Last day of classes before my winter break!
My JHS has their 忘年会 (bonenkai = end of year party thing) tomorrow. The first kanji there means "forget," and basically the translation is "forget all the year's bad stuff party."
I have to bring a present of at least ￥1000 on top of the cost of the party thing, which is usually ￥5000 or so. Then of course there's 二次会 (the after party) and 三次会 (the after party after party) and sometimes even 四次会 to 五次会 before everyone staggers home and drowns in their own vomit. It is a special place, this Japan.
Hopefully I can slip out early for last train and not be hungover tomorrow. Though I never drink too much with my teachers. It's just not a good idea. Funny thing about Japanese people, at least the ones out near me. They can get as drunk and stupid as is physically possible before dying of alcohol poisoning, and no one mentions it the next day (that's right, they go out on work nights, they're freaking insane), not even a word. But if the foreigner does it? Oh, dear, do they never live it down.
Christmas I shall spend with a friend in the hospital. He has surgery Christmas Eve so a few of us--that are lame and will otherwise be lonely and sad and crying into our eggnog because we're stuck in freaking Japan for Christmas--will go visit him and throw a little Christmas party in the hospital. Should be interesting. But better than trying to hang myself with shitty hundred yen Christmas decorations. They never hold.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Grammar Lessons: Common Word Choice Mistakes Part 1
Because they happen EVERYWHERE and they piss me off. Well. Mostly just the ones listed here.
Pity my authors.
Blonde.
Blonde with an -e- on the end is the feminine noun. It means a blond woman (note what I did there). Without the -e- as a noun, it refers to a blond man (and again there):
The blonde screamed before the zombie ate her brains.
The blond screamed before the zombie ripped his head off
As an adjective (see previous notes?), it has no -e- on the end for either gender:
The blond woman screamed when the zombie ate her face.
The blond man cried like a baby when zombies ate his feet.
If your grammar or spell check tells you differently, it is because they are MACHINES and therefore RETARDED. ~pets computer I love you don't explode~
Seriously, some grammar or spelling check software doesn't acknowledge some of this, and I have no idea why. In every style guide created--by smart people--this is the rule. If you do not follow it, I will find you and shiv you in the throat.
Jealousy vs. Envy.
I realize this is a lost cause. No one uses these correctly anymore, and the rule has become moot. But I want to share it with you anyway, so that you will always, from now until forever, have that little niggle in the back of your head when you use them incorrectly yourself. Because I want you to be as insane as I am. It's only fair.
We are jealous of that which belongs to us.
Zombie A guarded his fresh brains jealously.
We envy that which belongs to others.
Zombie B was consumed with envy at the sight of Zombie A's yummy meal.
Farther and Further:
Farther is used for physical distance: The tall zombie can run farther than the
little one.
The zombies are farther away now.
How much farther do we have to run to escape the zombies?
(Easy way to remember--has "far" in it, as in, "far away," as in physical
distance.)
Further is for figurative, or non-physical distance:
A: "You're a zombie!" B: "Nothing could be further from the truth." A: kills B
anyway.
The zombie apocalypse furthered my survival skills.
We're out of ammo. Further, there's a horde of zombies headed our way.
Y'all and Ya'll.
Technically, both are correct. But y'all is the more accepted correct.
Argument is thus: you + all = y'all. The apostrophe goes before the -a- because the -a- is part of the word "all." Obviously.
The opposing argument is simple: in Southern speech, we (yes, we) don't use "you." We generally say "ya." Like, "Ya gonna kill them zombies'r what?" So you're basically shortening "ya all" because it sounds silly and you have to. You keep the "ya" and the "ll" of "all" and get ya'll.
Some southerners will also say "y'all" as a singular reference, and "all y'all" as the plural. This is not incorrect either. How do you know the person you're talking to doesn't have multiple personalities? Don't make assumptions just because they bathe.
Vice and Vise.
Vice is a bad habit.
The zombies have their vices, they like to eat fresh brains, but that doesn't mean they can't be cuddly.
Vise is a clamping device. You use these often in carpentry. My father has a collection.
The zombie didn't stand a chance once we got its head in the vise.
The zombie squeezed his chest like vise.
Could care less.
Means that you care to some degree. If you don't care at all, then the correct phrase is couldn't care less.
The zombies screamed when we burned them, but I really couldn't care less about zombie pain.
Though, to be fair, that example is very mean. Zombies are people too.
Per Say.
Doesn't mean a damn thing. It's per se, people. Per se.
When you are comparing something. This is different from that. FROM that. Not than that. FROM. Different FROM. Please to be remembering this.
Should of and would of and could of sound STUPID. It is should HAVE and would HAVE and could HAVE. Shortened, they read should've would've could've which sounds, of course, like should of, but, obviously, is not. Please to be remembering this also, or Santa will come to your house and eat your children. Or your puppies. Or your eyes. Depending on which you hold more dear.
Key Important Note Do Not Disregard:
DO NOT use a thesaurus to make yourself sound smarter. Synonyms of a word do not always mean exactly the same thing as that word, and you will end up sounding like an uneducated waste of air. And I will come to your house and shiv you in the throat.
If you insist on using a thesaurus, use a dictionary with it.
Example: Violently
See how each one changes the meaning just slightly? And some of them sound just plain ridiculous? This is why you should be careful with synonyms. And adverbs as well, really, because using an adverb in every sentence will make your editor hate you.
And this is the end of today's rant/grammar lesson.
Please to be incorporating the correct words and usages in your writing. Especially if you are submitting for publication. Editors like authors who know what their words mean.
KNOW WHAT YOUR WORDS MEAN.
Pity my authors.
Blonde.
Blonde with an -e- on the end is the feminine noun. It means a blond woman (note what I did there). Without the -e- as a noun, it refers to a blond man (and again there):
The blonde screamed before the zombie ate her brains.
The blond screamed before the zombie ripped his head off
As an adjective (see previous notes?), it has no -e- on the end for either gender:
The blond woman screamed when the zombie ate her face.
The blond man cried like a baby when zombies ate his feet.
If your grammar or spell check tells you differently, it is because they are MACHINES and therefore RETARDED. ~pets computer I love you don't explode~
Seriously, some grammar or spelling check software doesn't acknowledge some of this, and I have no idea why. In every style guide created--by smart people--this is the rule. If you do not follow it, I will find you and shiv you in the throat.
Jealousy vs. Envy.
I realize this is a lost cause. No one uses these correctly anymore, and the rule has become moot. But I want to share it with you anyway, so that you will always, from now until forever, have that little niggle in the back of your head when you use them incorrectly yourself. Because I want you to be as insane as I am. It's only fair.
We are jealous of that which belongs to us.
Zombie A guarded his fresh brains jealously.
We envy that which belongs to others.
Zombie B was consumed with envy at the sight of Zombie A's yummy meal.
Farther and Further:
Farther is used for physical distance: The tall zombie can run farther than the
little one.
The zombies are farther away now.
How much farther do we have to run to escape the zombies?
(Easy way to remember--has "far" in it, as in, "far away," as in physical
distance.)
Further is for figurative, or non-physical distance:
A: "You're a zombie!" B: "Nothing could be further from the truth." A: kills B
anyway.
The zombie apocalypse furthered my survival skills.
We're out of ammo. Further, there's a horde of zombies headed our way.
Y'all and Ya'll.
Technically, both are correct. But y'all is the more accepted correct.
Argument is thus: you + all = y'all. The apostrophe goes before the -a- because the -a- is part of the word "all." Obviously.
The opposing argument is simple: in Southern speech, we (yes, we) don't use "you." We generally say "ya." Like, "Ya gonna kill them zombies'r what?" So you're basically shortening "ya all" because it sounds silly and you have to. You keep the "ya" and the "ll" of "all" and get ya'll.
Some southerners will also say "y'all" as a singular reference, and "all y'all" as the plural. This is not incorrect either. How do you know the person you're talking to doesn't have multiple personalities? Don't make assumptions just because they bathe.
Vice and Vise.
Vice is a bad habit.
The zombies have their vices, they like to eat fresh brains, but that doesn't mean they can't be cuddly.
Vise is a clamping device. You use these often in carpentry. My father has a collection.
The zombie didn't stand a chance once we got its head in the vise.
The zombie squeezed his chest like vise.
Could care less.
Means that you care to some degree. If you don't care at all, then the correct phrase is couldn't care less.
The zombies screamed when we burned them, but I really couldn't care less about zombie pain.
Though, to be fair, that example is very mean. Zombies are people too.
Per Say.
Doesn't mean a damn thing. It's per se, people. Per se.
When you are comparing something. This is different from that. FROM that. Not than that. FROM. Different FROM. Please to be remembering this.
Should of and would of and could of sound STUPID. It is should HAVE and would HAVE and could HAVE. Shortened, they read should've would've could've which sounds, of course, like should of, but, obviously, is not. Please to be remembering this also, or Santa will come to your house and eat your children. Or your puppies. Or your eyes. Depending on which you hold more dear.
Key Important Note Do Not Disregard:
DO NOT use a thesaurus to make yourself sound smarter. Synonyms of a word do not always mean exactly the same thing as that word, and you will end up sounding like an uneducated waste of air. And I will come to your house and shiv you in the throat.
If you insist on using a thesaurus, use a dictionary with it.
Example: Violently
The zombies ripped into him violently.
The zombies ripped into him combatively.
The zombies ripped into him compellingly.
The zombies ripped into him disturbingly.
The zombies ripped into him extremely.
The zombies ripped into him destructively.
The zombies ripped into him fiercely.
The zombies ripped into him forcefully.
The zombies ripped into him overwhelmingly.
The zombies ripped into him intensely.
The zombies ripped into him forcibly.
The zombies ripped into him powerfully.
The zombies ripped into him rebelliously.
The zombies ripped into him riotously.
The zombies ripped into him stormily.
The zombies ripped into him strongly.
The zombies ripped into him turbulently.
The zombies ripped into him vigorously.
See how each one changes the meaning just slightly? And some of them sound just plain ridiculous? This is why you should be careful with synonyms. And adverbs as well, really, because using an adverb in every sentence will make your editor hate you.
And this is the end of today's rant/grammar lesson.
Please to be incorporating the correct words and usages in your writing. Especially if you are submitting for publication. Editors like authors who know what their words mean.
KNOW WHAT YOUR WORDS MEAN.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
It's out it's out!
Perils of Praline
by Marshall Thornton:
Perils of Praline
by Marshall Thornton:
When he falls in love with a contestant on a reality TV show, Peter "Praline" Palmetier decides to leave his home in rural Georgia and, failing to realize this might be considered stalking, travels to Hollywood to find his soul mate, Dave G. Once in tinsel-town he meets a collection of startling, and often horny, characters in his quest. They include a studly steward, a conservative talk show host, the Godfather of the Gay Mafia, and casting assistant Jason Friedman, who always manages to be there in time to save Praline from total disaster. Will Praline find love with the illusive Dave G., or will he recognize the charms of appealing but untelegenic Jason?
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The Perils of Praline by Marshall Thornton to be released soon my MLR Press!
Upcoming titles here.
So excited!
I am both anxious and happy. I hope readers like it as much as I did.
Upcoming titles here.
So excited!
I am both anxious and happy. I hope readers like it as much as I did.
Friday, July 16, 2010
My Next Life
I decided last night (possibly while intoxicated, possibly not) what I want to be in my next life. Originally, I wanted to be reborn as a cat so I could be lazy and antisocial and sleep all day and shred things with my claws. Then I realized that that's pretty much my life now, except I'm somewhat larger than a regular cat. And with my luck I would end up slightly retarded and epileptic twitching and pissing myself in a dirty alley behind some Chinese restaurant and end up in the egg rolls. I'd probably look something like this:
Still, I figure maybe my next next life can be a cat. But for my next life after this one? I want to be a velociraptor ninja pirate.
Don't judge me.
Obviously I'd have to be born back in the time of dinosaurs, probably as a normal velociraptor that prances gleefully through the land creating havoc and carnage, running about killing the shit out of everything. Probably right about the time of the giant comet that destroyed most all life on earth. Most likely at ground zero.
The resulting cataclysmic explosion would tear a hole in the fabric of the universe and transport me forward in time, also creating an instantaneous mental evolution that makes me self aware and able to communicate with other living things and an exponential potential to learn. Obviously. I would end up, of course, in the middle of a group of ninjas.
And what the hell kind of ninjas wouldn't want to have their own trained killer velociraptor? So they'll of course teach me to be a ninja and I will live happily for some time while I master my new art and figure out my new found mental faculties.
That is until of course my natural instincts inevitably take over and I betray, kill and savagely feast on the flesh of my former companions. I'm a velociraptor. It should be expected really.
Still, I would be unable to continue my easy life as a ninja and would probably have to flee the country. So I would hide on a pirate ship in the cargo hold for a few days. At least, until I remember that I'm a FREAKING VELOCIRAPTOR and wonder why the fuck I'm hiding like a pussy. Maybe rampage around the ship feasting for a bit until the crew pleads with me to be their new captain.
I mean, what the hell kind of pirates would NOT want a ninja velociraptor as their captain? Really.
And then I'll spend the rest of my days pillaging other ships and feasting on human flesh. Or fish. Or other meat. Velociraptors will eat pretty much anything that bleeds. The screaming is just bonus really.
Also, I have no idea where that first velociraptor picture came from, I found it on my hard drive. If it belongs to someone, they should claim it quickly, before it starts to run wild.
Still, I figure maybe my next next life can be a cat. But for my next life after this one? I want to be a velociraptor ninja pirate.
Don't judge me.
Obviously I'd have to be born back in the time of dinosaurs, probably as a normal velociraptor that prances gleefully through the land creating havoc and carnage, running about killing the shit out of everything. Probably right about the time of the giant comet that destroyed most all life on earth. Most likely at ground zero.
The resulting cataclysmic explosion would tear a hole in the fabric of the universe and transport me forward in time, also creating an instantaneous mental evolution that makes me self aware and able to communicate with other living things and an exponential potential to learn. Obviously. I would end up, of course, in the middle of a group of ninjas.
And what the hell kind of ninjas wouldn't want to have their own trained killer velociraptor? So they'll of course teach me to be a ninja and I will live happily for some time while I master my new art and figure out my new found mental faculties.
That is until of course my natural instincts inevitably take over and I betray, kill and savagely feast on the flesh of my former companions. I'm a velociraptor. It should be expected really.
Still, I would be unable to continue my easy life as a ninja and would probably have to flee the country. So I would hide on a pirate ship in the cargo hold for a few days. At least, until I remember that I'm a FREAKING VELOCIRAPTOR and wonder why the fuck I'm hiding like a pussy. Maybe rampage around the ship feasting for a bit until the crew pleads with me to be their new captain.
I mean, what the hell kind of pirates would NOT want a ninja velociraptor as their captain? Really.
And then I'll spend the rest of my days pillaging other ships and feasting on human flesh. Or fish. Or other meat. Velociraptors will eat pretty much anything that bleeds. The screaming is just bonus really.
Also, I have no idea where that first velociraptor picture came from, I found it on my hard drive. If it belongs to someone, they should claim it quickly, before it starts to run wild.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Zombie Poem
My 9th graders did free poetry in English class today, and everyone had to write a poem. Including me. So, for your reading pleasure, here is the poem I presented to the class. It's called Zombies:
Zombies
quick sharp teeth
flesh hangs from rotted lips
run screaming
hordes coming
to feast on
us
Mine was the most popular poem.
Before you jump to conclusions though, it was a request that I write my poem about zombies, really it was! It's a running joke in my classes that I like Biohazzard and I always have zombies on my worksheets or games. So when I couldn't think of anything one of the students told me to write about zombies.
There's nothing wrong with me.
Stop looking at me like that.
Zombies
quick sharp teeth
flesh hangs from rotted lips
run screaming
hordes coming
to feast on
us
Mine was the most popular poem.
Before you jump to conclusions though, it was a request that I write my poem about zombies, really it was! It's a running joke in my classes that I like Biohazzard and I always have zombies on my worksheets or games. So when I couldn't think of anything one of the students told me to write about zombies.
There's nothing wrong with me.
Stop looking at me like that.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
LIfe in Japan: Hiking and Nature
Some friends and I went to a small island off the coast of a peninsula a little northeast of where I live. The friends I went with are all members of a Facebook group called "Miyagi Outdoor Lovers." They're fellow ALTs, and I enjoy their company quite a bit, but as you might guess if you know me, I am not remotely an outdoor lover and avoid nature at all costs. They talked me into this one because I'd been there before and thought it would be all right, plus there's a deserted beach nearby that I wanted to go to.
I had been sick for a week, I should mention. Like, I went to bed as soon as I got home from work sick. Death on a stick. I felt better the Friday before and that morning, so thought it would be all right. It was not all right. Trekking uphill with a cough and a sinus headache on top of allergies = deathwish. Seriously. This was me:
Down was all right. We got totally lost and ended up on an animal trail on the other side of the island, and followed that back to the ferry. It was an adventure, and I felt better at that point because we'd stopped for lunch and medicine. You can kind of see the path here:
The view was gorgeous, don't get me wrong. And the "wildlife" was very accommodating to tourists.
I can appreciate the beauty of nature. I think almost anyone can appreciate the beauty of nature. I'm just one of those people who prefer to appreciate it from inside an air conditioned glass walled room where said nature can't touch me. I don't like bugs, I don't like sun, I don't like heat or cold, and I don't like hiking, camping, or climbing. Still. Sometimes it's good to break out of your comfort zone to remind yourself of why you were in it in the first place. After this hike I was ready to flee in terror back to my cave. Except we were going to the beach next, and I can forgo, temporarily, the comfort of my cave for the beach.
The beach! First day at the beach this summer. Was awesome. Really FREAKING cold, but awesome. I had to swim in shorts and a t-shirt because I'd forgotten my swimsuit, but it wouldn't be the first time (I've stripped and swum in my underwear before, because not even lack of a suit and naked shame can keep me out of the ocean), and probably not the last.
We went to a semi deserted beach a little farther up the peninsula, and the waves were nice enough that we were sharing them with surfers. The surfers moved over a bit for us though, once they realized that we were insane enough to attempt swimming even though it was cold and dangerous. It was a mostly enclosed beach, with rocks on either side, maybe about the size of a football field, or not quite that big. The rocks on one side had a huge opening that narrowed off into a small cave, which was really neat.
The rocks on the other side were pretty sharp and high, and covered in this sharp shells of some kind of crustacean. On the other side of these rocks I noticed another mini beach with what looked like a totally awesome cave, and I tried to go there. Note, I forgot to tell my friends, who at this point were drying off and preparing to leave, where I was going.
I tried to walk around the rocks, the water was about hip level, but it suddenly dropped off sharply and I couldn't tell how deep it went. Deep ocean water scares me stupid, so I tried to go around that by going over the rocks. Not such a great idea, considering they were covered with the sharp barnacle things. I realized this as soon as I attempted it, and tried to get back down to find another way. And then the tide came in. I ended up being repeatedly smashed into the rocks, and had to struggle to get down and off in between waves. I did manage, though I shredded my hands and legs and feet.
By the time I managed to get off the rocks and out of the waves, my friends had noticed I'd gone missing. The water where we were was completely clear, totally gorgeous, and they were yelling my name and searching frantically for my drowned body. They have much faith in my swimming abilities. This faith in my natural delicate grace was not helped when I finally got back dripping wet and bleeding.
I'm still annoyed I didn't make it to the other small beach. I feel thwarted, but plan to return. Probably a bit earlier in the day, when the waves aren't so rough.
All in all it was exhausting, and more nature than strictly necessary was involved, but I had a really good time.
I had been sick for a week, I should mention. Like, I went to bed as soon as I got home from work sick. Death on a stick. I felt better the Friday before and that morning, so thought it would be all right. It was not all right. Trekking uphill with a cough and a sinus headache on top of allergies = deathwish. Seriously. This was me:
Down was all right. We got totally lost and ended up on an animal trail on the other side of the island, and followed that back to the ferry. It was an adventure, and I felt better at that point because we'd stopped for lunch and medicine. You can kind of see the path here:
The view was gorgeous, don't get me wrong. And the "wildlife" was very accommodating to tourists.
I can appreciate the beauty of nature. I think almost anyone can appreciate the beauty of nature. I'm just one of those people who prefer to appreciate it from inside an air conditioned glass walled room where said nature can't touch me. I don't like bugs, I don't like sun, I don't like heat or cold, and I don't like hiking, camping, or climbing. Still. Sometimes it's good to break out of your comfort zone to remind yourself of why you were in it in the first place. After this hike I was ready to flee in terror back to my cave. Except we were going to the beach next, and I can forgo, temporarily, the comfort of my cave for the beach.
The beach! First day at the beach this summer. Was awesome. Really FREAKING cold, but awesome. I had to swim in shorts and a t-shirt because I'd forgotten my swimsuit, but it wouldn't be the first time (I've stripped and swum in my underwear before, because not even lack of a suit and naked shame can keep me out of the ocean), and probably not the last.
We went to a semi deserted beach a little farther up the peninsula, and the waves were nice enough that we were sharing them with surfers. The surfers moved over a bit for us though, once they realized that we were insane enough to attempt swimming even though it was cold and dangerous. It was a mostly enclosed beach, with rocks on either side, maybe about the size of a football field, or not quite that big. The rocks on one side had a huge opening that narrowed off into a small cave, which was really neat.
The rocks on the other side were pretty sharp and high, and covered in this sharp shells of some kind of crustacean. On the other side of these rocks I noticed another mini beach with what looked like a totally awesome cave, and I tried to go there. Note, I forgot to tell my friends, who at this point were drying off and preparing to leave, where I was going.
I tried to walk around the rocks, the water was about hip level, but it suddenly dropped off sharply and I couldn't tell how deep it went. Deep ocean water scares me stupid, so I tried to go around that by going over the rocks. Not such a great idea, considering they were covered with the sharp barnacle things. I realized this as soon as I attempted it, and tried to get back down to find another way. And then the tide came in. I ended up being repeatedly smashed into the rocks, and had to struggle to get down and off in between waves. I did manage, though I shredded my hands and legs and feet.
By the time I managed to get off the rocks and out of the waves, my friends had noticed I'd gone missing. The water where we were was completely clear, totally gorgeous, and they were yelling my name and searching frantically for my drowned body. They have much faith in my swimming abilities. This faith in my natural delicate grace was not helped when I finally got back dripping wet and bleeding.
I'm still annoyed I didn't make it to the other small beach. I feel thwarted, but plan to return. Probably a bit earlier in the day, when the waves aren't so rough.
All in all it was exhausting, and more nature than strictly necessary was involved, but I had a really good time.
Life in Japan: Hazzards of Being Gaijin
And it happened again. Thankfully at the end of my run when I'm back in a residential area, with street lights and other people returning home from work. But this guy followed me in his car for two blocks, pulled ahead and parked, and then walked back to walk next to me and talk to me.
Creeeeeeeepy.
This is one thing I shall not miss when I go home. Though oddly my first two years here it never happened.
Creeeeeeeepy.
This is one thing I shall not miss when I go home. Though oddly my first two years here it never happened.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Life of an ALT: Exercise
I run every night. I don’t enjoy it, but I don’t want to be fat because I like cute clothes and it’s hard to find cute clothes in fat people sizes. Simple as that. I do like junk food. Especially sweets and chips and…well, junk food. But cake and ice cream and chocolate is high on my list of happy making necessities. And so. Running. Because dieting is absolutely out of the question.
Oddly enough, I can seem to have a steady running routine and not lose any weight. When I stop I gain weight, but I never seem to lose any. This is a quirk of my body that irritates me greatly, but it does not seem to care about the impact it has on my overall emotional well being. Which is probably also why it hates milk and orange juice. The bitch.
Anyway, I have been running now for about a year and half. I usually do about four and half kilometers, or a couple miles. The running part is actually only one mile plus maybe another half depending on my mood, and the rest is power walking. Followed by weights when I get back to my apartment. But I never stray too far away from my apartment, mostly because I like to be within easy returning distance should I decide I’m really not in the mood for exercise after all. It happens.
I frequently see other people out and about, some doing their own exercise, some walking their dogs, some just getting home from work or the store. I never have any trouble with them, we nod our heads at each other and offer a polite こんばんは (good evening) and go on our way, barely having paused.
So why then, lately, do people feel the need to interrupt my run to talk to me? Twice now strange Japanese men have stopped me and asked me if I’m free. Do I look free? I’m sweating, because I sweat—a lot. Really, I think my pores are connected to the oceans with how much I can sweat sometimes, it’s disgusting—and I’m redfaced, and my running clothes are usually puffy. It’s not sexy. Seriously. And I’m obviously in the middle of my exercise. They don’t go to the gym and stand in front of people on the treadmill and demand their attention, do they? No. Because it’s rude. Oh but wait, that’s right, I’m not Japanese, so to do it to me isn’t rude.
But that’s different story entirely.
No, I want to talk about last night. I went running, as I usually do, and as sometimes happens I drew attention to myself, simply by the fact that I am quite obviously not Japanese and that I run at night because I have a deep aversion to daylight. Mostly the sun’s rays. I’ve attracted strange men before, one guy on bike followed me for half a block until I had to stop at a “Don’t walk” sign before he asked me if I could play with him. Here play can be a lot of things. I took it to mean all of them and pretended I didn’t speak Japanese. Last night though, the guy was an older gentleman and had a car.
He pulled alongside the road I was on and waited for me to catch up at the intersection. I had no idea what he was doing, but I figured he was probably staring at me since that’s what Japanese men in cars do. I nodded my head politely in a sort of non bow and went around his car, on my merry way. He followed me for half a block and then pulled over and called out to me. I figured I’d better just answer him so that he didn’t follow me to the next leg of my run, which would go through a dimly lit wooded area with probably no witnesses should he try to kill me. Though in that case it would have been me with the upper hand, since I would have a better shot at getting away with killing him. Still. I figured better to not risk it.
I stop and say hi, and he asks me to talk to him for a while. He wants me to get in his car. Like that’s gonna happen. Ever. Even in the third safest country in the world I am not that completely stupid. He seemed to be offended by this, but I was adamant. He then wanted to know my phone number and address and where I was going, to which I replied of course, though I totally lied. Then he gave me his number and said I should call him so he could meet me at a restaurant and give me a present.
I won’t even touch on the present part.
I told him I would give his number to the friend I live near, since I don’t have a phone (lie) and they my friend would call him (lie) as soon as he got the chance. I seriously doubt David—my friend—will call. Not that I care. My job was to give him the number. I did my job. I did not get in the car with a strange man—who didn’t even have candy! What the hell kind of stranger doesn’t even bring candy!?—and I managed to escape unscathed. Though he screwed to hell my usual routine, which pissed me off because it’s hard as hell to keep myself on track normally, I don’t need lonely old businessmen throwing me off my stride too.
And that was my adventure. It was lame. I remain annoyed.
Japan is a very friendly country. It really is. It’s full of friendly, polite people. Sometimes more polite than friendly, and sometimes more friendly than polite. It also has quite a few creepy-assed stalker freaks. And I seem to have the unfortunate habit of attracting all of them.
Oddly enough, I can seem to have a steady running routine and not lose any weight. When I stop I gain weight, but I never seem to lose any. This is a quirk of my body that irritates me greatly, but it does not seem to care about the impact it has on my overall emotional well being. Which is probably also why it hates milk and orange juice. The bitch.
Anyway, I have been running now for about a year and half. I usually do about four and half kilometers, or a couple miles. The running part is actually only one mile plus maybe another half depending on my mood, and the rest is power walking. Followed by weights when I get back to my apartment. But I never stray too far away from my apartment, mostly because I like to be within easy returning distance should I decide I’m really not in the mood for exercise after all. It happens.
I frequently see other people out and about, some doing their own exercise, some walking their dogs, some just getting home from work or the store. I never have any trouble with them, we nod our heads at each other and offer a polite こんばんは (good evening) and go on our way, barely having paused.
So why then, lately, do people feel the need to interrupt my run to talk to me? Twice now strange Japanese men have stopped me and asked me if I’m free. Do I look free? I’m sweating, because I sweat—a lot. Really, I think my pores are connected to the oceans with how much I can sweat sometimes, it’s disgusting—and I’m redfaced, and my running clothes are usually puffy. It’s not sexy. Seriously. And I’m obviously in the middle of my exercise. They don’t go to the gym and stand in front of people on the treadmill and demand their attention, do they? No. Because it’s rude. Oh but wait, that’s right, I’m not Japanese, so to do it to me isn’t rude.
But that’s different story entirely.
No, I want to talk about last night. I went running, as I usually do, and as sometimes happens I drew attention to myself, simply by the fact that I am quite obviously not Japanese and that I run at night because I have a deep aversion to daylight. Mostly the sun’s rays. I’ve attracted strange men before, one guy on bike followed me for half a block until I had to stop at a “Don’t walk” sign before he asked me if I could play with him. Here play can be a lot of things. I took it to mean all of them and pretended I didn’t speak Japanese. Last night though, the guy was an older gentleman and had a car.
He pulled alongside the road I was on and waited for me to catch up at the intersection. I had no idea what he was doing, but I figured he was probably staring at me since that’s what Japanese men in cars do. I nodded my head politely in a sort of non bow and went around his car, on my merry way. He followed me for half a block and then pulled over and called out to me. I figured I’d better just answer him so that he didn’t follow me to the next leg of my run, which would go through a dimly lit wooded area with probably no witnesses should he try to kill me. Though in that case it would have been me with the upper hand, since I would have a better shot at getting away with killing him. Still. I figured better to not risk it.
I stop and say hi, and he asks me to talk to him for a while. He wants me to get in his car. Like that’s gonna happen. Ever. Even in the third safest country in the world I am not that completely stupid. He seemed to be offended by this, but I was adamant. He then wanted to know my phone number and address and where I was going, to which I replied of course, though I totally lied. Then he gave me his number and said I should call him so he could meet me at a restaurant and give me a present.
I won’t even touch on the present part.
I told him I would give his number to the friend I live near, since I don’t have a phone (lie) and they my friend would call him (lie) as soon as he got the chance. I seriously doubt David—my friend—will call. Not that I care. My job was to give him the number. I did my job. I did not get in the car with a strange man—who didn’t even have candy! What the hell kind of stranger doesn’t even bring candy!?—and I managed to escape unscathed. Though he screwed to hell my usual routine, which pissed me off because it’s hard as hell to keep myself on track normally, I don’t need lonely old businessmen throwing me off my stride too.
And that was my adventure. It was lame. I remain annoyed.
Japan is a very friendly country. It really is. It’s full of friendly, polite people. Sometimes more polite than friendly, and sometimes more friendly than polite. It also has quite a few creepy-assed stalker freaks. And I seem to have the unfortunate habit of attracting all of them.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Life of an ALT: The First Week
It was a little anticlimactic. My Independent Contractor had taken me to the Board of Education, where I met the people that had hired Unnamed Company and asked for me to be their ALT—not me specifically, but they’d wanted a girl and I wasn’t picky about my placement. Then I was taken around to each of my schools and introduced to the principals, vice principals, and Japanese teachers. It was an unnerving experience, and my nervousness was obvious by the rigidity of my posture, because the only thing I could remember from training was my trainer saying, “Make sure you sit up straight, no slouching!”
My first day at my middle school I had to give a brief introduction to the teaching staff in the morning, and then I was shown my desk and told to sit and wait. I had received no schedule—little did I know this would become normal for this school—telling me what I would be doing that day, and so had no idea what to expect. I went through the desk, which was full of stuff the previous ALT had collected, and the lesson plan books made specifically by Unnamed Company. Then I was rushed out to the gym for the welcoming ceremony.
The welcoming ceremony was just that. It was to welcome all the students back from their spring break—in Japan school is year round, so the last term ends at the end of March, and the next school years starts early April—and also to welcome the new ichi nensei, first years or seventh graders. The teachers were introduced by the students, and while it was all in Japanese and I couldn’t understand any of it, I caught enough of the mood to know that they were making fun of the teachers and that it was fairly lighthearted. This was after the formal welcoming, where everyone sang the school song and the principal gave a speech on proper behavior.
Then I was expected to give a speech. To the entire student body. I was in speech and drama in high school, taught tae kwon do to children and adults alike, have stood in front of a crowd of strangers and been able to function properly if stiffly. This was different. This was five hundred teenagers with eyes on me, half of whom didn’t speak my language and the other half only a little. I smiled. My biggest brightest I love the world smile, spoke slowly and with gestures, and then bowed with a proper “yoroshiku onegaishimas” at the end. They clapped and cheered my bad Japanese, and I melted into a puddle of relief that it was over.
Not the ceremony, that went on for another hour and a half of stuff I didn’t understand but thought was each club introducing itself to the new students. My mind went elsewhere, as it does when I get bored, and after the ceremony I went back to my desk. I was told that I had no classes that day or the next, and that people would be too busy to really talk to me. I was shown where the coffee and tea was, and told I could help myself. I had about six cups of coffee that first day, and read through all three textbooks and all three lesson plan books. Twice. Slowly. To kill time. Because I had seven hours of nothing to do except kill people in my head for not letting me go home when there was no work for me.
I eventually started bringing a journal, within which I could write down my vengeful thoughts of destruction and mayhem. You would be surprised at how well the average Japanese adult can read written English. My handwriting has had to degenerate in self defense.
My first day at my middle school I had to give a brief introduction to the teaching staff in the morning, and then I was shown my desk and told to sit and wait. I had received no schedule—little did I know this would become normal for this school—telling me what I would be doing that day, and so had no idea what to expect. I went through the desk, which was full of stuff the previous ALT had collected, and the lesson plan books made specifically by Unnamed Company. Then I was rushed out to the gym for the welcoming ceremony.
The welcoming ceremony was just that. It was to welcome all the students back from their spring break—in Japan school is year round, so the last term ends at the end of March, and the next school years starts early April—and also to welcome the new ichi nensei, first years or seventh graders. The teachers were introduced by the students, and while it was all in Japanese and I couldn’t understand any of it, I caught enough of the mood to know that they were making fun of the teachers and that it was fairly lighthearted. This was after the formal welcoming, where everyone sang the school song and the principal gave a speech on proper behavior.
Then I was expected to give a speech. To the entire student body. I was in speech and drama in high school, taught tae kwon do to children and adults alike, have stood in front of a crowd of strangers and been able to function properly if stiffly. This was different. This was five hundred teenagers with eyes on me, half of whom didn’t speak my language and the other half only a little. I smiled. My biggest brightest I love the world smile, spoke slowly and with gestures, and then bowed with a proper “yoroshiku onegaishimas” at the end. They clapped and cheered my bad Japanese, and I melted into a puddle of relief that it was over.
Not the ceremony, that went on for another hour and a half of stuff I didn’t understand but thought was each club introducing itself to the new students. My mind went elsewhere, as it does when I get bored, and after the ceremony I went back to my desk. I was told that I had no classes that day or the next, and that people would be too busy to really talk to me. I was shown where the coffee and tea was, and told I could help myself. I had about six cups of coffee that first day, and read through all three textbooks and all three lesson plan books. Twice. Slowly. To kill time. Because I had seven hours of nothing to do except kill people in my head for not letting me go home when there was no work for me.
I eventually started bringing a journal, within which I could write down my vengeful thoughts of destruction and mayhem. You would be surprised at how well the average Japanese adult can read written English. My handwriting has had to degenerate in self defense.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Life of an ALT: School Life
The teachers that I work with arrive at school sometime around seven-thirty in the morning, and leave anywhere from five to eight to ten at night, only to occasionally go home and do more work. Teaching in Japan is one of the most exhausting, least rewarding jobs, they tell me. But they get paid a decent amount, they get insurance and bonuses. They get a much better deal than teachers in the States, but they have much more work.
The teachers in Japan have more say over discipline and behavior than the parents. When a student is in trouble for doing something either on school grounds or at home, or elsewhere in the city, it’s the homeroom teacher that is called in to talk to them. Can you think of anything worse than having to go to the principal’s office for back talking your parents after dinner? Or for fighting with your parents and then staying with a friend? Students in junior high and high school are not allowed to spend the night at their friend’s houses. The teachers believe there’s too much risk that if they’re with friends at night after school they’ll make “bad decisions.” I try not to laugh at how innocent it sometimes seems over here.
The students, most people know from anime, wear school uniforms. The boys wear either traditional buttoned up gokkuran or regular suit and tie, the girls sailor outfits or skirt suits and bows, depending on the school. Many elementary schools in my area have relaxed enough to let the students wear whatever they want, but in some places even elementary school students have uniforms.
All students have name tags that they must wear. If caught without, in my middle school, the teachers first pretend not to know who they are and then force them to wear a handmade nametag if their proper one can’t be found. In larger schools and high schools, the teachers don’t have to pretend, especially if they teach a different grade level. When students are dating—which they aren’t allowed to do in middle school, technically—the boys will give their girlfriends their nametags. It’s sort of like having her wear his class ring, but in the States a guy won’t get in constant trouble for not having it.
The class system is the same, but in junior high and high school in the States students have a locker and move around from classroom to classroom depending on what subject they’re studying. In Japan, the students have a homeroom class, and the teachers move around from classroom to classroom, depending on what class they’re teaching when. Everyone has ten minutes between classes; the students have to have all the materials for their next subject ready at their desk. The staff room is where all of the teachers’ desks are located, and the room next door that also contains the copy machines, a refrigerator, a sink, and places to make coffee or tea, and a long table.
At the beginning and ending of each class the students stand and bow to the teacher. This should be implemented in the States, it’s the best thing ever. In the hallways between classes, the students must also bow and greet the teachers as they walk past. When a student comes to the staff room they must introduce themselves loudly and state from the doorway what they need and why. Then they must excuse themselves and bow properly before leaving. Bowing is a very big cultural expression here, it’s not just the equivalent of a handshake.
At lunch, each class has a group of students in charge of going downstairs to the lunch delivery truck and carrying the pans, plates, food, milk, and ohashi—chopsticks—back up to their classmates, then serve it. There are no cafeterias. Students eat together in their classrooms, in junior high and elementary, and the homeroom teacher eats with the class. If a teacher doesn’t have a homeroom class they eat in the staff room. After lunch the students have twenty minutes to clean up, and whatever time is leftover is their free time.
After school the students clean their classroom, and whatever else that class is assigned to clean that day. There are no janitors. Some argue that this system forces the students to be more neat and tidy, since they’re the ones that will have to clean up after themselves at the end of the day. In some cases this works really well. But there’s always those students that don’t really care one way or another, or like to make trouble for everyone else. Happily, there are only a very few of those in my school.
After school sports are not sports like in the States. They have clubs here, instead. The sports clubs, of course, compete against other schools, and they have district and national matches, but it’s not just sports. They also have a sewing club, an art club, a brass band club, a chorus club, some schools have English clubs and gardening clubs and pretty much anything they can think of. If there are enough students that want to do a certain thing, the school will approve a club for it. I’m pretty sure this stops short of a drinking and smoking club, but everything else is deemed negotiable.
The teachers in Japan have more say over discipline and behavior than the parents. When a student is in trouble for doing something either on school grounds or at home, or elsewhere in the city, it’s the homeroom teacher that is called in to talk to them. Can you think of anything worse than having to go to the principal’s office for back talking your parents after dinner? Or for fighting with your parents and then staying with a friend? Students in junior high and high school are not allowed to spend the night at their friend’s houses. The teachers believe there’s too much risk that if they’re with friends at night after school they’ll make “bad decisions.” I try not to laugh at how innocent it sometimes seems over here.
The students, most people know from anime, wear school uniforms. The boys wear either traditional buttoned up gokkuran or regular suit and tie, the girls sailor outfits or skirt suits and bows, depending on the school. Many elementary schools in my area have relaxed enough to let the students wear whatever they want, but in some places even elementary school students have uniforms.
All students have name tags that they must wear. If caught without, in my middle school, the teachers first pretend not to know who they are and then force them to wear a handmade nametag if their proper one can’t be found. In larger schools and high schools, the teachers don’t have to pretend, especially if they teach a different grade level. When students are dating—which they aren’t allowed to do in middle school, technically—the boys will give their girlfriends their nametags. It’s sort of like having her wear his class ring, but in the States a guy won’t get in constant trouble for not having it.
The class system is the same, but in junior high and high school in the States students have a locker and move around from classroom to classroom depending on what subject they’re studying. In Japan, the students have a homeroom class, and the teachers move around from classroom to classroom, depending on what class they’re teaching when. Everyone has ten minutes between classes; the students have to have all the materials for their next subject ready at their desk. The staff room is where all of the teachers’ desks are located, and the room next door that also contains the copy machines, a refrigerator, a sink, and places to make coffee or tea, and a long table.
At the beginning and ending of each class the students stand and bow to the teacher. This should be implemented in the States, it’s the best thing ever. In the hallways between classes, the students must also bow and greet the teachers as they walk past. When a student comes to the staff room they must introduce themselves loudly and state from the doorway what they need and why. Then they must excuse themselves and bow properly before leaving. Bowing is a very big cultural expression here, it’s not just the equivalent of a handshake.
At lunch, each class has a group of students in charge of going downstairs to the lunch delivery truck and carrying the pans, plates, food, milk, and ohashi—chopsticks—back up to their classmates, then serve it. There are no cafeterias. Students eat together in their classrooms, in junior high and elementary, and the homeroom teacher eats with the class. If a teacher doesn’t have a homeroom class they eat in the staff room. After lunch the students have twenty minutes to clean up, and whatever time is leftover is their free time.
After school the students clean their classroom, and whatever else that class is assigned to clean that day. There are no janitors. Some argue that this system forces the students to be more neat and tidy, since they’re the ones that will have to clean up after themselves at the end of the day. In some cases this works really well. But there’s always those students that don’t really care one way or another, or like to make trouble for everyone else. Happily, there are only a very few of those in my school.
After school sports are not sports like in the States. They have clubs here, instead. The sports clubs, of course, compete against other schools, and they have district and national matches, but it’s not just sports. They also have a sewing club, an art club, a brass band club, a chorus club, some schools have English clubs and gardening clubs and pretty much anything they can think of. If there are enough students that want to do a certain thing, the school will approve a club for it. I’m pretty sure this stops short of a drinking and smoking club, but everything else is deemed negotiable.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Life of an ALT: Cultural Differences
The first thing I noticed about Japan that was vastly different from my small town of Nowhere Colorado, was the vending machines. Now, Nowhere Colorado has vending machines, of course. We had them at the high school and then one outside the grocery store. Which is about right for a town of two thousand people. Japan? Japan has a vending machine on every street corner. No lie.
There are several different companies for drinks, cigarettes, alcohol, ice cream, junk food, and underwear. And most of them have a vending machine. You think I’m joking about the underwear, but I’m really not. My apartment is situated at a small intersection of a small city, and I have a vending machine within a five minute walk in every direction imaginable. Most of them are for coffee, juice, soda, alcohol and cigarettes. The ones near me, at least. You would think a vending machine that sells alcohol and cigarettes would contradict the age laws against such things, but they have ID readers that make them hard to fool. Supposedly. My Junior High school students still manage to smoke and drink, but teenagers will always find a way. There is nothing more determined and resourceful than a teenager out looking to be bad. That holds true for pretty much the entire world, I would assume. It’s good to know some things are constant.
Next is the living quarters. A one room apartment in the States means one bedroom, and then whatever many rooms for the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and the bathroom. In Japan it means just that. I have one room. It is my bedroom, my living room, and my dining room. I don’t have a kitchen. I have a stove and a sink placed into the wall of my hallway. I do have a bathroom area. The toilet is in its own personal closet, and you wash your hands from a little fountain that spurts water from the top of it when you flush. It actually is sanitary. The shower room and sink is separate. I do mean shower room. It’s an entire room. It has a bathtub in it, but you don’t shower in the bathtub. Confusing? Picture to clarify:
It is also where I dry my clothes. Because while washers are abundant, there is no such thing as a drier. Not unless you’re a pop star. And while I do have a clothes line on my half balcony-that-isn’t, the weather is usually not conducive to drying. It’s either too muggy, and the clothes don’t dry at all, or too cold, and it takes them days. The blower in the shower room isn’t very efficient itself, so I usually have to run it once, then put my clothes in my room draped and hung up on various made-up surfaces with the air conditioner running to get them to dry completely. Sometimes I just go to work in damp clothes. You actually can get used to it.
Once I started drinking—I realize that I say that like I suddenly became an alcoholic…wait, that might be accurate. Well. A social alcoholic at least. Anyway, once I started actually going out drinking with friends, I noticed the lack of real bars. In the States a bar is a bar is a bar. Some serve food, some are part of restaurants, some are just regular bars. It’s almost the same in Japan. Except not.
In Japan, there are a few types of drinking establishments: izakayas, or restaurants that serve alcohol; snack bars, which is basically a hostess bar and the drinks are very expensive, as is the seating charge, but you get your own personal Japanese girl to drink with; shot bars, which is like a regular bar in the States except they serve entirely different snacks and the seating charge can range from roughly five dollars to twenty.
Then there are the nomihodais. A nomihodai is not a bar. It is the best friend of the college student, the alcoholic, the drinking party, and anyone else that wants to drink until they die. It is a drinking buffet. Reallly. A drinking buffet. You pay a set fee, usually anywhere from fifteen dollars to fifty, and you can drink as much as you want, whatever you want—off the nomohodai menu, naturally, but it includes pretty much everything except the high end expensive Sake and Scotch—for ninety minutes to two hours. And when that’s over people usually go to another bar, or to a karaoke nomohodai.
In the culture of Japanese drinking, nothing is as popular as the karaoke nomihodai. Drunken karaoke, are you kidding? They love it here. And as gaijin—Japanese slang for foreigner—we get to love it too. That and pachinko are really the only activities beyond sightseeing where I live. There’s a bowling alley, a skating rink, and parks aplenty. Basically, after work, the regular working class Japanese person goes out with friends and gets completely smashed, then goes home to their families and does more work. They have mastered the art of working hungover and socializing drunk over here. It was perhaps not the best place for me to go, as one with a family history of addiction. Ah well.
There is also the Japanese work ethic. They have nine to five jobs here, of course. Bankers work from about nine to three. All banks close at three here, and are closed on weekends and holidays. If you need to go to the bank and you have a regular job, you’re out of luck. Luckily I have a postal banking account. The post office bank—there is such a thing here—closes at four, but the ATMs are open much later, and you can do pretty much any banking you need through the ATM. Make deposits, withdrawals, transfers, anything. They’re extremely convenient, if you know how to read them. The Post Office ATMs have English, but oddly less banking options on the English menu. The ATMs here are also racist. I am convinced.
And then, of course, there’s the 100 Yen shop. The hyaku en shop is the best invention since tiramisu. Basically, sometimes, a hundred yen equals about a dollar. So the hundred yen shop is really just a dollar store. But it’s not at all like the dollar stores I’m used to.
In the States, you can get cheap plates, ugly figurines, nasty snacks, and nappy decorations at the dollar store. But hey, it’s a dollar, and you get what you pay for, right? In Japan, I’ve probably spent thousands of yen, hundreds of dollars, at the hundred yen shop. You can buy dishes, of course, but some of them are really nice for cheap dishes. You can buy cleaning supplies, containers, notebooks, pens, pencils, toys, decorations, gardening supplies, home repair supplies, stuff for your vehicle, purses, wallets, stickers, bags, luggage, candy, snacks, office supplies, underwear, and just about anything else you can think of. It’s all cheaply made, of course, but true to the Japanese work ethic even cheaply made stuff is of decent usable quality.
I get all of my supplies for school at the hundred yen shop, as well as random cleaning supplies, dish soap, and dishes. Not everything is a hundred yen, of course. The better quality bigger stuff is priced higher, but very few things ever get above a thousand yen—ten bucks.
Then there’re the love hotels. Love hotels are huge here, they’re everywhere. Mostly because it’s traditional for Japanese people to live with their immediate family until they get married, and even then in some cases one spouse will move in with the other’s family. So if anyone wants to get nookie here, they have to use a love hotel. Love hotels are actually fully automated and very discreet. The entrance and exits are completely separate, so you never run into anyone coming or going. The staff hides behind walls until you check out, and if you order from room service they open the door only far enough to set the food on a tray right next to the door. You pay when you exit, since they usually charge by the hour. Some of them are really clean and nice, and some are…well. You can imagine.
There are several different companies for drinks, cigarettes, alcohol, ice cream, junk food, and underwear. And most of them have a vending machine. You think I’m joking about the underwear, but I’m really not. My apartment is situated at a small intersection of a small city, and I have a vending machine within a five minute walk in every direction imaginable. Most of them are for coffee, juice, soda, alcohol and cigarettes. The ones near me, at least. You would think a vending machine that sells alcohol and cigarettes would contradict the age laws against such things, but they have ID readers that make them hard to fool. Supposedly. My Junior High school students still manage to smoke and drink, but teenagers will always find a way. There is nothing more determined and resourceful than a teenager out looking to be bad. That holds true for pretty much the entire world, I would assume. It’s good to know some things are constant.
Next is the living quarters. A one room apartment in the States means one bedroom, and then whatever many rooms for the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and the bathroom. In Japan it means just that. I have one room. It is my bedroom, my living room, and my dining room. I don’t have a kitchen. I have a stove and a sink placed into the wall of my hallway. I do have a bathroom area. The toilet is in its own personal closet, and you wash your hands from a little fountain that spurts water from the top of it when you flush. It actually is sanitary. The shower room and sink is separate. I do mean shower room. It’s an entire room. It has a bathtub in it, but you don’t shower in the bathtub. Confusing? Picture to clarify:
It is also where I dry my clothes. Because while washers are abundant, there is no such thing as a drier. Not unless you’re a pop star. And while I do have a clothes line on my half balcony-that-isn’t, the weather is usually not conducive to drying. It’s either too muggy, and the clothes don’t dry at all, or too cold, and it takes them days. The blower in the shower room isn’t very efficient itself, so I usually have to run it once, then put my clothes in my room draped and hung up on various made-up surfaces with the air conditioner running to get them to dry completely. Sometimes I just go to work in damp clothes. You actually can get used to it.
Once I started drinking—I realize that I say that like I suddenly became an alcoholic…wait, that might be accurate. Well. A social alcoholic at least. Anyway, once I started actually going out drinking with friends, I noticed the lack of real bars. In the States a bar is a bar is a bar. Some serve food, some are part of restaurants, some are just regular bars. It’s almost the same in Japan. Except not.
In Japan, there are a few types of drinking establishments: izakayas, or restaurants that serve alcohol; snack bars, which is basically a hostess bar and the drinks are very expensive, as is the seating charge, but you get your own personal Japanese girl to drink with; shot bars, which is like a regular bar in the States except they serve entirely different snacks and the seating charge can range from roughly five dollars to twenty.
Then there are the nomihodais. A nomihodai is not a bar. It is the best friend of the college student, the alcoholic, the drinking party, and anyone else that wants to drink until they die. It is a drinking buffet. Reallly. A drinking buffet. You pay a set fee, usually anywhere from fifteen dollars to fifty, and you can drink as much as you want, whatever you want—off the nomohodai menu, naturally, but it includes pretty much everything except the high end expensive Sake and Scotch—for ninety minutes to two hours. And when that’s over people usually go to another bar, or to a karaoke nomohodai.
In the culture of Japanese drinking, nothing is as popular as the karaoke nomihodai. Drunken karaoke, are you kidding? They love it here. And as gaijin—Japanese slang for foreigner—we get to love it too. That and pachinko are really the only activities beyond sightseeing where I live. There’s a bowling alley, a skating rink, and parks aplenty. Basically, after work, the regular working class Japanese person goes out with friends and gets completely smashed, then goes home to their families and does more work. They have mastered the art of working hungover and socializing drunk over here. It was perhaps not the best place for me to go, as one with a family history of addiction. Ah well.
There is also the Japanese work ethic. They have nine to five jobs here, of course. Bankers work from about nine to three. All banks close at three here, and are closed on weekends and holidays. If you need to go to the bank and you have a regular job, you’re out of luck. Luckily I have a postal banking account. The post office bank—there is such a thing here—closes at four, but the ATMs are open much later, and you can do pretty much any banking you need through the ATM. Make deposits, withdrawals, transfers, anything. They’re extremely convenient, if you know how to read them. The Post Office ATMs have English, but oddly less banking options on the English menu. The ATMs here are also racist. I am convinced.
And then, of course, there’s the 100 Yen shop. The hyaku en shop is the best invention since tiramisu. Basically, sometimes, a hundred yen equals about a dollar. So the hundred yen shop is really just a dollar store. But it’s not at all like the dollar stores I’m used to.
In the States, you can get cheap plates, ugly figurines, nasty snacks, and nappy decorations at the dollar store. But hey, it’s a dollar, and you get what you pay for, right? In Japan, I’ve probably spent thousands of yen, hundreds of dollars, at the hundred yen shop. You can buy dishes, of course, but some of them are really nice for cheap dishes. You can buy cleaning supplies, containers, notebooks, pens, pencils, toys, decorations, gardening supplies, home repair supplies, stuff for your vehicle, purses, wallets, stickers, bags, luggage, candy, snacks, office supplies, underwear, and just about anything else you can think of. It’s all cheaply made, of course, but true to the Japanese work ethic even cheaply made stuff is of decent usable quality.
I get all of my supplies for school at the hundred yen shop, as well as random cleaning supplies, dish soap, and dishes. Not everything is a hundred yen, of course. The better quality bigger stuff is priced higher, but very few things ever get above a thousand yen—ten bucks.
Then there’re the love hotels. Love hotels are huge here, they’re everywhere. Mostly because it’s traditional for Japanese people to live with their immediate family until they get married, and even then in some cases one spouse will move in with the other’s family. So if anyone wants to get nookie here, they have to use a love hotel. Love hotels are actually fully automated and very discreet. The entrance and exits are completely separate, so you never run into anyone coming or going. The staff hides behind walls until you check out, and if you order from room service they open the door only far enough to set the food on a tray right next to the door. You pay when you exit, since they usually charge by the hour. Some of them are really clean and nice, and some are…well. You can imagine.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Life of an ALT: Training
The first day of training was only a half day. We got up early, my roommate and I, and headed down to the dining area with our little free breakfast passes. I knew no one there, except my roommate, and felt completely out of my depth. I’d spent the last three months working three jobs and sleeping in naps stole at either my mother’s apartment or a friend’s, and eating fast food. There was no socializing. Never having ever actually been a social animal, there was no horse to hop back on. No bicycle to remember how to ride. I was about to get a crash course in making friends of strangers.
I put on my best customer service smile, because it was all I knew, and followed my roommate around the buffet like a lost puppy afraid of being kicked. I did venture away from the safety of the known for coffee, because really, coffee is worth braving any horror. Even being abandoned as my roommate went and sat down, and I lost her. It took me awhile to find her again. No one I walked past offered me a seat or a smile, so I wandered around the seating area smiling like I was brain damaged and loved it, and hoped no one knew I was seconds from dropping everything but the coffee and fleeing in terror.
It was about this time that I started reconsidering my decision to move halfway around the planet from the known. As always when it comes to me reconsidering a decision, I was too late. I sat down and made friendly small talk for all of three seconds before everyone realized that I was too socially awkward to speak to. Then we all shuffled out of the dining hall and into the training center. We practically mooed.
Training was…an experience. Five days of being told the ins and outs of the ALT job. Smile. Be genki. And for God’s sake smile. Genki is basically cheerful and energetic, healthy, happy, bouncy, pick your adjective, it’s versatile. We were assigned points on how happy and eager we were for demonstrations, instruction, games, and random talks about Japanese culture. We had to smile constantly. I’ve been in customer service since the seventh grade—I count babysitting as customer service—so I was already broken. It was interesting to see others flounder.
After training most people took the Narita Hotel bus into the city of Narita, because the bus was actually the only way to escape the hotel. The hotel was on a hill surrounded by nothing but highways. We called it the Narita Island and the Magical Fish Bus. To give you an idea of how broken we were at that point. The city of Narita, where we wandered anyway, had a couple of bars, the train station, a mall, a temple, and some other stuff that I wasn’t interested in. At this point I didn’t drink alcohol. I look back at my innocence and smile.
A Japanese mall is exactly like a US mall, only with more Japanese people and worse fashion. Like really bad fashion. Which wasn’t too much of a problem, since Japanese people are tiny stick figures and there was no way I could buy clothes there anyway. The temple was pretty interesting. I went with a small group and we took random pictures with GQ posing that I remember fondly. I’d been to Japan the previous year with my Japanese professor and two other students, so I’d seen temples before. And really one is much like the other, only some are prettier.
Some people would go to the bars or the mall, visit the shrine, get their culture in while they could. We were going to be there at least a year, unless we were deported or quit, so I figured I could get my culture in small doses, and didn’t worry about cramming it all in, in a week. My roommate however would not let me hide away in the hotel room very often, so I found myself participating regardless of my feelings on the subject. I did enjoy our trip to Chiba, however. We ate and drank at an izakaya, basically a Japanese family restaurant for food and alcohol. They have alcohol everywhere in Japan. Restaurants, quick shops, and vending machines. We also got lost in the red light district. There were many Japanese bouncers giving us the eye, ready to swoop down on our group with a mighty force should we dare enter their shops. There were thirteen of us, however, so I’m not sure what they would have done.
On our last day of training we had presentations. We had to give a five minute abbreviated lesson to a group of pretend children—basically the other people in our group pretending to be children. Since I knew I would be teaching elementary and Junior High, they told me I could choose which set I wanted to give a lesson to, but to pick the one I was most worried about. Elementary sounded easy, you basically act like a hyperactive child. I can do hyperactive child. I was more worried about Junior High. I remember Junior High. I wasn’t sure how I would survive it again without killing something. Probably a child. Oddly, it’s now my favorite school.
My lesson was simple, my flashcards handmade and not at all visible or legible, but I made up for it with so much freaking genki my trainer choked on it and died. Wait, no, that was in my head. He did give me top scores and told me I would be just fine. I believed him, and was relieved.
The next day we left for our assigned cities. I was headed up north, to Miyagi prefecture’s Sendai city. There was a small group of us, and we sat with each other on the shinkansen, or bullet train. They’re not as fast as they sound, but they’re still pretty fast. Since I was in a group of people I’d just spent a week with, I wasn’t completely uncomfortable. I didn’t know them well though, so I wasn’t completely social either. And we lost members as we went along, one or two disappearing off to another city or in another direction, until there were only two of us. Luckily, our ICs—Independent Contractors—were together as well, so were didn’t have to separate until they took us to our new apartments.
An Independent Contractor is basically a Japanese person that speaks some unspecified amount of English hired by Unnamed Company to set up the ALTs new life for them. We were taken first to get our apartments, and told to fill out paperwork, with the ICs explaining what was what and where to sign. Then we went to a cell phone agency to get cell phones, and again the ICs basically did all the work for us, we just had to pick a phone, a phone number, and sign our names or stamp our hankos. A hanko is a Japanese stamp, or seal, with their family name on it. Instead of signing, they hanko stuff. It’s quite convenient.
They took us to lunch, then we went shopping for home supplies, since my apartment only came with amenities and not anything I could live on like a bed or food. My new friend Tom went to Matsushima, one of the top three most visited places in Japan, and I went to Higashimatsushima—basically translated as east Matsushima, but about five towns away from the real Matsushima. That’s just the way it is here. And we had about two weeks to stew until school and classes officially started.
That’s about when I started panicking, as I realized that training had not in fact prepared me for anything, and I would be expected to teach real students, and I had no idea if I would be doing it alone, with another teacher, or dancing naked in a barrel while they pointed and laughed and threw pickled vegetables. Wait. That last one was a reoccurring dream. Never mind it.
I put on my best customer service smile, because it was all I knew, and followed my roommate around the buffet like a lost puppy afraid of being kicked. I did venture away from the safety of the known for coffee, because really, coffee is worth braving any horror. Even being abandoned as my roommate went and sat down, and I lost her. It took me awhile to find her again. No one I walked past offered me a seat or a smile, so I wandered around the seating area smiling like I was brain damaged and loved it, and hoped no one knew I was seconds from dropping everything but the coffee and fleeing in terror.
It was about this time that I started reconsidering my decision to move halfway around the planet from the known. As always when it comes to me reconsidering a decision, I was too late. I sat down and made friendly small talk for all of three seconds before everyone realized that I was too socially awkward to speak to. Then we all shuffled out of the dining hall and into the training center. We practically mooed.
Training was…an experience. Five days of being told the ins and outs of the ALT job. Smile. Be genki. And for God’s sake smile. Genki is basically cheerful and energetic, healthy, happy, bouncy, pick your adjective, it’s versatile. We were assigned points on how happy and eager we were for demonstrations, instruction, games, and random talks about Japanese culture. We had to smile constantly. I’ve been in customer service since the seventh grade—I count babysitting as customer service—so I was already broken. It was interesting to see others flounder.
After training most people took the Narita Hotel bus into the city of Narita, because the bus was actually the only way to escape the hotel. The hotel was on a hill surrounded by nothing but highways. We called it the Narita Island and the Magical Fish Bus. To give you an idea of how broken we were at that point. The city of Narita, where we wandered anyway, had a couple of bars, the train station, a mall, a temple, and some other stuff that I wasn’t interested in. At this point I didn’t drink alcohol. I look back at my innocence and smile.
A Japanese mall is exactly like a US mall, only with more Japanese people and worse fashion. Like really bad fashion. Which wasn’t too much of a problem, since Japanese people are tiny stick figures and there was no way I could buy clothes there anyway. The temple was pretty interesting. I went with a small group and we took random pictures with GQ posing that I remember fondly. I’d been to Japan the previous year with my Japanese professor and two other students, so I’d seen temples before. And really one is much like the other, only some are prettier.
Some people would go to the bars or the mall, visit the shrine, get their culture in while they could. We were going to be there at least a year, unless we were deported or quit, so I figured I could get my culture in small doses, and didn’t worry about cramming it all in, in a week. My roommate however would not let me hide away in the hotel room very often, so I found myself participating regardless of my feelings on the subject. I did enjoy our trip to Chiba, however. We ate and drank at an izakaya, basically a Japanese family restaurant for food and alcohol. They have alcohol everywhere in Japan. Restaurants, quick shops, and vending machines. We also got lost in the red light district. There were many Japanese bouncers giving us the eye, ready to swoop down on our group with a mighty force should we dare enter their shops. There were thirteen of us, however, so I’m not sure what they would have done.
On our last day of training we had presentations. We had to give a five minute abbreviated lesson to a group of pretend children—basically the other people in our group pretending to be children. Since I knew I would be teaching elementary and Junior High, they told me I could choose which set I wanted to give a lesson to, but to pick the one I was most worried about. Elementary sounded easy, you basically act like a hyperactive child. I can do hyperactive child. I was more worried about Junior High. I remember Junior High. I wasn’t sure how I would survive it again without killing something. Probably a child. Oddly, it’s now my favorite school.
My lesson was simple, my flashcards handmade and not at all visible or legible, but I made up for it with so much freaking genki my trainer choked on it and died. Wait, no, that was in my head. He did give me top scores and told me I would be just fine. I believed him, and was relieved.
The next day we left for our assigned cities. I was headed up north, to Miyagi prefecture’s Sendai city. There was a small group of us, and we sat with each other on the shinkansen, or bullet train. They’re not as fast as they sound, but they’re still pretty fast. Since I was in a group of people I’d just spent a week with, I wasn’t completely uncomfortable. I didn’t know them well though, so I wasn’t completely social either. And we lost members as we went along, one or two disappearing off to another city or in another direction, until there were only two of us. Luckily, our ICs—Independent Contractors—were together as well, so were didn’t have to separate until they took us to our new apartments.
An Independent Contractor is basically a Japanese person that speaks some unspecified amount of English hired by Unnamed Company to set up the ALTs new life for them. We were taken first to get our apartments, and told to fill out paperwork, with the ICs explaining what was what and where to sign. Then we went to a cell phone agency to get cell phones, and again the ICs basically did all the work for us, we just had to pick a phone, a phone number, and sign our names or stamp our hankos. A hanko is a Japanese stamp, or seal, with their family name on it. Instead of signing, they hanko stuff. It’s quite convenient.
They took us to lunch, then we went shopping for home supplies, since my apartment only came with amenities and not anything I could live on like a bed or food. My new friend Tom went to Matsushima, one of the top three most visited places in Japan, and I went to Higashimatsushima—basically translated as east Matsushima, but about five towns away from the real Matsushima. That’s just the way it is here. And we had about two weeks to stew until school and classes officially started.
That’s about when I started panicking, as I realized that training had not in fact prepared me for anything, and I would be expected to teach real students, and I had no idea if I would be doing it alone, with another teacher, or dancing naked in a barrel while they pointed and laughed and threw pickled vegetables. Wait. That last one was a reoccurring dream. Never mind it.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Life of an ALT: Arrival
The worst part about arriving in a foreign country completely alone, with no one to look to for guidance, is that I had to carry all my luggage around myself. And I had a lot of it. More than, at that point, I seriously thought that I needed. Just when I was looking for a nice corner to unobtrusively “lose” a bag or two, my name was announced over the PA. So I hurried to where I had people waiting, carrying all of my luggage like a good little idiot that doesn’t know how to pack in a sensemaking way, and the first impression I gave to the representative of Unnamed Company sent to pick me up was a sweaty, stressed, irritated girl carrying enough luggage for a medium sized family.
“I brought my sister.” I said. To make light of it.
A quizzical look. A quick look around. “Where is she?”
I lifted one of the bags. For a moment, said representative took me seriously. Then realized that it had been a joke. And doesn’t know what to do about it. Does she laugh? Is she supposed to laugh? She spent so much time thinking about it, that she was quite relieved when the next person she needed to pick up arrived, and she could promptly forget that I ever existed. Said person arrived with all of his luggage on a baggage cart. At this point I realized that there were baggage carts, and wanted to stab myself in the face for my own stupidity. I refrained, but barely.
The representative took us out to the buses and told us to get on the Narita Hotel bus. And then left. I and my two male companions looked at each other, introduced ourselves, and then stared awkwardly at the street while we waited for this bus. There were three buses that stopped before the Narita Hotel bus, and we tried to board each of them, only to be wildly gestured away. I started developing the opinion that Japan was not such a good idea after all.
Our bus arrived. The two boys sat together and chatted about their favorite sports teams or something mundane that didn’t interest me. The only thing that interested me was getting to a bed before I killed something and got deported. I couldn't afford to be deported, as the banks that owned my student loans and credit cars would come for my kneecaps, my kidneys, possibly my liver and first born, and anything else they could carry away. So I sat quietly and did random acts of violence in my head.
We arrived at the hotel and happily, right there in the lobby was a little area set up to welcome new Unnamed Company ALTs. I gave my name and smiled pleasantly, and was greeted warmly. All the cheerful adverbs you can think of, while in my head painting the walls with the blood of my enemies. I used a chainsaw. Because it’s my favorite weapon in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. I got my papers and my training packet and my room number. And I smiled like I loved the world and wished them all goodnight. Then I heard:
“And you’re roommate is already up there, so you don’t need a key.”
All my hopes were shattered by that. I am an antisocial being. I suck it up. Surely she’d be just as tired as me, and want to sleep. I went up to my room, negotiating all my luggage—there were no carts here, and it was not easy. I was passed by several Japanese people and I swore they were laughing at the ridiculous image I made, with two rolling suitcases and one large duffel, a backpack and a purse. The elevator barely held me.
I got to my room and knocked, and was greeted cheerfully by a part Japanese American.
“Hi! You must be my new roommate! Welcome roomie!” She was so cheerful and friendly I wanted to punch her face in. I said hello. And was both pleased that she also had three large luggage bags, and irritated that she had three large luggage bags. The hotel room was not big enough for the eight of us. But somehow we managed.
And the first thing she wanted to do when I finally got everything dropped down and flopped my exhausted tail onto the bed? Go downstairs and meet the new people. Because she was a bundle of social cheer. I wondered if I could slit my wrists with the complementary razors.
“I brought my sister.” I said. To make light of it.
A quizzical look. A quick look around. “Where is she?”
I lifted one of the bags. For a moment, said representative took me seriously. Then realized that it had been a joke. And doesn’t know what to do about it. Does she laugh? Is she supposed to laugh? She spent so much time thinking about it, that she was quite relieved when the next person she needed to pick up arrived, and she could promptly forget that I ever existed. Said person arrived with all of his luggage on a baggage cart. At this point I realized that there were baggage carts, and wanted to stab myself in the face for my own stupidity. I refrained, but barely.
The representative took us out to the buses and told us to get on the Narita Hotel bus. And then left. I and my two male companions looked at each other, introduced ourselves, and then stared awkwardly at the street while we waited for this bus. There were three buses that stopped before the Narita Hotel bus, and we tried to board each of them, only to be wildly gestured away. I started developing the opinion that Japan was not such a good idea after all.
Our bus arrived. The two boys sat together and chatted about their favorite sports teams or something mundane that didn’t interest me. The only thing that interested me was getting to a bed before I killed something and got deported. I couldn't afford to be deported, as the banks that owned my student loans and credit cars would come for my kneecaps, my kidneys, possibly my liver and first born, and anything else they could carry away. So I sat quietly and did random acts of violence in my head.
We arrived at the hotel and happily, right there in the lobby was a little area set up to welcome new Unnamed Company ALTs. I gave my name and smiled pleasantly, and was greeted warmly. All the cheerful adverbs you can think of, while in my head painting the walls with the blood of my enemies. I used a chainsaw. Because it’s my favorite weapon in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. I got my papers and my training packet and my room number. And I smiled like I loved the world and wished them all goodnight. Then I heard:
“And you’re roommate is already up there, so you don’t need a key.”
All my hopes were shattered by that. I am an antisocial being. I suck it up. Surely she’d be just as tired as me, and want to sleep. I went up to my room, negotiating all my luggage—there were no carts here, and it was not easy. I was passed by several Japanese people and I swore they were laughing at the ridiculous image I made, with two rolling suitcases and one large duffel, a backpack and a purse. The elevator barely held me.
I got to my room and knocked, and was greeted cheerfully by a part Japanese American.
“Hi! You must be my new roommate! Welcome roomie!” She was so cheerful and friendly I wanted to punch her face in. I said hello. And was both pleased that she also had three large luggage bags, and irritated that she had three large luggage bags. The hotel room was not big enough for the eight of us. But somehow we managed.
And the first thing she wanted to do when I finally got everything dropped down and flopped my exhausted tail onto the bed? Go downstairs and meet the new people. Because she was a bundle of social cheer. I wondered if I could slit my wrists with the complementary razors.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Setsubun
Last week was something called setsubun (節分), which took three teachers and my entire sixth grade class to explain to me. Setsubun is basically a seasonal ceremony the day before each season begins in Japan. The name is literally “seasonal division.” It’s usually actually celebrated the day before spring on the Japanese Lunar calender, which this year was February 3. The spring setsubun is called risshin (立春), which actually used to be considered New Year’s Eve, and got its own special ritual, mamemaki (豆撒き) or “bean throwing,” to rid the house of any evil spirits that might be lurking around for the new year.
Mamemaki is pretty simple. At my elementary school during first period our special needs kids came in dressed up as traditional toshiotoko (年男), either the male born on the corresponding zodiac animal or the male head of the household, and threw peanuts at the teachers. And really, what child wouldn’t want to throw peanuts at the teachers when they’re in elementary? It was great. Traditionally, you’re supposed to throw roasted beans either out the front door or at someone dressed up as an oni, which is a Japanese devil or demon, and shout:
Oni wa soto
Fuku wa uchi!
This means “Demons get out of the house! Good luck and fortune and happiness come in!” Basically. It’s supposed to chase away any demons from the previous year that might bring diseases or misfortune.
In my sixth grade class, to teach this all to me, they drew pictures and showed me the masks, and did some random charades, which was really funny and got the point across well, I thought. Then the homeroom teacher gave us all bags of peanuts, and the she and I went to peanut war with the kids. I can officially say I’ve been in a food fight in a Japanese elementary school.
After we pelted each other until our bags were empty, we then of course cleaned them all up. Then I was informed that you have to eat one peanut for each year of your life. They handed me twenty-eight peanuts–shelled of course–and put them in a bag for me to eat later. The homeroom teacher did let us have a few before we officially started the English lesson though.
It was one of the most interesting learning experiences I’ve had about Japanese culture, probably because it was taught to me by my students rather than an adult. They were so earnest in making sure I understood everything, because they wanted me to appreciate this aspect of their culture. Even though it’s a minor part, it was still important to them. To date, I have yet to receive a better way of explaining cultural customs, or had as much fun participating in them.
So remember, if you want the little devils out of your house, throw peanuts or soybeans out the front door, or better yet a family member in a mask, shouting for the demons to leave–you can use English if you must, but it’s more fun in Japanese I think–and you should be good for the rest of the year on fortune. :)
Life of an ALT: Expectation
There’s something to be said for making a decision to leave everything you know behind, and venture forth into an unknown culture, unknown language, to a country halfway around the world. That something would probably have to be insanity. And I carry no small amount. So my decision to work in Japan as an Assistant Language Teacher—a title that sounded so important and capitalized, how could I resist?—was a relatively easy one.
My life in the States wasn’t all that fantastic, to my way of thinking. I went to school, I studied…sometimes. Okay, so rarely. But I managed to make pretty decent grades anyway. I worked, because my family is by no means wealthy, despite its government label of “Middle Class.” Our Middle Class debt had a large part to do with that, however. But my life was simple. I liked simple. I also liked anime. Hence, Japan.
I went through the application process a couple of times. Not because I was refused, no, simply because my first choice of employment went belly up about a month before my scheduled departure time. Happily it wasn’t after, but I was nonetheless disappointed. Anxiety and doubt had yet to settle in, and I was riding high on the euphoric “I’m doing something with my life” idea. I was ready to go, and go now.
This crashing of my hopes and dreams was barely recovered from. Even when I was accepted by the second company, more thoroughly researched and financially stable. Even when I was on the damn plane to go, I was half in doubt I would actually arrive. Ever. Though how I thought my plane would miss the landing strip is unknown to me still.
But back to my decision making process. Here, I believe, is the complete order of thought: I like anime; Manga is fun too; I think I’ll study Japanese; Japanese is interesting; Hard, but interesting; I like it; I think translating anime and manga would be fabulous; I should study Japanese in Japan; I’m poor; I’ll teach English there. And there you have it. A life-changing decision broken down into one word: fangirl. We won’t even go into the yaoi aspect, unless I need to take up space later. I like to look back on this process and give a mental bitch slap to the girl that was. So innocent. So stupid.
However, my excitement was not to be contained. I would throw off the shackles of mundanity, I would break free from the small town life. I would discover the world! But first, I would get all my foreign resident papers and shots, and then pack. I was not at all prepared for the enormity of simply packing up my belongings. My numerous, ridiculous, pack-rat induced belongings. Oh, there was a challenge with no joy.
First, I agonized over the list of things the company, Unnamed Company, had sent me; recommendations of what I would need. Naturally, after about the third time I was throwing everything out of my suitcases to repack them, the list was tossed in favor of fitting in the things I wanted to take, rather than what I would need. They were still three bags of nearly fifty pounds each, but they were full of what I thought of as necessities. You never know, really, when shiny black hooker boots or a pig that squealed when you hug it would come in handy.
During the packing process, and a bit before, I was also attempting to work. This was after graduation, of course, as Unnamed Company needed folks with a Bachelors degree. So I was forced to find a temporary job or three to fund my trip—which was not paid for by Unnamed Company—and the first two months of residency, because Unnamed Company preferred to test their employees’ metal by starving them in a foreign country first. So I worked. One job from about four in the morning until two in the afternoon, the other from three until eleven, and the other on my weekend afternoons. Tutoring on the side just for fun. I slept little, if at all. I do not recommend this to the sane.
I did manage to afford at least enough to buy my plane ticket and pay my bills, both credit card and student loans, so that the banks that own my soul would not come after my kneecaps while I was away. I packed and repacked, and on the day of my departure I repacked again, just to make absolutely sure I had everything that I thought was vital to my existence, and my family drove me to the airport. I left my room much the same as I have always left it, whether going on a long trip or leaving for the store. A mess. I expected it would not be bothered with while I was away. Ah what a fool I was. I said goodbye as was proper, and my family drove off. Leaving me with three fifty pound suitcases, one carry-on bag, and one backpack. It was quite nice of them. I managed, however, and the next thing I know, after about twenty hours on one airplane or other, I was arriving in Narita, Japan. Home of their International Airport. And hoping there would be someone to meet me at the gate.
My life in the States wasn’t all that fantastic, to my way of thinking. I went to school, I studied…sometimes. Okay, so rarely. But I managed to make pretty decent grades anyway. I worked, because my family is by no means wealthy, despite its government label of “Middle Class.” Our Middle Class debt had a large part to do with that, however. But my life was simple. I liked simple. I also liked anime. Hence, Japan.
I went through the application process a couple of times. Not because I was refused, no, simply because my first choice of employment went belly up about a month before my scheduled departure time. Happily it wasn’t after, but I was nonetheless disappointed. Anxiety and doubt had yet to settle in, and I was riding high on the euphoric “I’m doing something with my life” idea. I was ready to go, and go now.
This crashing of my hopes and dreams was barely recovered from. Even when I was accepted by the second company, more thoroughly researched and financially stable. Even when I was on the damn plane to go, I was half in doubt I would actually arrive. Ever. Though how I thought my plane would miss the landing strip is unknown to me still.
But back to my decision making process. Here, I believe, is the complete order of thought: I like anime; Manga is fun too; I think I’ll study Japanese; Japanese is interesting; Hard, but interesting; I like it; I think translating anime and manga would be fabulous; I should study Japanese in Japan; I’m poor; I’ll teach English there. And there you have it. A life-changing decision broken down into one word: fangirl. We won’t even go into the yaoi aspect, unless I need to take up space later. I like to look back on this process and give a mental bitch slap to the girl that was. So innocent. So stupid.
However, my excitement was not to be contained. I would throw off the shackles of mundanity, I would break free from the small town life. I would discover the world! But first, I would get all my foreign resident papers and shots, and then pack. I was not at all prepared for the enormity of simply packing up my belongings. My numerous, ridiculous, pack-rat induced belongings. Oh, there was a challenge with no joy.
First, I agonized over the list of things the company, Unnamed Company, had sent me; recommendations of what I would need. Naturally, after about the third time I was throwing everything out of my suitcases to repack them, the list was tossed in favor of fitting in the things I wanted to take, rather than what I would need. They were still three bags of nearly fifty pounds each, but they were full of what I thought of as necessities. You never know, really, when shiny black hooker boots or a pig that squealed when you hug it would come in handy.
During the packing process, and a bit before, I was also attempting to work. This was after graduation, of course, as Unnamed Company needed folks with a Bachelors degree. So I was forced to find a temporary job or three to fund my trip—which was not paid for by Unnamed Company—and the first two months of residency, because Unnamed Company preferred to test their employees’ metal by starving them in a foreign country first. So I worked. One job from about four in the morning until two in the afternoon, the other from three until eleven, and the other on my weekend afternoons. Tutoring on the side just for fun. I slept little, if at all. I do not recommend this to the sane.
I did manage to afford at least enough to buy my plane ticket and pay my bills, both credit card and student loans, so that the banks that own my soul would not come after my kneecaps while I was away. I packed and repacked, and on the day of my departure I repacked again, just to make absolutely sure I had everything that I thought was vital to my existence, and my family drove me to the airport. I left my room much the same as I have always left it, whether going on a long trip or leaving for the store. A mess. I expected it would not be bothered with while I was away. Ah what a fool I was. I said goodbye as was proper, and my family drove off. Leaving me with three fifty pound suitcases, one carry-on bag, and one backpack. It was quite nice of them. I managed, however, and the next thing I know, after about twenty hours on one airplane or other, I was arriving in Narita, Japan. Home of their International Airport. And hoping there would be someone to meet me at the gate.
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