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.
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