my full schedule and how I might have to give up a little of my girliness or scholarliness if I want to pursue martial arts (and I do, whether it's this Kempo stuff, or straight up karate, to which the desk guy gave me info... they meet on Sundays). I spend a lot of time going to Japanese class, taking things like ikebana, etc. I feel like my badass side needs a little nurturing (martial arts, maybe taiko drumming) so I too can be as a Valkyrie going into battle maybe once a week-ish.

We'll see.

A return to good eatin'

Every day at school, my VP would ask, did you bring your lunch today. I would give him the are-you-kidding face and laugh or sigh and say noooo…

Then I would either fling myself in the path of someone departing to make a Lawson’s (a not inconvenient store) run (that person normally being the band teacher, whom I have always liked), or I would walk myself down the long driveway to the grocery store across the street to get myself some lunchies.

Dinner has been a similarly painful process. I would basically feel bad about the idea of eating out every night, and then do it anyway. And never manage to finish my whole meal because it’s just too hot outside for my body to accept a normal amount of food.

No more. Today, we had opening ceremony at school. And in return for wearing slacks (not shorts), and for standing in the gym sweating for 45 minutes, I get Teacher Bento! Teacher Bento happen almost anytime we have a special event. They are filled with all kinds of sashimi and special rice and strange pickled vegetables and little fried this or that.

Then, tonight my Japanese classes plus dinner times resume with Osaki-san. I go for the food, really.. I did for several weeks. The class itself is all kind of review for me (not that I don’t need it).. but let's be honest. I was kinda like, meh, Wednesday night classes. ...There's FOOD involved??

Star Sand Beach Just Out of Reach

First of all, I’d like to link to this entry. I wrote it a long time ago, but for whatever reason, did not publish it to the blog. So there is that. And here are the rest of the photos from that whole trip.

I think the reason I never published it might have something to do with a rewrite I was planning to do with it, a sort of reflection on the nature of a few turns of phrase I used to run through my head. One of them is “Star sand beach, just out of reach,” and the other is “Always more of Shosha to see."

The first time I visited Mount Shosha, I made it there with barely enough daylight to see anything at all. The second time, I had a little bit more, but still not enough to explore the whole temple complex. This was frustrating, because it seemed like I could never get my shit together enough to arrive with any kind of time. But it is also encouraging to think of always having a reason to go back.

I have a tendency to do things to death, because I have a hard time letting go.

So it legitimizes my hope to return to a place.. I’m more likely to actually return to a place if it’s not left me with a been-there, done-that sort of feel.

Even if one had been to Okinawa and done that, I’d want to go again. But I never did get to see the star sand beach I had hoped to find. And that’s reason enough for me to take another trip.

Your Life Is Hard

An important lesson.

I’ve been thinking about Italy a lot lately. It’s partly the weather, partly the timing.. I went to Italy in 2007, in the fall, and it was a wonderful, important experience for me.

Allow me to share a moment from that semester abroad.

We lived in a converted nunnery, the 30-odd students from various US colleges and universities. Every Tuesday we had all-day field trips to some site visit or other, where we’d receive on-site lectures about whatever monument or event we were traversing that day. Other classes included Latin, Greek, Italian, and art history.

I was standing in a friend’s room, going on at length about some thing or other. I suspect it was complaining about Italian homework, and how unreasonable it was that we were expected to learn so many verbs before the next class, and how I was tired, and I maybe hadn’t had time to do this or that, and Greek, and friends back home, and…

My friend looked up at me and said solemnly, “Yeah, EmLem, your life is hard.”

I stopped, and burst out laughing. Good God, she was right! What did I have to complain about? What have I ever had to complain about?

I get reminders of this lesson all the time, but the latest one is delivered to my work desk as I eat lunch today. I’ve been reading about the experiences of one of my friends and former co-workers as he essays into the teaching world. Unlike my job, his is hard. Even my short spell as a Latin teacher was a blissful cakewalk in a lot of ways. Now, I’m just an assistant, and I deal neither with major lesson plan arcs (well, not above elementary level), testing, nor discipline. Basically I get to skip all the crappy sides of teaching and stick with either just the fun part, or ‘whatever I want.’ I can make lessons easy. I can make them only games. Basically, I am horribly spoiled and coming down from this into a ‘real job’ will suck very hard. Unless I find a way to never have a hard job, that is.

Summer vacation is hard in its own way. Mostly, JETs have to engage in whatever personal pursuit will most effectively fill their days and curb ennui. Some spend all their time playing various sports with their students.. I wanted to be that guy, tried to be that guy, but it wasn’t easy, with different teams all over the place at different times. I only Friday found the sannen (cats' class) dance party in the gym and joined in. They aren’t there today, though. I had many different ideas as to how I would do this, but in the end I’ve mostly studied kanji. I’ve “learned” 508 of those freaking things, some easy and others ridiculously complicated-looking. My plan is to try to nail that set flat before I try to pick up the other 1500 or so.

My thoughts turn over and I read about what real life classrooms are like stateside, especially in the higher-risk lower-motivation areas and schools. It’s not especially encouraging to someone considering teaching as a career move… although that does continue to be heavy on my radar as a post-JET option. I am thinking I would like to teach Latin, English, ESL, or Japanese. (After getting certified, of course)

Other options which I thought I would spend summer break researching (but have not) include: The Foreign Service (liiike being an ambassador or somesuch), Therapy (like, for your mind, yo), and as always, Editing Written Materials.

Well. I’m thinking about them, even if I’m not researching them. So there.

Another reason I have thought of Italy recently is that one of my centro companions, Ice, has recently contacted me to let me know she’s matriculated as a graduate student at Vanderbilt. Despite never having done that particular thing myself, it makes me feel nostalgic. I was a special undergrad, and I hung around the department office far more than your average kid.

One other notable summer-vacation thing is that I rarely use my computer at home, to the point that stuff I can’t do at work (consume youtube videos posted by my peers, for example… that doesn’t work here) online just doesn’t even get done, most of the time. When I get home, I just want to get out, or socialize, or clean up, or lie around… none of which are computer-screen friendly. I don’t even really watch movies. I guess that’s a good thing. I often end up feeling, though, like nothing ever actually gets done!

I guess, until summer vacation ends, I can kind of be okay with that.

It doesn't have to be undiscovered

(just not-yet-seen-by-me)

So I got home early from work the other day (okay, “early” is relative and I’m starting to see 2pm as my normal quittin’ time. Just sayin’) and I said to myself, I said, self, you know what we haven’t done in a while? Sweat through a shirt. And I don’t mean like get a little damp under the arms… any stroll through the parking lot will do that. I mean disgustingly and thoroughly soak through an entire shirt, front and back. And it’s August still!

In summer, the only fresh thing is the produce. Summer is for your hair to never do what you ask, for your clothes to never quite look right and be comfortable at the same time.. summer is for dirt and sweat and gross, an abandoning of fanciness or pretense of anything like it. I think this is why south-islanders live longer. They gave up pretending it’s not hot as balls and just embraced the right to do whatever it took to be both productive and comfortable in that situation.

Anyway. In all this longing for AC and attempting to be a good studious productive desk-sittin’ individual, I think I started to pretend that I could in fact get away without abandoning that pretense.

So I suited up in shorts and a good sweatin’ shirt, and I hopped on China Downtown (my bike) and pedaled off toward the great unknown. I crossed the river and intended to find a mountain “crevice,” or a place where the valley extends behind a mountain somewhere.. basically I intended to explore something I couldn’t see from the main road of my commute every day.

I have a tendency, when I do that, to find shrines. This is mostly because shrines are to be found everywhere, as long as you don’t expect a shrine to be too much more than a tori gate, some steps, a water basin, a little building, and a bell. Mostly they are deserted and look like they were lovingly tended, but that was about four days ago. Iwa Jinja is a pretty grand example of a shrine. But I love the rustic little ones too.

So anyway, there I was, biking along. I’d just wiped down the bike because spiders build webs on anything that you leave sitting for more than three hours (seriously, there was one inside my car, spanning from the rearview mirror to the steering wheel and dash) and oiled the chain, and I had the oil can and its little red spray straw in my front basket, with my bag of important adventure material (camera, cell phone, some change, water bottle, hand towel) in the back basket. I lost the red spray straw somewhere before the end of the bridge, but went on.

Saw some steps at the bottom of a mountain and guessed (rightly) that they led to a small shrine. I did not realize the shrine would be all the way on the top of that mountain, and that the steps would take me nearly all the way there.

I hit the first landing and thought, it must be close to here...

But it wasn't even halfway.

View near the top.

Shrine.

Don’t worry, it wasn’t a very tall mountain, even for Yamasaki. So this was Nakayama jinja - 中山神社 (middle-mountain shrine?). Then yesterday my VP was asking me if I had done anything lately that made me “good and tired,” or tired in a good way, like hard work, so I pulled up the googlemaps image of Nakayama and said, I climbed this by accident. On the map, though, I could see that a little valley snaked around this mountain, complete with settlement. I decided to bike through this sleepy hamlet, and so that afternoon, I did so.

View Larger Map

That 522 is a "highway" on this map is mind boggling. It's one of those roads that you swear has to be one-lane until you see someone coming the other way.

There is something in me that likes to go until I lose the road. To keep going until you don’t know where you are, and then go a bit further just to see what’s there, even though you can predict what it will be. And then, go back. I saw mountains, woods, and rice fields. Oh and a shrine gate (so I’ll go back there sometime). Houses and creeks and old people and little kids. But they smiled at me, all of them, when I said hello. (It kinda made me wonder if it was a new thing for them, too.. to have a random white chick biking up through their valley)

Trees at the end of the hamlet.

The angle of the light made the two zillion dragonflies striking, with their spun-copper wings buzzing.

I did sweat through my shirt. I did remember what it’s like to just go. There is a dynamic tension in my life between making thing happen and letting things happen. Sometimes, I try far too hard to force things to go a certain way. Sometimes, I am far luckier than needing to do that.. and should just accept things as they present themselves to me.

Oh, and on the second day, I found the red straw too, on the bridge. Win, overall.