The Foreign Teacher

I have Sundays and Mondays off. Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday I work at our privately owned school in Gokiso. Although Tuesday I travel to Anjo which is about a two hour train ride from the apartment, the schedule mirrors that of Gokiso. Only Fridays must I leave the comfort of our No Borders curriculum to brave the storm of Takasaka youchien.

In America we generally begin school between the ages of five and six. By Japanese standards your children have already withered at that time and should have been stuffed into matching uniforms, taught to sing in unison and line up in proper order by the age of three. That’s on average. There are schools who will accept children at the age of two.

This is not preschool. No Borders does offer preschool English, but by no means will we expect your two-year-old to line up alphabetically. We barely expect them to be able to form words in Japanese, let alone English. If Shino cannot finish her lunch, we won’t make her sit for an hour and a half with spinach stuffed in her cheeks until she swallows the last bit. That’s just not the way to treat children, let alone babies or toddlers.

Yet, I have seen little three-year-olds cry at Takasaka youchien because they didn’t understand where to line up. Their teachers will yell at them, “Why can’t you do it? Look at everyone else! They can do it!” I have watched students sit stoically, faces bulging with their most despised food in either cheek. I have secretly stowed broccoli away in a napkin and taken it home to dispose of so that the teacher would have no evidence to convict little Ozora of such a heinous crime.

By my standards, these expectations are ridiculous, but this is not my country. These are not my rules to make. As a foreigner I understand that by choosing to live here, I also choose to abide by conventions that might seem odd or even wrong in my culture, (even if I might rebel once in a while by helping one or two kids get rid of a couple of veggies). And so, every Friday, I bike the mountain up to Takasaka.

It is, literally, a mountain. “Taka” in Japanese means “high” and “saka” means “hill.” To an Iowan, this means, “a mountain.” My bicycle has no gears. Eat your heart out, RAGBRAI. By the time I get into the school, I’m hot, grumpy and sweaty and have been verbally harassed by at least twenty kids at once within the first two minutes.

I should mention that I was featured in the school newsletter not but two weeks ago. A lovely color photograph of me was included amongst the other teachers, (a photograph taken upon one of those hot, grumpy, sweaty occasions that makes me look unbelievably fat), along with a short description of the things I’m “all about” these days. When they asked me to write a response to the interview question, I wrote a thoughtful comment in Japanese and even had Tetsuya check to make sure it sounded just the way I wanted. The translation goes something like:

Q: What are you “all about” these days?
今はまっているはなんですか。
A: These days I play guitar. I have fun playing the songs I’ve been playing since I was young.
最近ギターを弾いています。若いころに好きだった曲などを弾いて楽しんでいます。
Q: What was your dream as a child?
子供の頃夢はなんですか。
A: When I was a kid I always wanted to travel to Japan. Now I am so glad that this dream has become a reality.
子供だった時、いつも日本へ旅行したかったのです。今ではその夢は現実になってきて、とてもうれしいです。

However, underneath my incredibly unflattering picture were three simple words, “Guitar and Travel Japan.” As if this wasn’t insult enough, as I looked at my job position description, I realized that they had labeled me not as, “English Teacher,” nor “Teacher from America,” but literally, “The Foreign Teacher.” According to that I could be teaching the kids how to speak Hindi. Or I might be hosting an international colloquium on species diversification and the effects of global warming. Either way the kids would be getting a hell of a lot more out of class than what I’ve been offering.

At Gokiso, kids from barely age two to three get an English lesson from ten in the morning to two-thirty in the afternoon and kids from ages three to eight get an hour and forty minute lesson at least once, (most twice or more), a week. Morning kids at Takasaka get twenty minutes every four weeks or so. After school kids have it better. Forty-five minutes once a week. Still, there’s not much retention.

So what’s “The Foreign Teacher” to do? I go, I serve my time once a week, they take loads of pictures of me with the kids, (do God knows what with them), and I teach twenty minutes of “What’s your name?” “How are you?” “How’s the weather?” and “I like strawberry!”

Don’t get me wrong, it’s the system I disagree with. The kids are great. I go home with pockets full of treasures. Origami hearts, acorns, flower petals, rocks… all of the things precious in this “line up, eat everything, color in the lines with the right color” kind of environment. All I can do is be myself and give them a little chaos in their otherwise over-organized Japanese-school-child lives.

Settle

Pieces begin falling into place, just before they’re shaken up again.

I remember many summers spent at Saylorville. Man-made and city owned, it never was terribly clear, even for a lake. After a heavy rain, though, the water would be even murkier, clusters of driftwood and sediments and dead fish all churned up and spit up onto the beach. The stink was incredible. But, soon enough, the water would settle and clear to its normal shade of brown and be deemed swimable once again.

Living in Japan has been like a year of heavy rain in Saylorville. My sediments haven’t had the chance to settle and fish bones have been abundant. Only recently since I began full time work at No Borders and nestled into my little niche in the working world of Nagoya have I begun the process of calming my waters. The rain has ceased and pieces are falling into place. I am recognized in the company as a good teacher, better than some who have been there many years. I am making some decent money. I feel positive about my Japanese lifestyle.

Yet, over the mile-long bridge there’s a storm brewing, because we’re preparing for our trip back to America. Filling out the last bits of paperwork, I browse Craigslist for a place to live in Iowa City, knowing that I won’t have a job right away to pay for groceries, let alone rent or utilities. At least beer is cheap in Iowa.

I will be sad to leave my job. It has provided me with purpose and has taught me the meaning of patience. I will miss the most trivial things about Japan. Vending machines at every corner stocked with green tea, the ridiculously huge selection of cup noodles, drinking a beer as I walk home, fabric softener… the list goes on…

But here in Japan my roots are loose. Iowa roots run deep. There is support for me. It’s where I belong. It’s where Tetsuya belongs.

The first thing I want to do when I get back is go to HyVee. I dream of HyVee. I want to browse the isles, understand every word around me. I want to find exactly what I want at the right price. I want to hear that jingle again, the one about the “helpful smiles.” I want to be home.

The second thing I want to do is go to a Mexican restaurant. I want to order food by giving a number, “I’ll take the number 5 combo.” I want a monster margarita. I want to be annoyed at the bad service and give a lousy tip.

Then maybe after a while, I’ll take a long drive. I say a while because I’m terrified of driving when I get back. I wasn’t too fond of it in the first place. Anyway, I’ll drive all the way up Merle Hay Road. I’ll zoom past the mall, up to the big fork. I’ll take the left road all the way around ‘till I hit the mile long bridge. I’ll keep two hands on the steering wheel, “Beware of Strong Crosswinds” and I’ll try not to be distracted by the big lake underneath. Maybe I’ll hold my breath like I used to when I was a kid. I won’t speed when I get into Polk City. I’ll creep my way around at least two hidden police cars, ready to strike. Then I’ll let her loose up until Oak Grove. I’ll park, trudge down to the beach and wade in the shallows.

Maybe by then we’ll both be settled enough for a dip.

White Housewife

Monday, March 1st 2010

Every morning I wake up and I make instant coffee. Actually I make two cups. One with sugar and milk, one just milk, and then I rouse Tetsuya for yet another day of work at the restaurant. I check my cell phone for the weather report, and then I ignore it, opening the window to consult another more reliable source. I gaze across the street and eye the old housewife's balcony. Should there be fresh linens wafting in the morning breeze, I know there won't be rain today. I go ahead and throw our bedding over the window for aeration. If there's no laundry to be seen across the way, even if the sun is shining, I know to keep things in.

I didn't always take these helpful hints from the housewives in the neighborhood. Sometimes I'd think haughtily, Hah! Got my laundry out before you! Only to later watch the clouds roll in and the drops start to fall. Other times my cell phone would boast an 80 percent chance of precipitation and there the old lady's linens would be, drying merrily outside. Sure enough, no rain that day.

Day by day I watched the housewife as she went along her business and I took careful, mental notes. On a cold winter's day, she'll close the heavy metal strom windows to keep in the heat. She always has her linens out as soon as the sun comes over the rooftops. I began mimicking her. I even started doing laundry at night so I could simply hang it as soon as I awoke. Yes, housework in Japan was starting to make more sense.

Then there is the local green grocer. This is another key location for study. They say the early bird catches the worm, but here, the late catch the deals. If you arrive early, you'll certainly get all that you need, but you'll never have made it before those housewives and obaachans. So you'll stand behind a line of them, all eyeing the produce critically. Don't make a list. No one has a list here. It'll soon be modified anyway, by some daily deal or lack of an item that was snatched up within hours of opening. I'll weave my way through the crowd to check, oh please, let there be just one cheap milk left... and there it goes. Tucked into some old lady's basket. So much for creamer tomorrow morning.

I don't know how Japanese housewives know all of these magical things that the rest of us somehow have no consciousness of, but I certainly respect them for it. Take for example, the mothers of the children at English school. You won't realize their devotion, ingenuity and knowhow until lunchtime when every child opens his carefully wrapped lunchbox. There, you'll find tightly packed rice balls with the faces of the child's favorite cartoon characters, shaped from dried seaweed and sesame seeds. Anpanman, Pikachu and quite a few I can't name, all making a guest appearance for little three-year-old Osuke's lunchtime extravaganza. I think back to the days when I'd find an Oscar Meyer's Lunchable in my bag. America just doesn't know how to do lunch, I guess.

The other thing you'll notice about the kids is that they always smell like fresh laundry. In reference to what I said before about predicting the weather by watching the neighbor's laundry, I'm sure you realized a slight flaw in the system. So what if there is no laundry today? Well, fortunately, every day is laundry day to a Japanese housewife. When we visited Tetsuya's parents' house in the summer I'd brought along at least seven or eight pairs of underwear. I honestly only wore two pairs the entire three weeks we were there. As soon as I'd toss one in the wash it was clean and ready the next morning. Tetsuya's mom told me sometimes she'd do two loads in one day. I can't imagine just filling a washer in less than a few days.

So, by means of trial and error and careful observation I've struggled my way through Japanese housewifedom. It still boggles my mind when I try to think about how exactly I ended up here. Of course the underlying reason is that Tetsuya and I are applying for greencard. But that's not really how I got here. Seven years earlier I made an unconscious decision to commit myself to this lifestyle, at least for a time, when I sighed up for Japanese in high school. It's amazing how one decision as a fifteen-year-old is coming to bite me in the ass at twenty-two.

A Step Back...

Saturday, February 6, 2010

I’ve had too much nestle instant coffee. It’s so much better here than instant coffee in America, but in America we have the real thing. I think I prefer the trade off. Recently all I’m interested in are cheesy love stories. Even the worst chick flicks are appealing to me. I look at this picture of Tetsuya and me at Utsumi last summer. We took it ourselves, digitally, and sent it along with perhaps seventy other pictures to my mom upon request. She printed this specific one out. I was surprised when she sent it to me, framed in a dark wood with vines playing around the edges. It’s a fabulous shot. Tetsuya isn’t quite smiling, his mouth slightly open, face over my shoulder. He looks like he’s telling me something. And whatever it is he is saying it’s making me smile. My makeup is smeared and my hair is wet in my face. It’s a picture straight out of a magazine. It's an advertisement for biracial couples in the 80s or something. I find myself looking at it all of the time and I thought I was just a silly romantic for it, until Tetsuya told me last night that he, too, finds himself gazing at it when I’m not home. We are so in love. I guess that’s why I watch these stupid movies all of the time these days. My life has become just like them.

Our world isn’t a perfect one, but it is beautiful. Tetsuya and I have built our love around these uncomfortable situations, living in tiny, dark apartments, trying to make the best of it. I feel like we’re constantly trying to make the best of everything. We’re pros at it, now. I love him for it. I love him for teaching me patience and for being patient and for loving me. He isn’t perfect, neither am I. But I think we’re perfect for each other. We’ll make it.

Tonight we’ll be perfect. Michael is having a dinner party at his place. I went to the local florist down the street to buy flowers for the occasion. The florist was a middle-aged man with absolutely filthy fingers. The dirt looked permanent under his nails. He saw my face and spoke to me slowly, looking relieved when I replied smoothly, if only with a bit of an accent. He sold me two small bouquets, (bouquets in Japan, single stems to an American), and added a single rose. “Extra,” he said.

My life hasn’t been much by way of excitement. I’ve lived a very normal, Midwestern lifestyle for a long time, but now it’s become more than that. Tetsuya has brought something new and exciting for me. He’s made my efforts worthwhile. I think my life started when I met him. Of course the life from before that is crucial to the life I live now, and I will never forget the fond memories of my childhood in Iowa, but I can’t belong there anymore. I’m bigger than that, now. Just like Tetsuya escaped his little town life, I’m doing something more. We’re doing something more.

I can’t wait to see what comes next in our cheesy love story.

Another cup of instant coffee, anyone?

How We Met

Applying for Greencard is like gathering up all of the pieces of your life and sticking them in an envelope. One of these required pieces to be photocopied and stuffed is a detailed story of the way in which you and your spouse met and how the relationship developed. This is ours:

February 11, 2010

How We Met

In late September, 2007, Tetsuya was working towards finishing his bachelor’s in Business/Finance at the University of Iowa and I was a sophomore, double majoring in Japanese and International Studies. At the time, I was attending third year level Japanese language courses with a particularly lazy teacher who preferred doling out work to resident Japanese students, or likewise, inviting them to come be interviewed during class time. A classmate of mine happened to be rooming with Tetsuya during that semester and thus invited him to become a “guest speaker” for our class. As students, we were to be prepared to interview each Japanese guest with various questions pulled from the unit’s key vocabulary list.

Albeit I’ll admit I was not looking for love at that particular moment, I couldn’t help but notice Tetsuya the second he entered the class. I could only hope to have the chance to chat with him during the interviews. As we were paired in groups of two to three, the guests duly circled from one set of students to the next. I never did get that chance to talk to him, because the teacher only called two rotations. As class ended, I frantically packed away my supplies, knowing that I might not get a second chance to chat with Tetsuya. I exploded out of the door after him and invited him to come and see me at the local pizza place, “Pizza on Dubuque,” where I was working. He didn’t seem too excited but managed to suggest politely that he’d do his best to show up.

I did see him that night.

Tetsuya later relayed to me that he had been drinking with some friends across the street from Pizza on Dubuque at a bar called “Deadwood.” It was a popular hangout for guys needing a cheap drink. The pizza place I had been tending, on the other hand, was slightly on the expensive side. But, it was, and still is today, a tasty pick for the hungry drinker at the ‘Wood, since they never do mind a plate of outside food so long as it comes from the P.O.D.
Tetsuya came to visit me, and although I was busy, I managed to stutter some of my atrocious Japanese at him, which apparently didn’t amaze, but did humor him quite well. He assured me we’d meet again.

We met in subsequent times, starring together in a low, low budget film done by our friend and then attending a Halloween party together where we shared our first kiss. We continued dating from there. It was November, 2007. I invited him to my mother’s house for Christmas where he got a good taste of real Iowan holiday cheer and the next year he basically moved into my apartment.

The next summer, 2008, we spent on the road together making pizza for Pizza on Dubuque’s mobile pizza gig known notoriously as “Pizza on Wheels.” We traveled the Midwest attending music festivals, camping in a tiny one-person tent together, caked with flour, tomato sauce and pepperonis. It was hectic, tiring and I think we’ll both agree, one of the best times we ever had.

We moved in together the next school year in an efficiency apartment, (only slightly bigger than the tent we were accustomed to), and Tetsuya began working towards graduation as I began preparing for study abroad at Chukyo University, Nagoya, Japan. I would begin school at Chukyo in April, 2009, but we would be separated much sooner. Tetsuya had found an internship at Konami in Los Angeles. He left January 3rd, 2009. I had spring semester off, where I worked and prepared for the big move to Japan.

Before I left for Nagoya, I took a ten-day break in Los Angeles to visit Tetsuya. He was renting a room in a suburban house in Redondo Beach. I had actually found the place for him on Craig’s List in December. Four miles from Konami, it was safe and ideal, although it was painted the most horrid shade of mustard yellow. During that period, we did everything we could to maximize our limited time together and Tetsuya promised me that he would see me in Japan in only some months. 10 days later, I left L.A. for Japan at the end of March.

Having been apart, first during the time Tetsuya was in L.A., then when I was alone in Nagoya, I was thrilled when Tetsuya came back to Japan and drove all the way from his hometown in Kumamoto to my very street in Shiogamaguchi, (over a twelve hour drive he managed non-stop). We went to bars, karaoke, love hotels, Utsumi beach and everything in-between. Then we took the long trek back to Kumamoto to meet his family. Every day we went fishing, came home and ate the fish we had caught mere minutes ago with Japanese shochu and beer. There, we got married, promising each other never to be separated again.

Now we live together once more, in a tiny Japanese-style efficiency apartment in Moto-yagoto. He works every day at a hotel restaurant and I work part-time as an English teacher at a pre-school in Gokiso. Our relationship has been full of ups and downs, but it has always withstood the tests we lay before it. I am confident that Tetsuya and I are capable of anything, so long as we do it together. Now our goal is to return once more to the United States where everything started. From there, it will all begin.

A New Beginning...

Originally this blog was created for a Japanese class assignment, which duly explains the mumbo jumbo in previous posts. I thought about deleting them. I didn't. Feel free to peruse, attempt to decipher or copy/paste into google translator. Though, there's not much of substance there.

I'd rather leave the past where it sits and move on. I actually began writing a personal journal starting in January. I'll start from there and post until I've hit the present. Is that considered cheating? Am I blog cheater? A wannabe informal columnist forsaking the title that is, "Blogger?" So be it.

I really believe this story is worth telling, otherwise I wouldn't bother with it at all. It's the story of a young love, but mostly its a story of international relations and culture brought into bed. You think when you snuggle into your stolen futon with your husband that it's just you and him... but actually, U.S. Immigration is spooning you both, snoring loudly. This is our challenge. I hope you find it as hilarious as I do.

January 20th, 2010 Wednesday

I feel like I swam out too far in a lake, not noticing until just now. As I look back I realize how far I’ve come, but look ahead and the next shore is still a long ways out. For a minute I can’t decide whether to swim back or continue to the other side. And I’m a terrible swimmer.

Since I came to Japan I’ve been suspended in this limbo between shores. Shores separated by language, culture, childhood and adulthood… is it time to grow up already? They asked me at the ward office if I’d like to use “Hayashi” while I’m in Japan. That would certainly complete the façade. I’ve managed to hide myself in this country almost entirely.

Except from Tetsuya. I can’t ever hide from him. He knows me too well. Living in tiny, one room studio apartments both in the U.S. and Japan has well seasoned us to each other. He grounds me. He keeps me sane in this fantasy world.

In Japan I’m a celebrity. I’m a star. I’m stared at wherever I go and at times randomly photographed on the subway or at the bar. People want to talk to me, ask me where I’m from. “Japan,” I say, straight-faced. Japanese people are unbelievably gullible. They take everything at face value. This also means that they believe every stereotype they’ve ever heard, no matter how ridiculous.

“America is so dangerous! How many guns does your family own?”

“But I thought Americans ate McDonald’s at least three times a week! How can you not like it?”

“Sure I know where Iowa is!” he waves his hand broadly from left to right, “It’s in there somewhere.”

“You’re from America? Do you know John?”

There are so many good ones, (so-to-speak). Unfortunately the “best” ones were likely said at a party and forgotten, tossed away with the empty cans and bottles.

Drinking is religion here. There are manners, if only a few, and immense pressure for everyone to lift their glass full of frosty nama chu beer for the kampai! Of course, I have no qualms with this sect and consider myself devout. Even now I sip my cheap red wine, a nice change of pace from the atsukan Tetsuya retrieved from the restaurant and that I’ve been savoring for the past couple of weeks.

Eight o’clock looms over my head. Tomorrow I have my third day of work at the western-style bar and grill up the Tsurumai line. “Shooters,” as it’s called, boasts an entirely American menu, written exclusively in English and provides comfort for those of us stranded on this island of ramen noodle shops and CoCo Curry Houses.

You’ll honestly walk into a Curry House and decide what you’ll have on the menu based on what item you prefer fried and slathered with the same mild brown sauce over rice. There is no other sauce. Just three or four pages of Japanese brown curry dishes with assorted meats or vegetables. Though, in all fairness to the Japanese, the restaurant never seems too busy.

Ramen, on the other hand, is a godly creation here. Entire television shows devote themselves to sending little-known celebrities to various noodle shops around the country to sample the local flavor. The essential shot includes the celebrity, gearing up for the taste, preparing the audience. “Okay, here we go!” The camera zooms in. He slurps up a mouthful of noodles. American mothers would squirm at the sound. With his cheeks aptly full, he turns to the camera and squelches out a sound, “umai~!!”

But I’m detouring here. I was talking about a lake. That’s right. A lake. I’m treading water in this immense lake. At this point I’m not entirely sure how I got here. It started somewhere when I decided to study abroad at Chukyo University. Does that mean it started in America? Maybe it started when I met Tetsuya. Or maybe when I started learning Japanese in high school. In any case, I’m here and I’m trying to figure out where I’m going, what it means and how it will all come together in the end.

I hope it does, anyway.