“What’s my name?”
“Ah, Chihiro-san.”
Another member of the badminton club pointed to her nose and smiled.
“Ooh. This one’s hard,” I said.
Another girl told me the wrong name, a joke that everyone understands but me. I’m assuming she changed the name to mean something silly like noodle or curious or worse.
“Kyoko-san.” And I continued down the line with moderate success. Just wait until tomorrow when I get all of them wrong, I think.
They smile when I get their names right. And when I get them wrong or don’t remember them, they act as if I just insulted their mother and their mother’s mother. So understandably, I hesitate to ask names—it’s a really big commitment, considering my memory is like a 70 page notebook with 69 and a half pages ripped out. I’m sure there’s some explanation for that—maybe it’s because my family used lead cookware up until last year. Or because my parents relived the hippie era for 9 months in 1980. I’m sure I’ll hear the story some day.
Even though I’ve come down with another cold, I decided to try and run with the track team. It started when I finished playing dodge ball, which I was invited to by chance when I was returning from my last class. I was on the athletic field, and I know that the track team met near there, but I wasn’t sure exactly.
I went to talk briefly with the chemistry teacher, who I can communicate only a little better with in English than Japanese, which boils down to about like two mice trying to describe how a star fuels itself. I’ve been roped into these weekly chemistry in English classes, which are about as much fun as bathing a cat. Make that 30 cats. Maybe that’s because we’re doing cat bath experiments. Better stop those. And this humor thread.
So I went back to the athletic field, saw no one, and started running around the castle area, where they practice. I caught up with random student groups and asked them what club they were in. I ended up running with members of the basketball club, volleyball club, tennis club, and of course, the badminton club.
Finally I found some of the runners on the track team, but only the sprinters, not the long distance runners, who were apparently taking the day off, except for one student, for some reason. After making a lame joke about the long distance runners being more lazy than the sprinters, I decided to join the sprinters.
They were doing an intricate series of exercises outside the athletic field on some mats. I recognized one of the more outgoing students form a first year class I taught, who happened to have played the role of a woman in one of the school plays over the ‘bunkasai’ (school festival).
The exercises were a lot like track exercises we did, only way different. Yeah. In a group of three, we took turns counting to ten, letting me count in English and Japanese. One of them attempted an English count to. I was happy they let me jump right in with them. After you say a number, the other guys answered back with “hai” or “ee.” It was something we never did in track at home, and it gave me a very strong sense of belonging and teamwork, like they were supporting you through the exercise.
Then we did a lot of sprints, and I basically got my ass handed to me, although I at least was able to keep up through the whole workout. Another great perk was how they yelled, “Fight-too,” as their encouragement to each other. I didn’t actually figure this out until the end of practice. I thought they were saying maido (every time). It really sounded like that. Japanese is full of odd standardized greetings and cheers to meet different social situations, and as far as my narrow, hindered perspective can tell, they don’t vary much. For example, you always say, “otsukare sama” at the end of the day to a coworker, which means, “good work,” basically. Litterally, it means, you must be tired. In America, I would change it up with, “nice job, I appreciate your help today, go home and have a beer, man, you rocked the party, or you really put in a lot of time today huh?” and other longer personalized sayings. As far as I can tell, they don’t really vary them at all, or at least, not as much or often.
Along with some of the immature jokes that the guys try to do around me—like telling me their friend is a fag, crazy or foolish, etc., I had some good talks. I can’t communicate very well—I tell them what I think are useful expressions in English, like “how’s it going?” or how to respond to that question. My favorite part was after I helped myself to some water from the fountain, the only boy who’s name I knew offered me some of the tea the rest of the team was drinking.
“Here,” he said, handing me the drink.
“Oh, thanks. Tea?”
“When you’re done you just—“ he said, pointing to a bin where they put the plastic, multicolored reusable cups. I nodded and he smiled, going back to practice. It’s a big risk when you’re an adolescent boy to bring in someone to involve someone new with your group, especially a teacher, and especially someone who doesn’t speak your language. He did it with a kind confidence, but without losing his cool attitude. When I finished the tea, they were already lining up for another sprint series.
“Buria!” One of the students called. “Fight-too!”