授業: Classes

Japan is very much a system of predictable events in the foreigner’s perception of an endlessly outlandish world. We gaijin marvel at the machine wrought of punctuality and hardened in a logic that truly takes the whole before each individual piece. Japan’s methodologies are a river and the people within its borders are mere drops of rain. Sure, there are ripples here and there, but those are soon lost in the inescapable current pulling us all along. In the past couple weeks, several events have transpired that have made this concept of sameness all the more evident in my eyes. I have noticed a phenomenon where, for the sake of the machine marching forward, the value of individuality gives way to what is supposed to happen. There are no exceptions.

I have found my future being shaped by preconceived systems that are determined to tell me where I belong now that I have entered into this Eastern society. The first point of no return came while I was still lounging in the plush northern californian suburb of my stateside residence. In order to test my Japanese proficiency, I was required to take an online exam. While the reasons for utilizing a dynamic problem set in an internet based placement test are not lost upon me, each question’s being timed did not lend themselves to my answers being of the highest quality. Perhaps I should have conducted some more research on the JCAT, but I contend that at the very least, that number of questions, multiple choice vs. written answer, and amount of time allowed to complete the test are superficial qualities any student has a right to know before being assessed on their ability to do even the most rudimentary academics. Keep in mind that while I may have been displeased with the conduction of the test, I scored and placed above my expectations.

I am so focused on the unforgiving nature of the JCAT due to my host institution, Waseda’s, abusively taking the results of the test and etching them in stone. For the first time, adjustments to class level are wholly unavailable to students; the score one receives in the space of forty-five minutes determines the standing with which one enters the Japanese program on campus. Despite the likelihood that the majority of students are placed into their courses correctly, there is no failsafe for those who may have had a single bad test day for any number of reasons. The school claims students may take a more difficult one credit elective class to compensate, but that does nothing to ease the grinding seven and a half hours the misdiagnosed student will be spending in the wrong intensive Japanese class each week. Luckily, the process of delineating Japanese classes to non-Japanese students described above has few far-reaching effects beyond the chip found on several international students’ shoulders thank God.

Course registration, purchasing a cell phone and every single adventure through the maze of subway lines and stations are all unquestionable examples of the system for the greater good, but where so much faith is placed on a single system I have to ask how sure these people are that their system is perfect, but before that, the end towards which all these means endeavor must itself be examined. My experiences being limited to Tokyo, I see the sole purpose for the endless amounts of regulation found in this urban landscape as funneling as many people through the motions as possible in the quickest amount of time. Without prior knowledge, navigating trains and applying for (yes applying, not getting) a cell phone require one to bend over backwards to merge with Tokyo’s society for the first time. There seems to be a severe lack of trust on the government’s part as to whether citizens can fend for themselves if allowed to move freely outside the binding world of contracts. In the overwhelming amount of paperwork and number of applications to do anything, I cannot fathom the amount of invisible red tape operating behind the scenes or the sheer number of bureaucrats having a heart attack each time they see my name written in English letters and not their own.

An example for the imperfection of a Japanese system that I can provide is Waseda’s course registration. In applying for classes (again that damn application), I was denied from two of my six classes meaning that instead of the 17 credits I should be working on now, I only have 11. I understand that classes fill up or get cancelled, that is expected, but what does not make sense is the fact that I now cannot register for my replacement classes until a week after they have started and can only check prospective classroom locations from a single notification board. Without allowing individuals to make instant changes to their own lives and schedules the odds that the same issues will arise the second time I have to abide by the same rules in the same system are relatively high… and let’s not forget the several instances of misinformation being unintentionally distributed. It’s not the system’s job to work for us; it’s our job to work for the system: An alien concept.

One Big Drop

p.s. little bit of a vent here, course scheduling is frustrating


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飲んでいる：Drinking

Commence Nomikai

A man of class in whom I have found an interesting friendship has never shied away from any bottle in the states. If the luxury of choice is not available for financial or opportunistic reasons, the bottom shelf rums and very special brandies may give him reason to wince at the point of ingestion, but as anyone would contend, these crimes against humanity are acceptable in the pursuit of drunk. Hooch, as he prefers to call this chosen vice, is being mistreated and abused in ways I could not have begun to fathom in America. Until making my first real foray into the Japanese drinking methodology, I simply had no concept of what real drinking is supposed to be. My apologies to my fellow compatriots if you disagree with me in this post, and believe me when I say that I do, in fact, maintain a continued enjoyment of American drinking as well, yet class, it seems, has escaped even the best of us Yankees. Chugging? A healthy portion of inebriating one’s self. Shots? There is certainly no stigma around those. Getting hammered? Well, that stumbles hand in hand with alcohol.

At Asakusa

The funnels and shot-guns are not to be found though, as well as any external drinking apparatus aside from glass, can, bottle, or sake cup which leaves me wondering if therein lies the key to the real difference between the American and Japanese practice of inebriation. There is a severe lack of competition in Tokyo drinking that very subtly surprised me in its absence to such an extent that the thought did not strike me until two days later. Drawing purely on observation, my mind forever American and unable to think Japanese, here, a man’s inability to continue consumption does not lend itself to his emasculation as it would in the States. There are no jeers at the refusal of the next shot or beer. Not to say that there is no disappointment between drinking partners, but through understanding that a line has been or will be crossed, all parties know to be true that it is far better to keep the contents of one’s stomach than to showcase it on the table, floor, or even your own Prada shoes.

At Ueno

The other key incongruence between my culture and the Nippon practices here lays in the mentality behind drinking parties dubbed social gatherings by my esteemed school’s rule book. While oftentimes it seems that the night does not start until after the pregame in the West, in the East, the concept of drinking before you get to the party is backwards in every sense of the word. Here, the idea is not, “Let’s get drunk and see what happens,” but, “Let’s get together for the night and by the end of it we all know we’ll be drunk,” which is why last night’s nomikai (literally drinking party) was such a great experience。Our day started with freshman lead tours of Asakusa and Ueno which are both stunning in their beauty and proximity to metropolitan areas. Asakusa’s traditional temples and entertaining vendors were a reminder that being Japanese is not all sardined subway cars and sushi while the park at Ueno was a welcome escape from the roar of bus engines and flashing traffic lights. We walked for hours reveling in our foreignness before coming back to Takadanobaba station and venturing over to the izakaya, a specific genre of restaurant with a vast variety of small plates to be shared and an equally choice selection of (here comes some class) adult beverages.

Nomikai

Stepping into the establishment, we were greeted with the roars and thunderous applause of other organizations already well underway in their merrymaking. Shoes off, we picked our way through the pillows littering the tatami floor until we found spots at one of the nine or so tables being occupied by the Waseda international club, Nijinokai (directly translated: Rainbow Club). On the tables sat fried chicken, fried potatoes, raw squid and perspiring forties awaiting the night’s celebration, and around them, Japanese and foreign eyes alike grinned in anticipation. The purpose of the gathering was purely to get to know people from other cultures so we did. Amidst shots of whisky, endless glasses of beer, games of call (everyone chants at you while you drink) introductions were made and pacts formed between the French, Italians, Germans, Russians, Chinese, Koreans, Canadians, Japanese and the smattering of Americans populating the crowd. I cannot help but bask in the memory of an evening sadly passed, yet no amount of words on a page can do these events justice. Our time up, we made our exodus out into the night air. Some walked, more tripped, but everyone smiled as we gathered in the neon glow of Tokyo knowing that this was how things worked in Japan. Truly drunk but managing a straight line, I began the walk paced by the tunes of Lupe Fiasco, that lead to a karaoke pit stop and hour long train ride at the end of which I managed a few hours of shuteye. The next morning I woke up to go see a castle reminding me yet again, I do not know the depth and breadth of Japanese culture. I do know, however, that I am here and a part of something to which anime inspired dreams cannot hold a candle.

Moé and Parents in front of Castle

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ほかの日本人：Different Japanese People

Being new to this land of apparent oddities has lead me to make hasty inferences about the world and people around me. Without a doubt, much of what I think I know is accurate enough, but the permeating nature of the differences between Japanese and American society has caused my mind to desperately seek out consistencies at my own expense. I have been searching for truths in a land I have lived in for about three and a half weeks if I include my vacation over Christmas break 2009. Slowly but surely my network of Japanese natives is growing, and in this expansion, I have begun to understand again how miniscule my knowledge of this place really is. It has been very difficult to separate what Japanese people do from the more specific family practices of my girlfriend’s home specifically.

Antis

More accurately, while there are endless cultural tendencies of Japanese families, each family or individual places more or less stake in traditions they deem to be more or less integral in daily life. Moé’s family represents that first wave of culture shock that pummeled me going on ten months ago. With them, I learned to slurp my noodles, use a Japanese bath and to never, under any circumstances allow dirty feet or shoes to invade more than the customary five feet or so into the home. I have even wiped the paws of their black lab, Antis, after his walks. I experienced first hand the extent of Japanese hospitality, where every cup of water or portion of food is poured or served by the women of the household, and was forced to demand that I not be treated as something more than the guest I was. That was a very American mistake of me to force the culture around me to change to fit my view of the world.

Host Dad (お父さん) and Moé

I thought the tendencies of her family were the norm, but now that I am no longer overwhelmed by the assault of new sights and sounds, seeking a common ground between all the people of this new society is looking to be more and more possible. I owe this refinement in my observational capacity to the husband and wife I am now living with, my family for the next eleven months. In their old age, both of them seventy, I see the cultural traditions they hold on to the most. The renowned Japanese cleanliness is still integral in the home, but I am not berated for absentmindedly not washing my hands every time I come home. Table manners remain important, but the necessity of getting sustenance from plate to palate takes precedence. Where in Moé’s home the moment a chopstick falls to the ground it becomes dirty and must be washed, my host father has no qualms against retrieving a fallen bit of yakitori from the tatami mat and popping it not so discretely into his mouth. Their floor is clean and food is expensive so down his gullet it goes. Shoes are always left downstairs though, and the bathing room works exactly the same as every other family’s.

Takachan In the Kitchen

Not being treated as a guest but as a family member has been interesting as well. I wash my own plates, and Takachan, my host mom, has been explicitly clear on the self service nature of plate cleaning after she has taken the time to cook a meal for my host father and I. The most noticeable difference between the two families however, is the Ito’s allowing me to make my own mistakes and seemingly deliberate dropping of me into situations where I will get lost and have trouble finding my way home. They do not lose sleep over my absence late into the evening as many host families apparently do, but perhaps this is due to their inability to keep their eyes open once they have had their late night two sips of tea. Every time I have awoken in the past few days, a neglected cup shrugs a good morning to me, half-full from the night before.

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古い、新しい：Old and New

Well, the first thing I have to get off my chest is…

He Lives

Now we may proceed amicably. I am overwhelmed by the number of topics I can cover having made my return to Tokyo and shocked that I managed to let so much slip my mind in the past eight months. There is no grace period for foreigners to adjust to the workings of Japan. The moment your foot falls in immigration, all customs and traditions that may comfort you on your own soil vanish without so much as a puff of smoke. Each following step is a learning experience true, but what is revealed is the lack of knowledge one has about what the next pace will bring. This being my second time in Tokyo, I am lucky enough to side-step the shock and awe that may leave a less experienced traveler standing, mouth agape in front of something as simple as a pachinko slot casino. That being said, I most definitely remain susceptible to the endless number of convenience stores that populate almost every street corner in the city. There is something about the glow of Family Mart or the slurpyless 7/11’s signage that is so alluring that I just have to take a look to see whether there may be something else new and unbelievable available.

Pretty Technological

A Torii

While there is an endless amount of modernity within Tokyo, the swirl of past, present and future is so astounding that to my outside eye, the city itself is a kaleidoscope. With that in mind, everything that remains from dated Japanese culture is so ingrained within the society that it will never disappear and due to Tokyo’s endless march into modernity, forever continue to be assimilated into more advanced technological creations. Since my flight landed, I have been staying with my girlfriend and her family in Higashimurayama-shi. Their home is a healthy ten minute walk from the nearest train station which is, in turn, approximately twenty minutes from the first portions of the actual metropolis. Along that ten minute walk I see three red painted or stone Torii (traditional temple gates), several aromatic ramen shops, a hospital that always seems to be closed and fifty-odd Japanese men, women and children either spinning away on their cycles or plodding along one slow step at a time. Tokorozawa station may be the only station I have been to where all the tracks are located on one floor and manages to give off as much of a countryside appearance as one can expect this close to Japan’s capitol.

The noticeable breaking of the past onto the present becomes much more pronounced once one arrives at Ikebukuro station. Synonymously seeing men dressed in western suits and others dressed in traditional hakama or the occasional kimono evokes the same nonplussed response as vendors hawking mochi balls next to the internationally recognizable, corporate Starbucks. The buck does not stop there evidenced by the microphone wielding man against a backdrop of neon skyscrapers.  The right wing advocates for the reinstating of the fundamentalist Japanese empire did not seem like people to be trifled with. Getting directions to Kabuki that include the landmarks of MacDonald’s, the temple, and fish market is something else.

One more thing…

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飛行機で On The Flight

The lights are dim, but the soothing glow of Air Canada’s hundreds of video screens illuminate the faces of the weary travelers all around me.  Instructions are relayed over the loud speaker in languages reflecting the current occupancy.  A female voice first reminds the passengers to strictly adhere to the laws of the buckle seatbelt and no smoking glyphs immortalized in a sunset of orange and red.  The familiar English message comes to an end before a string of French floats along putting a romantic sheen on what must be the same demand.  The wholly unrecognizable sing song of Japanese syllables that follows and finishes the crew’s announcements coerces a recollection of another fashion; we have just glided past Palin’s coast and are now a speck in the sky over international waters.  The darkness of the cabin envelopes me in a cocoon where my thoughts are free to wander wherever they may.  I have tried over and again to explain the manner in which my brain has been flipping and careening between past, present and future but to no avail.  My mind is inebriated with possibility.

Every decision I make in the next eleven months will have far reaching, unforeseen consequences all coming with their positives and negatives.  Last night, I pulled on my football cleats for the first time since our senior season was cut short.  Clods of turf were still molded onto the heels and I was taken with the crazy notion that I would walk on at Waseda to wreck house with a bunch of Japanese guys. Now however, my sights are set on the more realistic venture of dabbling in some Far East rugby… more on that later.  Only God knows where the decision to actually pack the things will lead me in the next couple months.  Each choice has been and will continue to be a pebble falling into the pool that is my life.  Rewind a few months to the dropping of the stone that was my application for home stay while studying abroad.  I watched with bated breath as time passed and my application slowly tumbled and rotated until I was evaluated, given a family and sent the email containing everything Waseda deemed necessary for me to know.  That rock has finally hit the water and the first ripples of location and family information have already been utterly unexpected.  I live a paltry twenty minute walk from campus with two seventy year old Japanese seniors who do not speak English.  Talk about waves.

Back up a little further to my decision to take Japanese.  The majority of American students take mandatory language classes for at least some of their high school careers.  To those of you that muddled through or were even exceptionally talented in Spanish or French, how often do you take a retrospective look and find that new languages impacted your lives?  I’m not talking about the stunning realization that street names mean something (Las Gallinas, The Embarcadero, Nova Albion Way) that I came to as well in my learning Spanish.  Rather were you clipped by a blow so hard that your life came off of its tracks as mine did?  Perhaps that is the wrong phrasing.  Life is not on tracks, there is no plan.  Let me try again, please.  Have you ever been blindsided by something, anything to the point where that smack across your face freed you from where you thought you were going?  That is what my choice to learn Japanese did for and to me. I am in this winged contraption with a beautiful woman beside me, leaving my homeland for a year and completely unsure of my future simply because when I was accepted to Boston College the thought struck me: “I like anime, I should take Japanese.”

The more I reflect on the causes of the continuously shifting nature of my future the happier I become.  I am filled with joy that I finally do not know what lays two weeks down the road let alone two months or a year.  There is no fun in knowing exactly where your going.  Do not move, however, without purpose.  There is a staggeringly vast difference between having no idea where you will be in a little while and being lost now.

4 hours ‘till we land.

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彼女の写真。My Girlfriend’s Pictures.

The countdown clock on my widget dashboard caught my eye this morning as it reminded me that my flight back to Japan is a mere eight days away.  Recently, the thoughts that have been flowing through my mind have been centered around what I will be leaving behind once my plane pulls up from the tarmac.  Sure, there goes my Junior year at Boston College, friends, Mexican food (not that Chipotle garbage) and the language I’ve been speaking since before I can remember, but those are casualties with which I have already come to terms.   The fact of the matter is that I have unknowingly decided to sacrifice luxuries I have been taking for granted since I was greeted by the world with a spank in that hospital room twenty years ago.  I thought I knew what I was getting myself into only to be proven wrong by pictures of nothing.  For the past couple of weeks, my girlfriend, Moé, has been using my camera to capture snapshot souvenirs of the American way of life and country.  At first, I thought she was wasting the space on my miniscule memory card, but as she has continued to take photo after photo of open fields and thickets of trees the gravity of my situation has ever so slowly begun to dawn upon me.

This is not a picture of a boat

I’m a NorCal boy.  Vacationing in South Lake Tahoe, epic airsoft battles in the hills, going to schools where the classroom doors all open into sunlight, not the fluorescent glow of a hallway:  these have been the bread and butter of my formative years.  To finally come to the realization that the woods in which I have reclined and the stars upon which I’ve gazed will no longer be available to me is a load of bricks pressing down upon my shoulders.  I feel strange that there is no apprehension with regard to giving up English, soon I will be spitting out Japanese like nobody’s business, and although there is a pit of sadness in my stomach to know a full quarter of my time at BC will pass in my absence, I have never had trouble thoroughly enjoying the experience of moving to a new place (I moved from just north of San Francisco to Boston by myself… twice).  No, it is the vastness of my homeland that will be gone, the ability to walk five or ten minutes and have no buildings, roads or cars in sight.  In Japan, an hour walk from my host family’s home would leave me in another portion of the urban jungle, Tokyo.

This is not in Japan

To say I am being blindsided by this concept is incorrect, rather I voluntarily let slip the thought that the city would press in on me.  I visited Tokyo, lived there for over two weeks loving every minute of my stay, but it was the temporary quality of my journey that made it so easy to choose to be ignorant of my trade.  After eight days, I will not be visiting Japan but living there.  My home will no longer be this house surrounded by grassy hills but the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Ito of Shinjuku-ku.  But am I scaring myself unnecessarily is the question.  Is this cold feet?

This is

Moé just asked me what I was writing about, and explaining this blog post was so much more difficult than it should have been.  Searching for the right words to say that I sound sad without being sad and am scared without being scared is damn near impossible.  Her pictures, I explained, are all of nothing.  They are not empty but are of emptiness.  Every landscape or panorama she has taken is of the wide open space I wake up to each morning.  The backdrops of buildings and mountains are pretty, but those are not the subjects of each of her photographs.  Now, with Japan just a week away, the concept of living without all this space is causing just a bit of anxiety.  Am I ready for Japan, she asked… absolutely.  The question I ask myself however, am I ready for this space to disappear… we will see, but regardless of how I feel I am locked in.  I have made my decision and I know I will have the time of my life.  Really, my only fear in traveling to Japan is that I will be caged, but how could that happen in a city where every street is something new and a country overflowing with things and traditions I have never seen before.

I will arrive in Japan by this time next week.

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