I feel a little sheepish posting this, but I hope you'll all forgive the shameless plug, as this is quite exciting for me:
My first published piece!
Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to expand outside the blog!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Back To School
It was lunchtime when we arrived, five people in two taxis and one via bicycle, at Fuchu Elementary School #10. We were expected, of course, but were welcomed only by shrieking children, each nudging their neighbor, “Hey, get a look at who’s here.”
The “who” – well, “we,” – was the group of students that our university had selected to go to participate in Fuchu Elementary’s International Day: Claire from England, Usu from Cote d’Ivorie, Bibi from China, Samu from Finland, Zare from Brasil and myself, feeling quite unexotic indeed.
As we walked towards the main building, various children gawked, whispered “foreigner” to their friends; a few teachers poked their heads out of classroom windows to say hello and direct us to the principal.
The main entrance to the school was like a regular genkan, the typical entryway to a Japanese home: the floor was a few inches below the floor of the school building, and the walls were lined with hundreds of drawers where the students put their shoes before changing into their classroom slippers. I put on a pair, a few sizes too small, and shuffled over to the principal’s office, where we were seated and offered tea.
The principal’s office was charmingly cluttered. There seemed to be a thin layer of dust on everything. A half-erased chalkboard calendar hung on one wall, flanked by notices and other random-looking papers attached with pushpins. On the other wall, close to the ceiling, hung portraits of the 11 previous principals of the school, ten of whom were business-like men, and one of whom was an absolutely terrifying woman whom I was afraid would materialize at any moment to correct my posture, inform me that my behavior was “unacceptable,” and request a conversation with my parents. Each portrait was angled downward from its point high up on the wall, giving the impression that each principal was watching my every move, looking down at me with disgust and pity. I got the urge apologize for things I hadn’t done. If the pictures were positioned that way as a psychological maneuver to make students afraid of stepping out of line, well… it worked.
All of this in contrast to the current principal, who was so gentle a woman that I feared shaking her hand may crush it. Dressed in a conservative gray frock, she spoke softly and slowly, thanking us for coming because we must be very busy, reiterating how excited the children were to see us. Working in elementary education for 27 years, this was her first post as a principal. Even when speaking about the problems that face elementary school children in Japan (bullying resulting in refusal to go to school, overcrowded classrooms, hyperactive kids [sound familiar?]), she did so with a smile on her face and an attitude that spoke of infinite patience and perseverance. When she cited numbers, she held up as many digits for us to see; for larger numbers, she would extend five fingers on her left hand, in the palm of which she would place the remaining digits from the right hand.
A teacher and a few students came to the door and told us that the performance was about to start. Lead upstairs by an unbelievably nervous boy, who would walk ahead of me, stop, look back to make sure I was still coming, then start walking again before we got too close, we emerged on the roof, where around 120 students were waiting. We sat in front of them; Mt. Fuji was visible behind us, in the hazy distance. One of the students came to the front and, speaking through a megaphone, asked her classmates to be quiet, then welcomed us and said how excited everyone was to learn about our countries.
One by one, the three classes performed songs and dances for us off to the right, as the remaining students in the front row tried to guess which foreigner was from where. Upon their conclusion, each of us was handed the megaphone and asked our opinion of the performances. I can’t quite remember what I said but I do remember being glad that my Japanese teacher wasn’t there to hear it. It appeared that the children were too busy recovering from the shock of seeing foreigners speaking Japanese to care much about my grammar. Thankfully.
The six of us were to go two-by-two to the three different classrooms; I was paired with Samu from Finland, and we were lead to the first classroom by a small group much in the same way I was lead up to the roof, save for one tiny little boy who, in a voice barely over a whisper, and without making any eye contact with me at all, asked me how many people were in my family, how many were boys, and what did I eat at dinner with my family.
My assignment had been to give a presentation about America, but I had been unsure as to what 10-year old Japanese students already knew, or what they wanted to know. I told them about my hometown, about what my elementary school was like, and what I ate for lunch. I asked them what American foods they knew (“Hamburgers!”), what kinds of foods they liked (“Hamburgers!”), and what they thought a normal American student their age ate for lunch (“Hamburgers!”). As for famous American people they knew, their answers, in order of appearance, were, Bush, (they didn’t say which one) Clinton (they didn’t say which one), and Babe Ruth.
When I asked them what other American things they knew, the many of the boys screamed, “Baseball!”
“How about other than baseball?”
Silence.
“Baseball!”
The females of the group asked very good questions, and in general were much better behaved. One girl came up to me afterwards and asked me in all seriousness if I had any children. I did not enjoy this question. Another girl had brought a dreamcatcher her dad had brought back from a business trip to America. I saw her holding it, standing in my general vicinity, eyes towards the ground, looking very nervous. I felt similarly. Getting down to her level, I asked her what it was and if she knew what it was supposed to do. Biting her lip to hold back a smile, I told her that I had had a dreamcatcher when I was younger, too. She relaxed a bit and smiled fully; this melted me.
While preparing for the visit, I thought that the perspective I would gain from going to talk to these kids would be related to my identity as an American, something that I had never thought about fully until I began to feel uncomfortable, why I’m still not sure, claiming it to be “where I’m from.” I was worried about what these children’s image of America would be. Fat? Greedy? Loud? Warmongering? Gun-toting? Would I have to answer questions about the Iraq War, about Hiroshima, about racism?
As it turned out, they really didn’t have much of a well-formed image about America at all. Some had been to Hawaii but did not realize it was part of America. (To be fair, this is probably true of many Americans as well.) It was exactly this that left its mark on me through this experience at the school, and it’s something that I often come upon while traveling. One of the many humbling experiences involved in living abroad is discovering that there is a vast world with no relation to one’s own.
The place I long for and call home, those children had never heard of. The language I speak, they don’t understand. People who have hurt me and those whom I have wronged, who remain in my memory, stubborn and unmoving – those people the children will never meet. It’s an awe-inspiring thing to realize, though it is also at times frightening to think that everything I hold dear and that has contributed to making me who I am are entirely meaningless to nearly the entire world population, save my family and those with whom I am close. With this in mind, it is quite hard to take oneself so seriously as to lose proper perspective, a crime that I’m often guilty of and something that I feel travel is the best cure for.
Back in the principal’s office, the six of us talked again with the principal and some teachers about the visit, and about their students. The conversation came, as it often does, to each of our hometowns. When it was my turn to speak, I told those assembled that I was from San Diego.
One of the teachers’ faces lit up. “San Diego?”
“Yes.”
In English, she said, “San Diego! Blue sky! Freeway!”
As I reflected on this statement as one would a Zen koan, I saw peeking into the room from outside one of the girls from the classes we went to. Meeting her eyes, I smiled and waved softly to her as those around me continued to speak of their home countries. Her eyes widened, and in an instant she was gone. I focused my attention on that spot for the next few seconds, waiting. I couldn’t say why, but I really wanted her to come back.
The “who” – well, “we,” – was the group of students that our university had selected to go to participate in Fuchu Elementary’s International Day: Claire from England, Usu from Cote d’Ivorie, Bibi from China, Samu from Finland, Zare from Brasil and myself, feeling quite unexotic indeed.
As we walked towards the main building, various children gawked, whispered “foreigner” to their friends; a few teachers poked their heads out of classroom windows to say hello and direct us to the principal.
The main entrance to the school was like a regular genkan, the typical entryway to a Japanese home: the floor was a few inches below the floor of the school building, and the walls were lined with hundreds of drawers where the students put their shoes before changing into their classroom slippers. I put on a pair, a few sizes too small, and shuffled over to the principal’s office, where we were seated and offered tea.
The principal’s office was charmingly cluttered. There seemed to be a thin layer of dust on everything. A half-erased chalkboard calendar hung on one wall, flanked by notices and other random-looking papers attached with pushpins. On the other wall, close to the ceiling, hung portraits of the 11 previous principals of the school, ten of whom were business-like men, and one of whom was an absolutely terrifying woman whom I was afraid would materialize at any moment to correct my posture, inform me that my behavior was “unacceptable,” and request a conversation with my parents. Each portrait was angled downward from its point high up on the wall, giving the impression that each principal was watching my every move, looking down at me with disgust and pity. I got the urge apologize for things I hadn’t done. If the pictures were positioned that way as a psychological maneuver to make students afraid of stepping out of line, well… it worked.
All of this in contrast to the current principal, who was so gentle a woman that I feared shaking her hand may crush it. Dressed in a conservative gray frock, she spoke softly and slowly, thanking us for coming because we must be very busy, reiterating how excited the children were to see us. Working in elementary education for 27 years, this was her first post as a principal. Even when speaking about the problems that face elementary school children in Japan (bullying resulting in refusal to go to school, overcrowded classrooms, hyperactive kids [sound familiar?]), she did so with a smile on her face and an attitude that spoke of infinite patience and perseverance. When she cited numbers, she held up as many digits for us to see; for larger numbers, she would extend five fingers on her left hand, in the palm of which she would place the remaining digits from the right hand.
A teacher and a few students came to the door and told us that the performance was about to start. Lead upstairs by an unbelievably nervous boy, who would walk ahead of me, stop, look back to make sure I was still coming, then start walking again before we got too close, we emerged on the roof, where around 120 students were waiting. We sat in front of them; Mt. Fuji was visible behind us, in the hazy distance. One of the students came to the front and, speaking through a megaphone, asked her classmates to be quiet, then welcomed us and said how excited everyone was to learn about our countries.
One by one, the three classes performed songs and dances for us off to the right, as the remaining students in the front row tried to guess which foreigner was from where. Upon their conclusion, each of us was handed the megaphone and asked our opinion of the performances. I can’t quite remember what I said but I do remember being glad that my Japanese teacher wasn’t there to hear it. It appeared that the children were too busy recovering from the shock of seeing foreigners speaking Japanese to care much about my grammar. Thankfully.
The six of us were to go two-by-two to the three different classrooms; I was paired with Samu from Finland, and we were lead to the first classroom by a small group much in the same way I was lead up to the roof, save for one tiny little boy who, in a voice barely over a whisper, and without making any eye contact with me at all, asked me how many people were in my family, how many were boys, and what did I eat at dinner with my family.
My assignment had been to give a presentation about America, but I had been unsure as to what 10-year old Japanese students already knew, or what they wanted to know. I told them about my hometown, about what my elementary school was like, and what I ate for lunch. I asked them what American foods they knew (“Hamburgers!”), what kinds of foods they liked (“Hamburgers!”), and what they thought a normal American student their age ate for lunch (“Hamburgers!”). As for famous American people they knew, their answers, in order of appearance, were, Bush, (they didn’t say which one) Clinton (they didn’t say which one), and Babe Ruth.
When I asked them what other American things they knew, the many of the boys screamed, “Baseball!”
“How about other than baseball?”
Silence.
“Baseball!”
The females of the group asked very good questions, and in general were much better behaved. One girl came up to me afterwards and asked me in all seriousness if I had any children. I did not enjoy this question. Another girl had brought a dreamcatcher her dad had brought back from a business trip to America. I saw her holding it, standing in my general vicinity, eyes towards the ground, looking very nervous. I felt similarly. Getting down to her level, I asked her what it was and if she knew what it was supposed to do. Biting her lip to hold back a smile, I told her that I had had a dreamcatcher when I was younger, too. She relaxed a bit and smiled fully; this melted me.
While preparing for the visit, I thought that the perspective I would gain from going to talk to these kids would be related to my identity as an American, something that I had never thought about fully until I began to feel uncomfortable, why I’m still not sure, claiming it to be “where I’m from.” I was worried about what these children’s image of America would be. Fat? Greedy? Loud? Warmongering? Gun-toting? Would I have to answer questions about the Iraq War, about Hiroshima, about racism?
As it turned out, they really didn’t have much of a well-formed image about America at all. Some had been to Hawaii but did not realize it was part of America. (To be fair, this is probably true of many Americans as well.) It was exactly this that left its mark on me through this experience at the school, and it’s something that I often come upon while traveling. One of the many humbling experiences involved in living abroad is discovering that there is a vast world with no relation to one’s own.
The place I long for and call home, those children had never heard of. The language I speak, they don’t understand. People who have hurt me and those whom I have wronged, who remain in my memory, stubborn and unmoving – those people the children will never meet. It’s an awe-inspiring thing to realize, though it is also at times frightening to think that everything I hold dear and that has contributed to making me who I am are entirely meaningless to nearly the entire world population, save my family and those with whom I am close. With this in mind, it is quite hard to take oneself so seriously as to lose proper perspective, a crime that I’m often guilty of and something that I feel travel is the best cure for.
Back in the principal’s office, the six of us talked again with the principal and some teachers about the visit, and about their students. The conversation came, as it often does, to each of our hometowns. When it was my turn to speak, I told those assembled that I was from San Diego.
One of the teachers’ faces lit up. “San Diego?”
“Yes.”
In English, she said, “San Diego! Blue sky! Freeway!”
As I reflected on this statement as one would a Zen koan, I saw peeking into the room from outside one of the girls from the classes we went to. Meeting her eyes, I smiled and waved softly to her as those around me continued to speak of their home countries. Her eyes widened, and in an instant she was gone. I focused my attention on that spot for the next few seconds, waiting. I couldn’t say why, but I really wanted her to come back.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The Great Pronoun Crisis
Japanese pronouns are an interesting bunch. In general, spoken Japanese skips over pronouns when the subject is assumed. For example, in English, if you want to say that you ate, you say: "I ate." However, in Japanese, it's usually assumed that you're talking about you, so it's perfectly natural to say "Ate." As a result, subject-less sentences such as "Saw a movie," "Slept well," and "Want to know" are considered complete, since in each it's assumed that the speaker is talking about themselves. It's an economical language in that any unneeded markers are usually dropped. Of course, if you want to talk about your friend, you'd say "[Friend] ate," and so on and so forth.
In addition to this indirect way of speaking that seems quite vague to native English speakers (including myself), it's also a complex and difficult language to learn because speech is highly specified. At a talk by Alfred Birnbaum, a former translator of the popular (and my favorite) author Haruki Murakami, he pointed out this particular difficulty when it came to translating. In Japanese, it is possible, without knowing who is speaking, to deduce gender, age, social status and origin (what part of the country, from the city or a rural area) of the speaker entirely based on the type of speech. In the case of fiction, this is difficult for the translator because a lot of explaining must be done about the characters in English that is implicit and doesn't require extra effort in the Japanese.
This, among other things, is why Japanese can at times seem impossibly entangled in many layers of speech patterns, levels of politeness and styles - why there seem to be 10 different ways to say one thing, each one based on the situation and who's saying it to who.
My reason for writing is because I am going through a grammatical identity crisis. There are about five or six common ways of saying "I," compared to one in English. There's Watashi, the standard, non-gender specific title; Boku, used mainly by males, which has a relaxed, cooly detached tone; Watakushi, used in formal settings; Ore, a gritty, more confrontational term used to assert masculinity (used mainly among teenagers); and Atashi, which is most common with the 18-25 female bracket in a similar way that Boku is popular with males.
Herein lies my identity crisis. In high school I was encouraged to use Boku; in college I was rebuked and told to use Watashi; and now I can't seem to remain either of them for any length of time. I want to be Boku: hip, loose, casual. But since I've been most recently trained to be Watashi, I usually unconsciously use Watashi, which isn't really a problem except that soon after calling myself Watashi, I remember that I actually want to be Boku, and, mid-conversation, at times mid-sentence, leave Watashi by the wayside and become Boku.
I wonder at what point Japanese decide which pronoun to use - if one day they decide "I think I'm done with Boku, let's switch back to Watashi," and never miss a beat from then on, or if it's a more prolonged process, dotted with anachronistic references to a former self. I also wonder what they think of the fact that I can't figure out what to call myself, whether they commiserate with my Multiple Pronoun Disorder, my Grammatical Schizophrenia, and whether the fact that conversations end soon after I make this mistake indicates that it's a more serious problem than I previously thought.
In addition to this indirect way of speaking that seems quite vague to native English speakers (including myself), it's also a complex and difficult language to learn because speech is highly specified. At a talk by Alfred Birnbaum, a former translator of the popular (and my favorite) author Haruki Murakami, he pointed out this particular difficulty when it came to translating. In Japanese, it is possible, without knowing who is speaking, to deduce gender, age, social status and origin (what part of the country, from the city or a rural area) of the speaker entirely based on the type of speech. In the case of fiction, this is difficult for the translator because a lot of explaining must be done about the characters in English that is implicit and doesn't require extra effort in the Japanese.
This, among other things, is why Japanese can at times seem impossibly entangled in many layers of speech patterns, levels of politeness and styles - why there seem to be 10 different ways to say one thing, each one based on the situation and who's saying it to who.
My reason for writing is because I am going through a grammatical identity crisis. There are about five or six common ways of saying "I," compared to one in English. There's Watashi, the standard, non-gender specific title; Boku, used mainly by males, which has a relaxed, cooly detached tone; Watakushi, used in formal settings; Ore, a gritty, more confrontational term used to assert masculinity (used mainly among teenagers); and Atashi, which is most common with the 18-25 female bracket in a similar way that Boku is popular with males.
Herein lies my identity crisis. In high school I was encouraged to use Boku; in college I was rebuked and told to use Watashi; and now I can't seem to remain either of them for any length of time. I want to be Boku: hip, loose, casual. But since I've been most recently trained to be Watashi, I usually unconsciously use Watashi, which isn't really a problem except that soon after calling myself Watashi, I remember that I actually want to be Boku, and, mid-conversation, at times mid-sentence, leave Watashi by the wayside and become Boku.
I wonder at what point Japanese decide which pronoun to use - if one day they decide "I think I'm done with Boku, let's switch back to Watashi," and never miss a beat from then on, or if it's a more prolonged process, dotted with anachronistic references to a former self. I also wonder what they think of the fact that I can't figure out what to call myself, whether they commiserate with my Multiple Pronoun Disorder, my Grammatical Schizophrenia, and whether the fact that conversations end soon after I make this mistake indicates that it's a more serious problem than I previously thought.
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