Atomic Guilt

Looming borough-wide tests helped sour last week at Nubata, previously my favorite school. Aside from a few games of hangman, classes were all listen-and-repeat drills. Now, what’s worse than playing human tape recorder for a morning? Sitting through an assembly in a steaming gymnasium for two hours that afternoon. This annual "Students' General Meeting" is a student-run forum to voice their concerns and requests. Of course, those voices commented only in Japanese, leaving me staring off into the choking humidity.

Students sat in rows according to grade and class section. Tables for various committee members flanked a central podium where student moderators called representatives to the floor mic. Each section rep waived a placard in hopes being selected next to speak.

The floor plan resembled a political caucus, but the proceedings had the solemnity of a tribunal, save for a few seconds of comic relief. One student sent the microphone crashing to the hardwood floor, and little Hideki from section 1-4 forgot his lines. An unruly special ed. student was dragged out of the gym by the seat of his pants.

Teachers lined the perimeter of the room slumped over in folding chairs, alternating between keeping an eye on students and closing their own. Japanese speeches anesthetized English-only eardrums. I drifted in and out of consciousness, fighting to stave off inevitable embarrassment. When would the foreigner conk out, everyone peeped over to look? Monitoring my condition was more interesting to some kids than reports from the cleaning and lunchtime broadcast committees. Eyelids sagged under their own weight. A few sympathizers winked, waived, or flashed peace signs. I smiled back before surrendering to sleep.The next day featured further discomfort. Mr. Nakamura caught me off guard before class: “Do you know something about the atomic bomb?” What did this have to do with English class? Like how we dropped two on you, I resisted saying. “You dropped one on Hiroshima and one on Nagasaki.” “Yeeeeeah, gomen-ne,” I apologized from the corner of my mouth.

The lesson plan for ninth graders included textbook characters Kumi and Mukami’s discussing World War II. Mr. Nakamura sincerely asked me to share what I had learned in school about these events. I mentioned studies of the War in the Pacific, and felt obligated to point out the “you started it” Pearl Harbor defense. Japan also overran Guam, Saipan, and even Alaskan islands Kiska and Atka. The teacher pressed me for reasons on why the bomb was dropped. “Well, some theorists say that the bombs ultimately saved lives by ending the war sooner.” I felt like Rummy’s spinning modern day U.S. blunders. “But I still don’t think that justified America's use of the atomic bomb against innocent civilians,” I added. That prompted Mr. Nakamura to flash poster-size images of Fat Man and Little Boy bombs and a scene of Hiroshima carnage. Some stared at the images while others watched the squirming American.

“Okay, onto the lesson. Please, can you now read the dialogue on page 18?” I recited Kumi and Mukami’s lines ad nauseam. Students repeated until perfection.

"Terrible" was a new vocab word, but I wanted to introduce a stronger one. Civilized minds can only hope history won’t repeat itself, but a recent report estimated up to a 70% chance of an attack with a weapon of mass destruction within the next 10 years.

The English You Didn't Learn in School

My usual four hours of sleep interrupted by a 5.6 earthquake, I wobbled into work pooped, and plopped down at my assigned desk in the teacher’s office. Constipation. Feces. Two words scrawled on a piece of paper had the same effect as a can of iced coffee from the vending machine.

Ms. Kimura approached me. “Today’s lesson we are going to learn about sickness. I wanted to know some other words for these.” Synonyms for shit. 8:35 a.m. Wasn’t it a little early to have our minds in the toilet?

Well, if you must know, stool and bowel movement are also polite ways of saying feces. I noted the primary furniture meaning of stool, and how bowels have significance beyond the intestines. Kids say poopy. Animals excrete turds. Humans take a crap; they take a number two. I decoded the difference between numbers one and two. Ms. Kimura was eating this up. Grinning gave way to snickering. I couldn’t contain myself any longer. ESL had hit a new low. What about the “s” word, I wondered? The final fecal frontier. I shouldn’t, should I? “Shit.” I did.

Later in class we repeated G-rated afflictions like stomachache, broken leg, and insect bite. Role-playing involved asking and answering, “What’s the matter?” But student curiosity transcended textbook ailments. I acted out scatterbrained to peels of laughter.

“A student wants to know how you say…when you are sick…and you blahhh.” “Vomit?” “Yes, can you write some words for this on the board?” Synonyms for throw up. Upchuck, hurl, spill my guts. Lose my lunch got giggles after translation. “Wow, you have so many words. In Japan, we have only two.” “Oh, I can keep going, shall I?” I delved into euphemisms like pray to the porcelain god and regional Dartmouth slang like boot. I taught Japanese middle school students how to boot. What’s next, substitute beer pong for gym class table tennis? I’ll go rack the Asahi. “Class, do you know what is ‘rack’…?”

Popular in Pumas

My return visit to Douyoto School this week was much improved from my initially disappointing reception in May. Perhaps students felt my three-week absence. Perhaps they felt more comfortable around me the second time around. Or perhaps they felt the power of the Pumas.

This has to be the single hottest brand here. Youth wear Puma shirts, tote Puma umbrellas, and store writing implements in Puma pencil bags. In Japan, each student has a cloth pencil case holder, and Puma has about a fifth of the market. But few locals sport Puma footwear. So, while in New York, I snagged myself two pairs to serve as trendy “indoor” shoes.

The entire school took notice. As I paced around class pronouncing numbers one through 21 or the vocab du jour, heads turned down to my feet with magnetic attraction as the mountain lion logo over my toes navigated aisles cluttered with uniform backpacks. Kakoii they call me. Cool guy.

My rising popularity became official when the lunch bell rang and three eighth grade boys asked me if I’d eat lunch with their section. Honored, I instantly accepted. This touched off squabbling as to who would sit next to me. With precious lunchtime minutes ticking away, as a compromise, I ate at the front of class facing everyone.

Lunch ended, and clean up (read: chaos) began. A bully hoisted the teacher’s swivel desk chair and turned it sideways. Legs spinning, it resembled a giant drill press pulverizing a student into the blackboard.

With the trays cleared, the lunch cart doubled as an arm wrestling arena. I’m quickly chosen. The first opponent put up a fight, but the sensei 12 years his senior triumphed. I felt pretty good about upholding my tough guy image.

Then, from the back of the room, Nebiko emerged. A sumo-in-training, he already surpasses my size 12 foot not to mention my 32” waist. Reluctant to take on this predator for fear of losing face (or a finger), I’m strong-armed by peer pressure. The bout began. Size was on his side. Half my age, Nebiko is one-and-a-half times my weight. Our strength equalized into a stalemate. But slowly I gained the upper hand, and defeated the favorite to a chorus of “ooohs.”

After using my weaker left arm to topple a rightie, I’ve averted humiliation at the hands of eight graders. I wiped my brow. Challengers exhausted, 15 minutes remained before class. “Do you want to play some soccer?” someone asked. “Of course, ikimashoo!” I slipped into my “outdoor” dressy Rockports and trotted onto the clay field also used for track and baseball. Whether he liked it or not, Nebiko played goalie, but for the other team.

The crowd roared as I took the field. Girls in the upper deck raced to fourth floor windows and shouted “Jefu!” The window girls waved down to their teacher who last played soccer during his own junior high days. Nevertheless, I registered two impressive, but wholly accidental blocks. A shot on our team’s goal glanced off my hip, and later my groin suffered the brunt of a Nebiko kick; a sumo always gets revenge. The game ended in a 1-1 draw, but I sensed victory in becoming one with the students.

Flag Day

Tuesday, June 14 was just another day at the office for you, but in this school district it was reason enough to break from lesson plan routine and educate unsuspecting Japanese students about Flag Day. I chalked up Betsy Ross’ first flag for the 13 Colonies, and explained how America has grown since 1776 by adding 37 more stars to form our current banner. And just like America’s flag, its states come in two colors. The blue states are good and the red states are bad. New York is a good state, okay class? Okayokay, they said.

What better way to celebrate Flag Day than to bestow on foreign students my mother lode of pencils and erasers (see previous post) bearing Old Glory? Winners of games had a choice between pencil and eraser. After all, class, democracy is about choice. One smart aleck, however, wanted a grander prize: a plane ticket to New York. Sasahara, not even five feet tall, was the last man standing after a heated game of Simon Says. He chose the eraser. Another student piped up, saying that they sell those in Japan. Maybe he had a point; they are made in Taiwan.

The free prize also came with gratuitous political commentary. “The eraser is so you can help erase America’s mistakes in the world,” I quipped. Ms. Kimura laughed and translated. Blank stares for fifteen seconds. “Like Iraq,” I added, thinking of how I wanted to air mail a carton to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Some smiles of recognition. “Too deep,” Kotomi, an active girl in the front row, said. She just as well could have meant America’s blunders committed in the name of the war on terror, but it turns out she only was referring to the double meaning of my eraser comment.

Meanwhile, a delighted Sasahara was counting the stars on his prize. I braced myself to hear him shout nijuu-hachi. 48. He was only going to find 48 stars on the Taiwanese-made American flag. Much to my chagrin, I admitted that the eraser was incorrect. But this was a Taiwanese mistake. Nevertheless, so much for the finer points of today’s lesson on Flag Day stars.

Something to Confess

I orchestrated my re-entry into Japan with the precision of an espionage training mission.

Objective: Penetrate Japan’s border as an illegal worker through hoodwinking immigration and customs officials.

Preparation: Obtain two different tickets for the same flight to Narita. Under the guise of a tourist, hide the one with my actual November return to NY, and create a bogus itinerary showing the same inbound flight, but with a July return, a date within the three-month tourist visa window. (I accomplished this with a $3,674.71 full-fare but fully refundable e-ticket, which I refunded just before I left.)

Methodology: Denials, lies, broad smiles, and quick speech to confound officials with a shaky grasp of English.

Handicap: My baggage weighed a ton. 79.5 lbs. to be precise, exceeding Northworst’s 72 lb. limit, and incurring $500 in excess fees. In the concourse of JFK’s Terminal 4, I transferred 1 lb. glass jars of Trader Joe’s peanut butter and 1 lb. bags of dry roasted almonds to my carry-on, and checked in without penalty.

Other contents hinted at my long-term, non-tourist intentions. I rehearsed responses for my ultimate fear: hand search of luggage. Feigning chronic halitosis could excuse my 1 liter tub of Listerine, which cost the same as an 8.5 oz. travel bottle in Japan. Love of carbohydrates surely necessitated importing three boxes of Kelloggs’ Smart Start cereal, two bags of Rold Gold pretzels, and three packages of Swedish fish – a nice change of pace from daily discount sushi dinners. I’d rather get cavities than parasites.

But just how was I going to explain three month’s worth of prescription pills? Or a nose hair clipper the shape and diameter of a vibrator. It’s true function would be lost in translation. I envisioned a demonstration for wide-eyed customs officers.

Having left most clothing in my Tokyo apartment, would anyone notice that I packed the same number of socks as jars of lightly salted crunchy peanut butter? I also would be at a loss to explain the 432 unsharpened pencils and 48 erasers emblazoned with American flags. To be used as student prizes, their boxes read ForTeachersOnly.com. “Of course I’m not a teacher, officer. Flag Day is this Tuesday!”

At Narita, I cringed when immigration stamped my passport on the same page as my initial April entry, which might induce questioning as to multiple trips. Therefore, I approached the weakest looking customs officer, a lady half my size, who true to form lobbed softball questions, including if I had anything to declare. “Of course not,” I lied through my best smile. Patriotic pencils and jars of peanut butter rolled in undetected. Mission accomplished.

New York State of Mind

The gang's all here
Posted by: marmotny on Buzznet

For my sister’s graduation from Harvard, I returned to the land of big portions and bigger automobiles just five weeks into my Japan stint. Familiar sights and smells greeted me on outings in Manhattan. I relished mundane details that symbolize the essence of NY. New Yorkers take such things for granted, but having been starved of the American way of life, I gloated while nibbling a hot pretzel while walking on wide sidewalks flanking wider avenues.

Every block comes with a trash can or two. If not, there’s always the street. Rebellious. Carefree. I didn’t give a second thought to tossing my soda can and foil pretzel wrapper into the same receptacle. Where was the bin for cans? Eh, recycling is a hassle anyway. I didn’t clean the mustard from the foil, nor did I fret whether this material is classified as burnable or not.

I enjoyed a cityscape where I don’t climb three flights of stairs to enter a bookstore or bar; store signs make me feel literate. NY is synonymous with ease and accessibility. Every product, service, or foodstuff conceivable is at your fingertips, never more than a subway ride away.

As I descended into the bowels of the MTA, reverse culture shock paralyzed my senses. Sterile stations in Tokyo these were not. Instead, filth and diversity were in full bloom down here. Rats scurried around the graveyard for AA batteries and spent Metrocards. So while I stared at the tracks and waited, wondering if and when the N train was ever coming, I smiled at the slime coating the wall tiles. How NY. Platform air, humid and stale, smelled…like diversity. On one bench sat men in a yarmulke, turban, black do-rag, and red bandana. NY is where differences blend in; heterogeneity intersects with urban sophistication. Worlds collide harmoniously.

NYC seems like a National forest when compared to nature’s penetration of Tokyo’s concrete. Nonetheless, retreating back home in the suburbs titillated my nostrils with the scent of fresh mulch. Irises bloomed, chickadees chirped, and a dozen friends feasted on grilled meats, shrimp, and vegetables in my backyard bbq homecoming.

Click here for pictures of my father’s mouth-watering cooking and a competitive croquet game.

The hardest thing about NY was leaving. The hardest thing about going back to Japan would be fooling immigration to let an illegal alien in as a tourist.

Singing Subway Praise

My first monthly teachers’ meeting proved to be a lesson in where not to host it. The company office, about the size of my studio, would not seat nine. Instead, we rented a room across the street – in a karaoke parlor. At first, the idea seemed genius. Private booth with seats for all, eighth floor views of the approaching thunderstorm, and a one drink minimum on my employer’s tab.

The only hitch was that our neighbors were using their space for its intended purpose. Blood-curling yelps rivaling those at Abu Ghraib distracted our getting down to business. The language was incomprehensible. Were 1,000 cats dying a slow death, or was it one of Metallica’s greatest hits? The finer points of flash card use went in one ear and out the other.

On the subway ride home, I witnessed a miracle in public transportation. Tokyo’s Metropolitan Subway is a well-oiled machine. A paraplegic boarded with the help of a station attendant who bridged the gap between the train and the platform. The wheelchair glided into a designated section. The point of disembarkation was radioed ahead, whereupon a new attendant waited with another bridge at the exact set of doors closest to the passenger. Not one bump in his ride or ours.

Now let’s imagine you’re a paraplegic riding the MTA. First off, most stations aren’t handicap accessible. Three of the City’s 12,487 taxis are, so here’s to hoping you never have to leave your apartment. But if you do, good luck with figuring out which subway carriage is equipped with a berth for wheelchairs. Weary commuters eyeing your extra seat eject you from it. You’d never get off the car’s floor because rainwater short circuits the signal system installed circa 1090 B.C., stalling the train in the tunnel and plunging the A,C line into un air-conditioned chaos.

Make Way for Mikoshi

I headed for the granddaddy of Tokyo’s three major festivals on May 21. A week after Kanda festival, Sanja festival is larger and more boisterous. Up to one million people visited Senso-ji temple over the weekend, highlighted by an unending parade of mikoshi. Teams of area residents lug these portable shrines around neighborhood streets, and pass in front of Senso-ji temple to pay homage to the goddess of mercy enshrined within.

I arrived early, but the grounds had already swelled with onlookers. Wanting the best view, I muscled my way to just opposite the entrance of this Buddhist temple. There was no room to second-guess my location. I could barely raise my camera without elbowing old ladies in bucket hats. An hour later, thousands of shutters captured the first of 100 mikoshi to reach the temple.

Whistles, drums, and chants heralded their arrival. These gold and black lacquer portable shrines transport local deities, who apparently get restless being confined to their precincts. So, once a year residents air out the mikoshi with a spin around the block to throngs of admirers.

This must feel refreshing for the deities, but grueling for participants who tread for miles barefoot or in thin slippers while shouldering wooden beams on which mikoshi rest. With devotion the bearers press on, clinging to the beams like driftwood. The sun saps their energy as sweat soaks through their bandanas and symbolic happi coats. Chanting helps maintain morale, as do designated team cheerleaders who clap, pump fists, and clear the path ahead.

Mikoshi aren’t just carried. They’re bounced. Legend says that shaking the deities will bestow blessings and prosperity upon the neighborhood and its parishioners for the coming year. As a result, the mikoshi list from side-to-side, sometimes careening into the crowd, which collectively recoils. Elevated above a sea of supporters, shrines bob like buoys. Because of the backbreaking work, a rotating team of two to three dozen carries the shrine. With pained expressions, some must be counting the steps to their next cigarette break.

The festival emphasizes harmony through group unity. Young and old, male and female, shoulder-to-shoulder they balance colorful burdens. Pride and sweat drip from their brow as participants shuffle towards the shrine, saving their last few breaths for this culminating point of their journey.

Popularized during the Edo period (1603-1868), the Sanja festival embraces all generations and aspects of Japanese culture. Children pull special miniature mikoshi while grandparents flank the procession. I spotted legendary geishas and notorious yakuza who use this occasion to brandish their mafia tattoos, which is normally against the law.

Food stalls include the standard festival victuals that make my sweet tooth ache: chocolate covered bananas, cotton candy, crepes, toffee apples, and syrupy shaved ices. Finger food abounds, with grilled squid skewers and tako yaki (barbeque octopus dumpling balls) being my fuel of choice.

Relive my Sanja experience through these pictures.

Week One at Douyoto School

Consisted of only three working days, each of which I wished I were teaching back at Nubata. My first self-introduction went awry when drawing stick figures of my family on the blackboard. I thought it would be clever to redraw my stick really tall, so I erased my head and torso and emphasized my height, which is a constant source of amazement. Facing the class to mention my favorite foods, I detected scattered giggling. Tempura couldn't be this amusing.

My newly acquired teacher instincts sensed something amiss. I spun around to check the board. To my horror, I had sloppily reconnected my stick torso to my stick legs, endowing myself with a stick boner. I casually rubbed away my genitalia, but these being middle school minds, I’m sure they’ll be snickering until March. More skillfully rendered was my map of the continental United States, used to pinpoint where I lived, worked, and attended school.

The D in Douyoto stood for disappointment after my electric week at Nubata. School lunches were less tasty and didn’t include dessert. Also, I received less adulation from my fan club. Exceptions included a boy who offered me his house, and one who spent class creating an origami hornet so lifelike that I feared it might sting me upon accepting the gift.

Douyoto wasn’t totally to blame. One morning I arrived a full five minutes late, and when asking one English teacher about my performance that week, she admitted, “I think the students would like it if you could smile more.” Separation syndrome from Nubata was painfully apparent.

Kanda Festival

I attended one of Tokyo's "three grand festivals" at Kanda Myojin Shrine on Saturday, May 14. I missed the mikoshi (portable shrine) parade, but did enjoy the festive atmosphere and taiko (fat drum) performances.

You can view my Kanda Festival pictures here.

Friday the 13th

Started out with a bang. First, another pre-dawn tremor. Later, alighting the subway, I slammed my forehead into the doorframe. Every entry and exit on public transportation turns into a limbo test, and at 7:40 a.m. I didn’t get low enough.

In addition to car dealerships, a police station is on my way to school. Ever since my first night in Japan when stopped at random (see post: Smallness Redefined, 4/17/05), I sweat when passing officials. I feel like a walking bull’s eye in work attire since I’m not yet authorized to do so.

I’m an illegal alien. Although my work visa is processing, currently I hold no documentation beyond my tourist entry stamp that prohibits employment. I risk deportation, fines, and a five-year ban on returning to Japan if nabbed. But such catches are rare, unless you dance topless in a gentleman’s club, which isn’t on my short list of aspirations.

Distracted by an iPod massaging my eardrums, I didn’t notice the five keikan outside the station. When I did, it was too late. One waived his red glow stick at me and blocked the sidewalk. A caged coach bus idled in the parking lot. Were they ridding the streets of violent criminals like jaywalkers, shoe policy violators, and those who eat while walking? I’m guilty on all counts.

A Caucasian wearing dressy clothes in a non-touristy part of town, I imagined “illegal immigrant” stamped in Kanji across my forehead, still smarting from the bump. While I braced for a request to produce working papers, the other officers ran into the street to halt traffic. Lights flashing, the jail bus departed without me.

Relief didn’t last long. In the teacher’s room, a man approached me. I didn’t understand much of his broken English other than that he wasn’t a teacher, but rather some administrator. Chit-chat turned into panic attack when he mentioned “gaijin caardo.” That’s the id registered and employed aliens must carry. Did I have mine? “Ohhhh, yessss [falsely smiling and nodding]. But no here. Gomen-nasi. Home. Yes. [more smiles to conceal growing anxiety].” Would I write my name down in his little book? “Ohhhh, yessss [reluctantly reaching for the pen].” I won’t see him for another month, by which point I should have my papers in order.

Pressure continued in first period, which the principal observed. Fortunately only one eighth grader slept through class, although the rest remained mum when faced with the time-eating game of “Let’s Question the Foreigner.” Mr. Nakamura seemed desperate when asking me to name all 38 countries I have visited. Starting in North America, I swung South before rattling off a European laundry list. By the time I pushed into the Baltics, the teacher’s translation ability faltered and the students lost interest.

Quick, switch gears to Friday the 13th. I chalked up a building and demonstrated how some don’t have a 13th floor, relating it to the Japanese unlucky numbers of four and nine because of their resemblance to the words for death and suffering. Then I did my best Jason impersonation to a few laughs.

Friday the 13th wasn’t all gore. I enjoyed lunch with my favorite seventh grade class. Unlike the group the principal observed, these youngsters once used the entire period to question me. One boy, so interested in visiting New York, asked for my phone number. This class also features Alex the Russian, who stands 6’ tall, but only understands Japanese. We are the only white faces at school, and the two tallest.

I only see this section once a week, so I wanted to have lunch with them. Applause indicated approval. Their sweet homeroom “hand-making” teacher grabbed students to introduce themselves, adding that Hiroko was a brass band member, Ayana was the class leader, and Kato liked volleyball.

I felt honored when the kids, more interested in the crumb cake on their trays, strategically donated green and golden kiwis to me. With the cost of fruit in Japan, I gobbled up extra servings of vitamins A and B9.

Next up: day one at Douyoto, the second of four schools.

If It’s Pickled Salad, It Must be Thursday

The bell tones at 12:45 p.m. The lunch cart is already waiting outside the classroom. Some students dismantle rows of desks to form clusters while others slip on white robes and plastic gloves and begin dishing out today’s special. I, too, queue for miso. In the absence of a cafeteria, students feed themselves in the same room where they take every class.

As a guest teacher, I choose my dining companions. Most often it’s a rambunctious 6th grade section because of their propensity to blabber with a mouth full of partially chewed bananas and stab one another with chopsticks.

Subsidized school lunches rock! $2.81 buys a well-balanced meal. For example, Monday’s feast featured bland miso soup, tuna potatoes, bread sandwich with microscopic layer of jelly, mini-milk, and last but not least, cinnamon sticky bun.

Like everything else in Japan, eating is regimented. Lunch isn’t a bowl of cherries; it’s a trial in speed eating. Thirty minutes are devoted to this disruption from learning. But by the time students have served one another (officially noted when a designated child stands and delivers the all clear, or maybe it’s grace), no more than 12 minutes remain. Eating to beat the clock, I shovel rice into my mouth with tweezers – I mean, chopsticks. Urgency is audible as classical music crackles over the PA system.

Finishing in time isn’t the only challenge. Refuse must then be sorted. The Japanese are experts ensuring every scrap has its place. Unfinished morsels get deposited back into their original serving containers (perhaps to be recycled for next week’s discounted lunch). Plates, bowls, and utensils are stacked. Milk cartons must be drained, deflated, and folded as detailed in step-by-step pictographs hanging in each classroom. Even the plastic straw wrapper gets recycled.

The 1:15 p.m. bell signals students to stow trays, realign desks, and wheel the organized cart back into the hall. Breakdown is complete, but digestion is not. Fifth period begins as scheduled.

Day Two at Nubata

On the second day, I broke the golden rule. Above all else, never be late in Japan. Punctuality is sacred. In America, chances are the friend you’re meeting is also running five minutes behind. Or, if you’re like me, 10 to 15. You half-heartedly apologize, and move on.

However, here in the land of the time-obsessed, trains calls at stations on the dot. One cause of Japan’s recent rail disaster was that the driver sped to make up for lost time. Had he obeyed the limit and arrived 90 seconds late, 106 passengers would have lived to commute another day.

Nubata J.H.S. is a 20-minute walk from the nearest station. The morning teacher’s meeting begins at 8:15 – you guessed it – on the dot. Still new to the route, I was cutting it close. Perhaps I paused too long outside the car dealerships that line this neighborhood, where all your Japanese favorites are represented, including the all-new Nissan Cube³ (they aren’t kidding).

I entered the foyer as the bell sounded. Bolt upstairs and slide into my seat, right? Wrong. Here in the land of the cleanliness-obsessed, I first had to change into my “indoor shoes.” Black loafers can only take me to my job’s doorstep. Here I switch into sneakers, a virgin pair that have never stepped foot outside. In theory, that is. Outside germs have of course sullied these running shoes, but for Nubata's purpose they serve as my indoor shoes. Anticipating guilt, I bleached the soles at home.

As a result of this switcheroo, I walked in a full 90 seconds tardy. I faced no immediate repercussions because, this being the land of polite, poker-faced people, the Japanese will never tell you what they think to your face. Maybe I’ll be absolved because it was my second day and because white people are expected to screw up, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my employer (not the school, which will complain to my employer) mentions it a month from now.

Morning meetings begin with a secretarial bell chime. Discussion is in Japanese, so I while away the minutes by guessing each teacher’s subject based on appearance. The motherly lady who offers me ochai (tea) each morning seems like home economics, but in reality who knew math teachers had a heart? The aggressively dressed woman with a face only a frog could love must be charged with drilling Japan’s revisionist history into these middle school minds. Always in a suit and never wearing a smile, she once scolded the girls I was giggling with outside of the teacher’s room.

Vintage desks crowd this room. You know, the metal kind with rusting drawers dating from the late 60s. This is the extent of the teacher’s office. Veterans cluster in the front of the room where the vice principal reads his newspaper all day while uncertified aliens sit by the back door, convenient for the next time I barge in late.

Foreign Times at Nubata Junior High

I swore I’d never go back. After all, they were the darkest three years of my life. But 11 years and 7,000 miles later, I returned to junior high school. Now, I’m the cool kid. Revenge is sweet.

For my first day of school, I arrived half an hour early. Using my best remedial Japanese on the first adult I saw, I asked the custodian for the head English teacher. I was instead escorted into the principal’s office where I sat on a couch covered in plastic and sipped green tea. Mr. Sasaki, in his double-breasted lab coat, welcomed me in broken English. On the walls hung portraits of head masters who had meted out punishment before him, perhaps back to the Meiji Period judging by their pre-WWI hairdos. As Mr. Sasaki and I struggled to understand each other, I hoped he had miscommunicated because otherwise it sounded like I would address the entire school at this morning's assembly. Had a special session been scheduled just to gawk at the tall foreigner?

Actually, an awards ceremony preceded it, with Nubata Junior High taking home a kendo trophy the size of some 7th graders. Uniformed students sat in neat rows on the gymnasium floor according to gender and sneaker stripe, color-coded by grade. Otherwise it would have been easy to mistake some of the shorter haired girls for boys, who also wore navy uniforms.

Then it was my turn. The gym fell silent. Stairs creaked as I walked up to the stage to face 400 people. I had never addressed an audience this captive or this large. I felt like a neon highlighter in a pencil case full of No. 2s. Stooped over the mic, I s-l-o-w-l-y stated fun facts like my age, hometown, weakness for dark chocolate, and adoration of baseball and basketball. It pained me to lie that the Yankees were my favorite team, but I did so for the NY connection and to be able to proclaim “Hideki Matsui wa ichiban [#1]!” Someone laughed, or maybe coughed. OK, so he’s batting .233, but the season is young.

This would be the first of six self-introductions. After the assembly, the English teachers paraded me from class to class like their show and tell object. And tell I did. Entire 45-minute periods were devoted to my likes and dislikes, which were translated into Japanese for eager ears. I fielded questions from reticent students such as height (185.3 cm), favorite foods (sushi, tempura, Teriyaki McBurger), and marital status (safely single now that gunning for a spousal work visa is no longer necessary). The kids were very curious about the last subject, and also asked the “type of woman” I liked. This scripted curveball came from a worksheet to goad students into probing the foreigner. Unsure of how to word my response, I carefully selected “smart woman” to emphasize the value I'll be placing on their elementary English education.

I flirted with embarrassment during my very first class. In section 3-3, the oldest students goof off, chit-chat, and throw erasers with impunity. In Japan, some teachers won’t disturb you if you sleep. While pronouncing vocabulary on large index cards Mr. Nakamura held up, I nearly stumbled over “a piece of ___.” Of course, I’m thinking “shit,” trying hard not to slip up. The very next card: “clip.” Shit, that was a close one!

Luckily, most of my classes are with the youngest 7th and 8th graders, who still enjoy bingo and role-playing. They are at a magical age where their adorable, round faces light up when I dramatize a word, and are just old enough to absorb pop culture and sports, yet remain wonderfully immature. They “wow” when I enter class, bow when I leave, and brandish bucktooth smiles in between. My height and foreignness are an instant recipe for popularity, something never achieved throughout all of my schooling.

“Herro Mister Jeffree” is my name, and they’re wearing it out. I’m mobbed moving between classes, hugged and tugged while handing out high fives and hellos in return. Having dozens of younger brothers and sisters to pal around with eases the 1-hour commute on a confusing public transportation system.

Despite the job’s repetitiveness, each class is unique, and as the (assistant) teacher I get to play favorites, which I bestow on the little buggers in section 1-3. They provide the greatest incentive for me to learn Japanese because I wish to communicate more than their English permits. And at the rate we’re going, I’m going to catch on to their language a lot faster than they are to Engrish.

Large Men, Little Silken Belts

Man-eating giants
Posted by: marmotny.

Speaking of earthquakes, on Sunday I attended shonichi (opening day) of the Tokyo Grand Sumo Tournament, a 30-minute walk from my apartment. It was the place to be and be seen -- even living legends were in attendance. Ever wonder how sumo retirees make a Yen? Answer: they collect your admissions ticket. Just imagine handing your stub to American Hall of Famers upon entering a stadium. Unlikely, given that American-sized sporting contacts outweigh even these gargantuan athletes.

Sumo is one event where, when it comes to front row seats, buyer beware. The dohyo (ring) is two feet high and only 15 feet in diameter. Unlike boxing, no ropes separate spectators from a piece of the action. In this case, it’s a very large piece.

These guys embody human wrecking balls; sitting ringside seems about as safe as picnicking at a construction site. Averaging between 350-400 lbs., rikishi (competitors) can’t stop on a dime when being forced out of the ring. Sometimes an unlucky kimono-clad gyogi (referee) gets tangled up in the takedown, drawing “ohhs” from the crowd.

For three hours I marveled at the head-on collisions unfolding before me, but from the safety of the cheap seats. Before the belly-bashing begins, however, rituals dating to the 8th century are observed. The chiri-chozu ceremony (hand-clapping while squatting on the toes) attracts the attention of the gods. Sumo originated as a religious ceremony to pray for bountiful harvests. The thigh-slapping and buttocks-smacking must have evolved later on as warm-up scare tactics. Fleshy echoes resonated up to the portraits of past champions hanging in the rafters. Unlike women’s tennis, grunting didn't seem en vogue. My favorite ritual was the shiko (foot-stomping), which at 1.0 on the Richter scale was more than enough to drive evil spirits back underground. Yet, just to be sure, wrestlers scatter 100 lbs. of purification salt into the sand and clay ring over the course of each day.

To see stills from the big guys in battle, click here.

I Feel The Earth Move

...under my bed, I hear the kitchen utensils clanging around, clanging around.

At 4:52 a.m. Saturday, my first Tokyo tremor shook me from a slumber. A quake registering 4.3 on the Richter scale was no cause for alarm in one of the world's most seismically active regions. At first I wondered who was shaking my bed, only to realize, hey, the whole building was vibrating. No worries. I checked the clock and drifted back to sleep, waking up on my own seven hours later wondering if it had been a dream.

This event surpassed a 4.0 tremor I recall propelling my bath toys into the toilet in suburban New York in 1985. A 5.1 earthquake 130 miles away from Dartmouth rattled campus in 2002, but it occurred early one Saturday morning while I was still under sedation from over-Budweiserification. As long as I'm not in an elevator shaft or a subway carriage, I eagerly await the next plate shift.

Gaspanic

Gaspanic
Posted by: marmotny.

No, I'm not having stomach problems here in Japan. Although after six straight nights of dining on discount sushi from my local grocery store, I thought it was time to look beyond a raw deal for some nourishment. And what better way to celebrate Cinco de Mayo than with chili nachos and a Corona at Legend's sports bar? I saw Effi the Israeli again (see post: Dignity Retained), and took in some NBA playoff and MLB action.

Then I moseyed over to the infamous Gaspanic bar. Its unsavory name derives from the original bar's not having any toilets. Its reputation is a cheesy dance club filled with foreigners and their Japanese admirers. I had been advised to steer clear of this sleazy scene with strange rules, but was desperate for some fun, any fun. And for $3.80 all night happy hour drinks, how bad could it be? Although there was no cover, the bouncer almost paid me to go inside.

The vibe was dive disco meets Girls Gone Wild. Late teens in scant attire (not represented in the picture, which I pulled off the web) gyrated on the bar to thumping Top 40 hits. The peppy floor staff ensured that all patrons gripped a drink at all times. House rule #1: “Everyone must be drinking to stay inside Gaspanic.” Basically your hand must be glued to your drink, and as soon as you finish you must reorder or risk flashlights being shined in your eyes. Enforcement of house rule #2, however, seemed less stringent: “No tits, no ass, no service.”

Despite Asspanic’s dodgy reputation and foreigner feel, I felt welcome. Other white faces populated the crowd, I spoke to Japanese people, and enjoyed chart hits from yesteryear. Best of all, Gaspanic is always hiring….

Training Day

Moving to a non-English speaking country without friends, a job, or visa required to get said job requires courage. But I’m always up for a challenge. Besides, I had everything mapped out in advance: clear customs at Narita, waltz up to nearest newsstand and purchase The Japan Times, drop off bags at pre-arranged apartment, and sit in café with highlighter in hand.

This scenario was not uncommon during the 1980s when the Japanese economy was hotter than the blowtorch sushi chefs use to cook my delicious anago (Conger/saltwater eel). Although that bubble has since popped like orange ikura (salmon roe) against my teeth, I’m pleased to report that this leap of faith remains attainable.

As of May 9, I’ll be an assistant English teacher rotating among four public middle schools in a ward (borough) 40 minutes north of my apartment (see post: 2 for 2 on Interviews). True to my idealistic plan, this was the first (and only) classified I responded to in The Japan Times, highlighted while sipping a Starbucks frappuccino.

Desperate for an employer, any employer, to sponsor my work visa, I accepted. After all, this agency seemed just as desperate for a native English speaker, any speaker, to fill immediate openings. At the interview I noticed their closet of an office decked out in Texas paraphernalia and framed diplomas from Rockford College, Southern Utah University, University of Central Texas, and Central Texas College - apparently not to be confused with the competing university in the same Central region. Are these accredited institutions? Jesus looked at me from inside a fame on a bookshelf. I didn’t think much of it at the time, until I opened the teacher’s policy manual. The first tenet of the company’s mission:

“To glorify God by following the guiding principles set out in the Bible.”

I read it twice, and then a third time. My eyes bulged and nostrils flared, causing my upper lip to curl as if had I sniffed sour milk. Just what kind of company was this? Was I recruited to proselytize Japanese school children? For which testament of the Bible? Wasn’t David Koresh from Texas? One reason I left the U.S. was to separate myself with a large body of water from the religious right. Somehow I had walked into their overseas affiliate. But, I was desperate.

For two days I trained with five other recruited teachers. The cast of characters: Mike, a cool 30s-something Kiwi skateboarder; Reece, another Kiwi who makes South Auckland sound more dangerous than the South Bronx; John, 30, a friendly adopted Korean via Upper Saddle River, NJ; cool, calm, and collected Leon from Montreal; and whimpering Joanna, the lone female from Toronto via Poland.

The development trainer is Ricardo, a Texan in his late 20s, and a former “not gay” Naval sailor now married to a J-national (as are Mike and Jeff). Not me Jeff, but Jeff the company PR head who has taught in Japan for 15 years, and who uncorked some blunt assessments of Japanese women and their bad teeth. Jeff, a middle-aged smoker with a beer gut, is a straight shooter with crooked grammar.

Pluralizing “everyone” is a common pitfall, despite his “boning up” on grammar in order to teach high school students. Good thing “you don’t got to worry about” younger students asking tricky grammar questions, adding that “my daughter and me argue a lot over blue and green.” In Japan both colors are treated the same, so that a blue light means go. Maybe this teacher will receive a blue apple on their first day. I mean, his first day. D’oh!

Funbargainbash in Funabashi

From the street, you'd walk right by this unremarkable shop in Tokyo's Funabashi suburb. But don't judge a building by its edifice. Inside delights even the casual bargain hunter: breathtaking bric-a-brac and household goods stretch as far as the imagination can dream. The seaweed on the rice ball: most items cost a measly 100 Yen. Think 94.4 cents store, but with a classier vibe than its American counterpart. Spanning seven floors makes this shop the largest of its kind in the region. For a coupon clipper like me, this was a plastic paradise found.

I squinted under the fluorescent lights. Multi-colored merchandise swirled before me. J-pop music massaged my eardrums. I lost myself in the impressive selection of neon-colored wastepaper baskets of all shapes and sizes. I flirted with donating a dozen to the municipal sanitation department for placement on street corners. I rode escalators ogling at an endless supply of essential items that on second thought maybe weren't so essential.

A week's salary could be well spent here. Okay, maybe I could live without gardening implements, but I snatched up pink Hello Kitty chopsticks, a Hello Kitty toilet paper roll holder, melon-scented glass cleaner, Kanji magnets of meanings unknown, no parking signs in Japanese, and a soy sauce bowl to prevent future spills onto my keyboard.

What didn't make the cut? Fake sunflowers and palm fronds, pet rodent cages, chicken wire, badminton rackets, beer funnels (maybe it was for gasoline?), plastic eggplants, safari hats, sumo wigs, ceramic tea sets, police vs. bad guyz action hero set, Mr. Shinkansen (bullet train) child scrub mitts, warship bath toys, tall boy cans of Coke, Hello Kitty everything, and pocket ashtrays emblazoned with the Statue of Liberty -- the ultimate accessory for the smoker on the go who has everything. Funabashi, you have not seen the last of me.

It Must've Been Love

You're thinking, more like I must've been outta my mind when I bought this. Pictured is the latest and greatest addition to my apartment. Yes, Valentine's Day was months ago, but this luv seat serves as my year-round desk chair.

While admittedly not anyone's first choice based on style, how about some points for function over form? Ikea Japan opens in autumn 2006. My back and rump can't hold out. That crippling wooden stool is an invitation for scoliosis and hemorrhoids. This is the only chair I've found with any padding, including much needed spinal support.

To ward off physical deformity, I must stoop to the sensation of living in a doll house sitting on a petite heart seat against a backdrop of pink curtains, which fittingly match the color of the closest subway line. Tea party anyone? You're on the stool.