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8_1_05
“This is very important. Please, do not lose this,” I’ve been told every day since I’ve gotten here about something or other, I forget them all. My alien registration papers, insurance forms, bank account, work contract, hanko (stamp of my distinctive characters for my name), and this time it’s for my cell phone receipt.
Japanese cell phones are an overwhelming combination of computers, game systems, cameras, stereos, radios, and technology that there is not yet an English translation for—it’s that complex. I think you can control your car with your cell phone and maybe even do your taxes, but I have a hard enough time dialing on them. They make me feel like I’m in a science fiction movie, so I half expect William Chanter to answer when I use it.
My translator is T-sensei, and we’re trying to sign me up for a cell phone, one of the many tasks of settling in a foreigner. I feel like I represent a series of never-ending chores for my coworkers—there’s so many things we need to do to settle in a country these days. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to pull out my passport. This time I also need a credit card. Earlier I opened a bank account, where I needed these items and also my alien registration
When I hand the salesperson my passport, a young girl, she does a half-bow and takes it in both hands—all the Japanese do this with something important, and say, “arigato,” as they receive it. She passes it back the same way. When T-sensei listens, she says the Japanese version of “yes and yeah,” many more times than Westerners do. She sometimes says the, “uun,” with a nod, not making eye contact as she listens. More frequently, she does a three note scale in rapid succession, descending “uun, uun, uun,” with the accompanying head nods. Occasionally, there’s a single, short, “hai.”
The salesperson, on the other hand, always says, “hai,” about every three seconds as she listens. I’ve noticed the informal, “uun,” (yeah) varies with the men. They make more of an “oh” sound.
On the way back, we stop at the 100-yen store (dollar store) to buy a case for my hanko, which the Japanese use like a signature—a distinctive stamp. This is also very important, and I shouldn’t lose it, but they don’t bother to tell me what will happen if I do lose it. I’m terribly afraid of losing this in particular, since it was made especially for me. I remark to T-sensei that they should call it the 105-yen store, since it costs that much with tax. She laughs, but it’s not very satisfying for me. Getting people to laugh here is much easier, and if I try to crack what I think is a really clever joke, people are usually just confused or take what I’m saying literally, which can be much worse. For example, today I told my host, H-sensei, after his wife served us an amazing dinner, “If you’re trying to get rid of me, you’re doing a bad job.” He stared at me, probably upset that I had said, “bad job,” since you never say anything but positive things to your superior. I explained what I meant, and he got a chuckle, but it’s something I’ll have to get used to.
We ride bikes through the crowded market street, which gives me a very peculiar feeling. There are people everywhere, on bikes or on foot. No one makes eye contact or makes an obvious effort to get out of the way, nor does anyone shout or ask anyone to move. And yet, the crowd seems to open up for us like an invisible, chaotic path. I see one of the other ALTs coming the other way, who doesn’t have to report to school yet.
“Hey,” I shout.
“You going to school?” Mike asks.
“Yeah, I guess, why not.”
“See ya then.”
“See ya.”
It’s about as short a dialogue you can have with someone, but it’s the most relaxed I’ve felt all morning. It makes me realize all the subtleties wound up in a language. I’ve been speaking with people who’ve been studying English almost their whole lives, but I speak so differently with them: mechanically, formally and for the purpose of conveying information. There’s so much more music, emotion and creativity I can express in my own vernacular style, that I wish I could share with the Japanese.
“He is one of the new ALTs at another school,” I said to T-sensei from my bike.
“What?” She asks.
We ride our bikes back to the school—really old, heavy, bad bikes, but durable. There’s rust and cobwebs in mine, loaner bikes from the school. Teachers in America wouldn’t be caught dead riding these, but we smile and wave to students when we get back. The students all ride bikes as well since the legal driving age is 18. I can’t imagine what a driving test must be like here—the streets are like an elaborate pinball machine.
We return our keys to the utility room in the school, where there are some custodial/secretarial staff. I met one of the women there yesterday, and she’s enthralled that I remembered her name, which is particularly hard to say—ikeiuchi. I can’t do rote memorization very well at all, so I have to come up with visual or musical representations of things. For this name, I use okay-house. Okay = ikei and house in Japanese is uchi. I used that same kind of techniques when I was in some of my more difficult chemistry courses, but more often I use very perverse or violent names and things to remember, because for some reason they stick better. If you could hear what’s going on in my head during a chemistry test, you’d think you were in a Quentin Taratino movie.
Earlier this morning I saw the principal for the first time. I was escorted to a waiting room by H-sensei, and waited for about five minutes, looking at some of the Japanese paintings. They have a beautiful minimalist style, like the Chinese, but this painting had less color and less stylistic elements that a Chinese painting. It seemed very realistic, and yet upon closer examination, there were wide-open spaces on the paper with no brush strokes that my mind filled in unconsciously. The two visiting Korean professors came in with some of the Kishiwada English staff, but only a few of the Kishiwada English staff were allowed with me into the principal’s room.
“This is a very formal occasion,” H-sensei explains to the Koreans, who rise to follow, “So you are not allowed.” He follows the explanation with one of his smiles. It’s the smile he uses whenever he’s not sure how to react—it’s out of nervous tension, I think, since there’s no other way he can think to react or express his discomfort. It’s a very controlled, purposeful effort—the smile—like I might do holding the door for someone, or pouring a cup of coffee. The only translation I can think of is very simple, as the smile itself doesn’t really express anything specific, only discomfort. “It’s okay,” the smile says to me.
I was escorted into the room, where the principal, a man of average Japanese height and nearly bald, but not as old as H-sensei. The principal doesn’t smile the entire time, but he isn’t strict—he’s very relaxed, despite that everyone is standing. I stand at the center of a long time, H-sensei on the side with the principal, translating for me as the principal reads a summary of my position. It is awkward listening to the English portion, because the principal is staring at me, and I’ve never met him until now. When it’s finally finished, I accept the document with both hands and sit down to discuss the position further. I’ve read you’re never supposed to put away a document someone has just given to you, unless you have made the effort to read it, and writing on is considered impolite as well, so I leave it sitting in front of me. At one point, the principal tells me that if I have any complaints about the job, I should come and see him. I decide to slip in some humor at the risk of confusing him, but my judgment is that it will work. I think I can say it in Japanese, but I use H-sensei as my translator.
“Tell him, that I don’t think he will see me very often then,” I said to H-sensei, who stares at me, afraid to translate. I elaborate, “I won’t have many complaints, so I don’t think he will see me very often.” This of course would make the joke to often to get a Westerner to laugh, but the principal seems genuinely amused. Looks like I won’t be fired just yet.