To my understanding (which is certainly incomplete and may be quite flawed), Japan is a country whose identity is at war with itself. I’d guess that post-WWII occupation is where this took a turn for the worse, the problem probably having started years before when that American Commodore Matthew Perry decided the west was through knocking on Japan’s door and sent warships to bust the door down. (Well, maybe he didn’t decide it on his own, but he executed the door busting.) Anyway, the present dilemma is that Japan is a country that loves tradition but also wants (needs?) modernization.
Here’s a prime example: To get a purchase okayed through the school takes a few weeks. Not because it’s that difficult, but because the paper I fill out has to be signed by who knows how many people, climbing the inboxes of different department heads until finally it reaches whomever and it given the go ahead. Then I get reimbursed. Not such a big deal to me, but look at the inefficiency. There are already guidelines in place, so if the guy down low just knows those guidelines, and I know them and purchase within them, that’s as far as it should have to go. But that’s not the Japanese way. The Japanese way is good for assuring quality, terrible at efficiency. And the simple reason for this continuing is that “This is how it’s always been done.”
So anyway, it’s taken me a while to get used to it again…and I still get frustrated.
Classes have become more routine, which makes it easier for me to do, as I know the students and what to expect. The only problem I face now is that my students don’t really care all that much about school. If I were in the US, most of these students would be failing already. But here I have to give them some leeway; we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel, so I try to make allowances that these students are not the best and need a little more encouragement. We’ll see how it goes.
Last weekend was great. I went out to Hyogo-ken, where I used to live, to visit two of my former students. First I met Kaori on Friday afternoon, hung out with her around Himeji, which seems much smaller than it used to because I now live in the urban sprawl between Osaka and Kyoto. I got to see where she now works as a kind of manager in a market.
That evening I met Mr. Shimizu, the father of my other former student, Kurara, and went with him back to their house in the countryside. In Japanese, they say “inaka,” and this place is very inaka.
I’d been there five years ago, shortly before I left Japan, and had enjoyed meeting her family and seeing a truly small town in rural Japan. Going back was a pleasant shock to my senses. After getting off the one-car train, the noise of its loud diesel engine fading quickly into the cold night air, I was stunned by the stillness, the silence. In the two months since I came back to Japan, living where I do, I’d never heard it silent, truly silent, even once. Standing that evening outside the station, there was no sound at all, unless I moved, or a car drove by. At Kurara’s house that weekend: Kurara, of course; her fiance, Daniel, a very nice Canadian guy; Kurara’s parents; Anna, Kurara’s youngest sister, her husband Yuki, and their kids Mirie and Shisuka. Missing were Kurara’s other sister Agune and the baby of the family, her brother, Yoshia. It was a full house, but pleasantly so.
Saturday around lunch time, Kurara, Daniel, Yuki, Mirie, Mr. Shimizu, and I went for a hike up a local mountain called Rikan-san.
There was once a castle on top, though now only the foundations remain. The view from the top is, however, stunning. Absolutely beautiful. The weather was perfect for such an outing, sunny and cool enough that although I worked up a good sweat climbing the mountain, I cooled off quickly once at the top. That evening we all went to an onsen (hot spring). After having hiked up the mountain, the hot water relaxed all the muscles, let the stress out. It felt GOOD. Made me want to go more often. (Ibaraki doesn’t have any onsen, though, but it does have sento, which are public bathhouses that are similar but the waters are heated and usually they aren’t as nice.) That night we hung around the house, a few of us playing with a Nintendo Wii, bowling. Kurara, Daniel, and I stayed up late talking about education, religion, and relationships.
It’s always a pleasant surprise to catch up with Kaori and Kurara. They’re the only students I met when they were young and whom I’ve been able (to some extent) to see grow up. They’re now both as old as I was when I met them, and I think they are as surprised as I am to discover that, and to see how we’re really still the same people.
Sunday I went to Kyoto to see Ryota, Sunao, and Himari-chan again.
They organized a barbeque at a river near their apartment, so I also got to see Mamiko again, and I was able to meet her husband as well as some other friends of Ryota and Sunao. It’s always refreshing to see them; they are counterparts to my friends in Colorado, Aaron and Lisa: for whatever the reason, I feel energized by them, and I don’t think I’m the only person to feel that way. I think that’s why they have so many friends. At this little barbeque, Ryota’s young cousins showed up, 8 year old twin boys, along with some of their friends. They recruited us to play some soccer with them in this little concrete sitting area. After a game or two, another bunch of boys, friends of the ones we were already playing with, showed up and wanted to play. So then there were about ten little boys and four of us older guys in our thirties. The kids were cute, and one of them was darn good, too.
The highlight of all this, though, and what is now one of my favorite moments, was when of the little boys from the second bunch started asking me questions in Japanese. I couldn’t quite catch what he was asking, though if that was because of my poor Japanese or his using the regional dialect, I’m not sure which. But when I told him in Japanese that I couldn’t speak Japanese well, he looked at me closely, cocked his head to one side, and asked: “Gaijin desu ka?” (Are you a foreigner?) I answered, “Hai, sou desu.” (Yes, that’s right.) But I was shocked, still shocked: He had assumed that I was Japanese. He had not seen any difference worth noting. How amazing it is that children see the truth of things so easily, so clearly, and it is only by growing up that things become so confused and convoluted with labels and divisions. It’s why the Taoists aim to return to a childlike state: the world is not confusing to children, they simply accept things as they come.
Maybe if I can regain some of that childlike state, maybe then I’ll be able to deal with Japanese bureaucracy with more composure. Maybe.
I still feel the calm of last weekend. I hope it stays with me for a while more.
