Novel's End? (Daniel)

    I have lived in Japan ten months now and at this point I no longer feel as if the world around me is a foreign one. For a long time I thought and talked of everyone else as "a Japanese man" or "a Japanese woman", seeing most of the population as distinguishable from myself. Now, when I talk about some guy I met who wanted to drink highballs and talk in English I call him "some guy I met who wanted to drink highballs and talk in English."
    One day this summer in my local train station bathroom I exchanged "good afternoon" with the old cleaning granny as she mopped around the urinal I had been employing. It wasn't until I finished washing my hands and saying "good-bye" that I realized, for the first time, nothing about this had struck me as peculiar. Hitherto the old lady's presence had made me so sheepish that my flow came to a standstill as her mop passed my vicinity.
    These days, aside from a customary greeting, I don't even notice her unless I'm moving my feet to give way to her mop. Besides, I'm often more focused on the man at the adjacent urinal, trying to peek over from his urinal to either confirm or debunk the stereotypes he's heard.
    This brings me to the heart of the issue - though I'm growing more familiar with Japan, because I live in a country in which nearly 99% of the population is considered ethnically Japanese, I am still as peculiar to others as I was when I took my first step out of Kansai International Airport.
    When I ride the subways I always catch people staring at me. All I need to do is look up from my phone, or turn my head suddenly to read a sign, or look in the reflection of a window and suddenly multiple pairs of eyes frantically avert.
    And these are adults. As we look at younger ages we will find an increasingly more pronounced reaction to foreign novelty.
    High-schoolers and middle-schoolers stare more than adults. On the other hand, they are predictably too shy and self-conscious to speak to you, usually. There is a glaring exception. Field trips. Something about it just makes them bolder.
    Visiting a historically significant temple or shrine on a weekday guarantees an onslaught of at least several classes, and sometimes multiple school districts. This, in turn, guarantees gaggles of preteen girls egging each other on to ask you for a picture. Inevitably this leads to affiliated gaggles taking notice and getting in line to take the same picture. I've made chit-chat with field-trip chaperones and, once, the school principal while we waited for the surge to subside.
    As we get to the youngest age groups we begin to deal with children who have never seen a white person before. This is especially common in the countryside. These interactions are my least favorite. They are decidedly unpredictable. Sometimes you get comical eye-rubbing and double-taking. Other times you get this:

    In autumn, Sarah and I went hiking through a rural, national park called "Forty-eight Waterfalls".
It's naming was non-imaginative, but accurate.

Only 46 more to go...

 












    We stopped at their one-story aquarium before starting our hike. I made friends with a baby Giant Salamander. After that I was determined to find his wild kin among the waterfalls.

    As we walked, Sarah would stop at each waterfall to take pictures. I would use the opportunity to search the streams and pools for Giant Salamander. While I never would find the elusive, wild Giant Salamander, Sarah found numerous, unique photo opportunities.
    At the second major waterfall, Sarah decided she needed a long distance shot. The waterfall could be seen from far away, but directly in front of it ran a wooden bridge. In truth, it was more of a walkway as it had no side rails. Many of the waterfall's rocks also jutted in front of the walkway, so that from where we were standing only a small segment of the walkway, and the people on it, were visible.
    "You run ahead," Sarah told me, "I'll wait here until you get to the visible part of the walkway."
I ran ahead several minutes, up the side of the waterfall until I reached the walkway. Right by the opposite end was where the rocks briefly parted. I noticed further, just beyond the end of the walkway, there was a small perch that had been burrowed out of the mountain's side. On this perch were two parents, resting. Then I noticed their four year old daughter standing at the opposite end of the bridge from me, right in view of the gap in the rocks. She was staring at me like I was going to mash her bones to make my bread.
    I took several steps toward her to test the water. With every step forward she went back, her eyes never breaking from me. Finally, as I drew into the photo position between the rocks she fully retreated to her parents. They sat her on the bench next to her while she began to cry and wail and point accusingly at me. The parents blushed and tried to soothe her.
    I pretended not to notice and strolled into view between the rocks shaking my head from side to side looking at no one in particular. My mouth was an innocuous smile, peacefully commenting "quite a nice waterfall, this one. Which number is this? Seven perhaps?"
    When I was sure I was in Sarah's view I froze for five seconds, trying to ignore the crying girl not twenty feet away.

Not Pictured: Crying child, stage right.

    I saw the small ant that was Sarah scamper away towards the trail to join me. That's when the stand-off began.  
    The parents were more than ready to take their daughter and leave. But they'd have to go around me. Little girl was having none of that. She went rigid against the bench.
    At the same time, I wasn't willing to backtrack five minutes of trail time so that she could be sheltered from ever having to pass within five feet of a white person.
    There we stayed. I continued making my stand on the bridge, forcing myself to fixate on the waterfall, while she continued crying, her head nestled in her father's arms occasionally peeking up in horrible confirmation that I was still there. Perhaps I simply should have moved to one side of the bridge. She still would have had to pass me, but one could argue that the situation would have been less tense if she didn't have to pass me on a narrow wooden walkway with no side rail, dangling a hundred feet over jagged rocks. I'd call that hindsight bias.
    Right on cue, Sarah showed up to save the day. I whispered to her, "I think that she thinks that I am sort of bridge troll".
    Sarah walked up to the little girl, kneeled to her level, and cooed "konichiwa!" The little girl relaxed her body, she stopped rubbing her eyes, her cry turned to choked-down sniffles,  and she managed back a meager "konichiwa."
    "Konichiwa," I said from the end of the bridge.
    Her parents smiled at us and her father scooped her up. As they walked off across the bridge, little girl watched over her dad's shoulder, silent and spellbound.
    "That kid was terrified of me, right?"
    "She sure was, whitey" Sarah confirmed.

A potty humor post (Sarah)

I’ve decided to start documenting the things to which we have become habituated. Things which we used to marvel at, but which have become old hat. I plan on writing about men’s fashion, 100 yen stores and the like. This is the first of said posts:

I think nearly everyone has heard of the technologically advanced and vaguely magical Japanese toilets. What you aren’t told about the Japanese toilets is that they are not by any means always so magical.

I’ve experienced the great toilets of my life here, and also perhaps the worst. This is a land of contradictions and paradoxes in many ways. – They say Japanese venerate the elderly, but when an elderly person gets on the train every seated 20 to30 something suddenly gets the most important text of their lives. They  become  totally unaware of the geriatric woman standing inches from them, so riddled with arthritis that her upper body is literally perpendicular to the ground.  There is also the national pride that many of my students have expressed for being a country that takes recycling seriously. Yet everytime I go to any store I come home with at least 3 new plastic bags. We have a collection, which numbers in the hundreds, but there is NO plastic bag recycling in this country and so my plastic mountain grows. Another lovely paradox is the case of the salary man. He works crazy hours and is more devoted to his job than he is to his family. He is 100% serious and hopes to die surrounded by his coworkers’ cubicles as he punches in the latest sales data. But this resolute man with the stern face becomes a wild party animal each night after working an 11 hour shift. He goes out drinking with his coworkers and at the end of the night, he stumbles home or passes out on the side of the street. Sometimes on his way home, he cannot stop his bodily functions and just whips out his dick and pees wherever he is. One at least one occasion (that I’ve been privy to at least), his problem is a heavier load—but his solution is the same. Drop the pants, and let it happen on the sidewalk (10 feet from a convenience store with a toilet). And so with my great digression, I have brought us back to toilets:

The worst: traditional style Japanese toilets.

Ewwww.....Even the clean ones look gross.

A helpful how-to for those of you who may be confused.

Those who have traveled a fair amount will have already encountered this style of toilet—the good ol’ hole in the ground, also known as the “squatty potty.” Now, I’m no stranger to this type of toilet-in fact when I saw one in the bathroom on my first day of training, I felt like I had been reunited with an old friend,  one who occasionally causes me to get pee on my feet—but an old friend all the same. And the average “Japanese style” toilet doesn’t bug me. But I have encountered many that go well beyond average.

In order to fully grasp how gross the worst toilet I’ve encountered in Japan was, you probably ought to hear my story about toilets in rural Egypt, for comparative purposes. Six years ago during my spring break in Italy, s and I decided to travel to Egypt. About half way through our trip we ended up taking a 2 day ride up the Nile on a felucca.  This is just a flat boat and nothing else. On a felucca, you sit or lie down as the wind slowly moves the boat. You sit where you eat, which is also where you sleep. And there are no toilets. Pit stops on the bank of the Nile and squatting behind a bush are done for number ones.

As Cosi and I prepared ourselves for our first night, we realized were in need of more than a bush.  We told the captain and he brought the boat in at the nearest town. This town consisted of only a few huts and from what we could tell, only one toilet in the entire town. This toilet was a literal hole in the ground. No flushing, no running water, no seat, no easy way to aim, and as we were told, “no tossing the toilet paper in the hole”. There was a large waste basket to help out with that last one. After a vague effort and the experiencing the lovely sight and smells of the toilet, I decided I could wait another day.

And so, when I encountered the grossest toilet in Japan, I was as prepared as I probably ever could be. I encountered it during Daniel’s and my visit to Okinawa. During our trip there we decided to go snorkeling and I encountered this toilet at one of the island’s top snorkeling spots. This toilet was in a bathroom with a number of similar looking toilets, all of which were “Japanese style.” There was no toilet paper in sight, but there were feces just about everywhere. Evidently people had had difficulty getting it into the hole and then when they had realized there was no toilet paper, had come up with creative ways to wipe: against the walls, on the flusher, and on the far side of the toilet. Needless to say, I just peed in the ocean.

The Best: Western style toilets with all the modern convenience. 

Oh the options!

...And a helpful guide for a Western style toilet. These posters are all over the stalls at the airports.

Growing up I knew a family who had an imported  fancy Japanese toilet so I’d already been aware of the special spray options. In fact, most toilets have at least two spray options( with adjustable water pressure of course), a bidet option (any all over spray to clean up your whole down stairs mix-up) and an Oshiri (a little spray right in the anus).  You can imagine how helpful these sprays can be when things get a bit messy….

But besides the spray options, Japanese toilets have other, and in my opinion, far more magical options. Many have heated toilet seats. You can adjust the temperature to choose just how comfy you want your booty to be. This is especially nice on cold days when you may just decide to hang out on the toilet cos it’s warmer than outside. Some even have drying options so that if you use the spray you don’t have to leave the stall with a lil’ wet butt. Another favorite is the “imagined privacy” option as I like to think of it. Usually it’s activated by waving your hand in front of a sensor, but sometimes there are buttons on the control panel. After activating the imagined privacy option you will hear rushing water, or chirping birds, or a lovely mixture of the two.  The whole idea is you activate it to cover up any sounds you may be making, giving you a false sense of modesty and privacy.  Every Japanese person uses this option when it comes time for a number two and many even use it for a number one. Once again, the contradiction is that as soon as you activate that button, everyone knows exactly what you are doing. There’s really no such thing as a sly poo in Japan.

When dealing with a literal shit-face. (Daniel-This post is about one particular demon student I have. I changed the name of the people in the story. Also, all of the lesson content is changed to be fictional, though the lesson structure is not).

Every other week I have a private lesson with an eight year old boy named Ryusuke. This April, at the start of the Japanese school year, Ryusuke began regular classes with another teacher.

In early May I came to work to find a typed letter in my box. It was one paragraph long. It informed that I would begin weekly lessons with Ryusuke. He had come from another class with seven other children. And apparently after only several weeks his parents had been all but forced to move him to a private lesson. This was done for the interests of the other seven children. Also, the first lesson was today and in ten minutes.

There was no signature or letter heading. I showed it to the children's classes coordinator, Yukiko. She'd been sitting five feet away from me since I had arrived at work.

"Did you write this letter?"

"Yes. You understand OK?"

"So, I'm teaching him a lesson soon?"

"Yes. He is here." Sure enough at the school's front desk was some new critter hanging off his Mom's arm. He hadn't noticed me anymore than I had noticed him. His mom was urgently watching the clock, like she was willing it towards a finish line.

"Yukiko. Why did he have to leave his old class?"

"Not good situation with other student." Whether Rico actually meant one student or the whole class I couldn't know. Japanese doesn't use plurals and many Japanese people never get the hang of it when using English.

"Yes, but I have openings in regular classes with students he's never met. Why his own private lesson?"

"Ryusuke .... he is very.... genki." I learned quickly just what this new facet of "genki" meant.

I greeted Ryusuke at the door with a cushion and a big English "Hello. My name's Daniel. What's your name?" This is all part of a standardized routine every teacher is taught to start their classes. Ryusuke stared at me, one eyebrow raised. Perhaps a look of confusion. This is quite common. Nearly all our students know "hello" and "how are you?" before ever setting foot in our classrooms, but they usually learned it from their parents. Hearing the authentic accent and fluid speech for the first time can discombobulate the little ones.

I tried again.

"Hell-looo. My - name - is - Daniel. Daaan - yuuuule. What - is - your - name?"

He turned around to look at his mother. I hadn't noticed her before because she'd been peeking around the corner. To the mother, her son was like a rescued lion being reintroduced to the Savannah for the first time. She gazed onward, waiting to see if he'd take to his new environment. Her stare was earnest and she was unconsciously bobbing her head back and forth.

Ryusuke turned back to look at me. He arched his eyebrow even further and his mouth fell open. Poor kid looked he was hearing tongues.

I waited the duration of an obligatory awkward silence, but he never answered. I moved on to the next part of the script.

"Good job Ryusuke," you gotta say it no matter what, "would - you - like - a - cushion?" I held out a cushion to him.

Apparently he very much so wanted a cushion: he cocked his head and looked past me and into the room, dropped his eyebrows, smirked at me, and ran all catawampus through the room, flinging himself onto the stack of a dozen cushions in the corner.

I tossed the cushion I held onto the floor. "Ryusuke, please sit..." I gave him my most demonstrative pointer finger and thrust it toward the cushion "...here!"

He looked at the cushion on the floor and nodded. At last Ryusuke spoke: "cu-shin". I was pleased to get an acknowledgement. Bonus points for being in English.

I smiled at Ryusuke. Ryusuke smiled at me. Ryusuke then tilted the stack of cushions onto the ground in a horizontal row and relaxed into them like he was on a damned folding beach chair.

Ryusuke's mother smiled as she left her corner to come close the door behind me.

"OK, Ryusuke. Homework please."

"No book," he replied, putting his hands behind his head and stretching his chest.

I opened his school bag and pulled out his workbook. He shrugged. Our schools have standardized schedules so I knew what his homework had been. I opened to the correct page. He smirked.

"Please look at number one, Ryusuke. I will ask the question, please answer: 'What do you want for your birthday?'"

Ryusuke looked at the answer for number one. "Wan a bassetball an many bideo game."

"Excellent job, Ryusuke!" His mistakes with the "v" sound and the plural of "video game" are common ones. In addition to no plural nouns, Japanese has no "v" sound. "That was really good. But one more time, please repeat: 'I want a basketball and many VIH-deo gameSSS."

"Wena buh-ball mahwa deedee do gooz." He said it quickly.

"Errr on more time Ryusuke." I coached him again, slowing everything down.

"Bwabwa moomoo weebeeweebee gura papoo." He contiuned to make nonsense words for some time. I decided to move on to the second question.

"Who's your favorite grandma?"

Once again his initial answer was pretty good, but after any critique he would give up and make baby noises.

"Great job, Ryusuke, I can see you've really worked on integrating the many unique sounds of English into your phonological range. And, might I add, It's certainly paid off."

Sometimes I like to say things that I know none of my students will understand. It lets me feel like I'm a sitcom protagonist. Sometimes I even turn away and narrate my thoughts to an imaginary camera. Just like in the sitcoms, none of the other characters ever seem to be aware of these scathing retorts.

"Why don't we stop the homework there. There's so much to cover today and I know we're both determined that you get your parents' money's worth."

Ryusuke looked at me suspiciously.

"So, please put your homework away."

After putting away Ryusuke's homework I prepared for the second segment of the lesson. 

Typically, this segment involves listening to a recording of an unbelievable, canned conversation. After every line of dialogue there is a pause so that students can repeat what was just said. Students have a conversation book with the printed dialogue to help them follow along.

Per usual, I went fishing through Ryusuke's bag to find his conversation book for him. When I looked up, he'd slidden onto his side and struck up a classic model's pose; his head perched atop the hand of a crooked arm, the other arm cast across his legs and torso.

I slid his book forward. Perhaps he's too lazy to move his eyeballs, I realized, so I nudged the book in the direct line of his gaze.

He picked a cushion from his throne. I waited. I hoped he would come sit with me like a not-awful child. Instead, he laid the cushion over his face like it was a spa mask.

My frustration was obvious, but seeing Ryusuke smear himself with one of those cushions also gave me a feeling of disgust deep in my gut. I would include a photo of one of these horrid stink pouches, but they all have our company's logo printed on them, ass-chafed though still somewhat visible. It's hard to convey how old and sad and floppy and how deeply imprinted with people's buns these cushions truly are.

I wonder ... How many hands have they changed? How many butts? Did the company fish them out of the garbage dump? If so, did their original owner dump them because the chair was invented in Japan? They smell like ass. Generations of ass.  Fathers and mothers have sat their sons and daughters on the same cushions they likely failed their potty-training on in decades past. Yes its true, I had heard stories of both pants-pissing and pants-pooing on these cushions. And as of now I have witnessed both. Personally.

But here was Ryusuke, acting like he was exfoliating his skin with one of those fart sponges. I realized I didn't have the language to explain pink-eye to him. Or how it might keep him out of school for nearly two weeks, if I was lucky. Thus, it seemed to me like a good time ignore his bad behavior and reward him no further attention. For a solid thirty seconds minimum. I needed to catch my breath anyways.

So as I waited until Ryusuke was done unsanitizing his face I began to set up the CD so we could follow along the canned conversation.

When he was done I hit play. I smiled at him, "OK, please listen and repeat."

The syrupy-sweet voice of chanting children began:

"I like cheese sandwiches!"

"......................................", Ryusuke was silent.

"Ryusuke! Please listen and repeat! I like chee-"

"Me too! They taste so good!"

“Ryusu-”

“bwa-bi-bu-chu” Rysuke’s grin was all teeth and no smile.

“Can we be friends?”

Ryusuke stared at me, never breaking his grin. I stared back in silence.

“Sure, let’s share my sandwich.”

.............

“Mmmmmm, it tastes so cheesy!”

The track ended and I paused the CD. “That’s fine Ryusuke, we can spend however much time it takes to get this right... well within 40 minutes of course." The last part was for the camera.

Nothing but that same grin.

“Let’s try again, here we go: ‘I like cheese sandwiches!’” I motioned towards him.

“Ski-poose-dududududu-YAW!”

“No. No. You’re still off the mark I'm afraid. Listen and repeat...” With my frustration growing I began to slap my palm of the floor as I spoke the lines, creating a driving march to my words: “...I-LIKE-CHEESE-SAND-WICH-ES.”

Unexpectedly, Ryusuke began beat-boxing. He was recreating the same rhythm I’d made with my palm. Then, much like an eight-year old Japanese Dr. Dre might, he rapped about how his enjoyment for cheese sandwiches. 

He was nowhere near perfect, but at least he was saying something akin to the intended dialogue. Yes, he was doing the rapping thing because he thought it would irk me, but it still felt like catching a hail mary as time ran off the clock. Pleased as I was, I even kept the beat going for him.

Normally we do the conversation several times and switch between the two roles. However we ended after one because, towards the end of his rap debut he had suddenly started trying to sit on his own head. I decided not to push my luck and I prepared the materials for the next portion of our lesson.

This portion always involves new vocabulary and speaking structures taught through interactive games. As I got out flashcards and baskets and balls I watched with passing interest as Rysuke, with his head dug into the carpet, futilely tried to swivel his own butt on top of his head.

“Remember Ryusuke, you can do it if you put matter over mind.” I chuckled to my imaginary audience and saw Ryusuke’s mother watching. She was not chuckling.

I tried to review the new vocabulary quickly. Ryusuke’s tomfoolery had wasted so much of our time. Surprisingly he did say some of the words, but when he did, it was as a velociraptor would say them.

Once he even snarled before lunging towards me and growling “Is your mother at the food court?” His grammar was perfect.

He really enjoyed the ball toss game I set up for him. His job was simple; when I called out a vocabulary word he was to throw his pile of balls into the basket placed next to the corresponding flashcard. Unfortunately, he had some trouble hitting the different baskets. The first ball was errant and sailed dangerously near my cup of pens and markers. The second errant throw nearly clipped the cup. I realized then that he was actually being quite accurate with his throws.

“The game is over if you won’t try to hit the baskets,” This is what I was saying to Ryusuke when he started pelting me with balls.

In retrospect it was foolish to supply a velociraptor with throwing objects. At the time I thought we’d hit a turning point. Instead most of the room was turned upside down.

If his mom was upset by how the lesson had gone, I had no way of knowing. Her face was a blank canvas and she gave me a polite smile when they left. I don’t know what happened when they reviewed at home that night. I’m guessing when asked what English he learned, Ryusuke said “No Ryusuke. Stop. Uhhhhh.” And he probably sounded like a rapping dinosaur.

Regardless, Ryusuke’s mom brought him back the next week. And the week after that. And every week since.  

Mostly, I think she’s glad to taste freedom for forty minutes once a week. Though I will say, over the months our lessons have improved. It wasn't easy. But I held fast to that old bit of wisdom that it is better to let the river carry you than to try and fight it's currents.

Week by week I made small adjustments. And over the months my lessons have taken new form to play to Ryusuke's genki-ness.

Now when Ryusuke enters the room he finds me lying across the pile of cushions. Except for one, unoccupied cushion sitting in front of me.

When we have to practice reciting our sentences and dialogue, I let the boy rap away. I even bring him a toy microphone and lay down new fresh, funky beats for him every week. His English still needs some work, but his rhyme scheme is tight.

I've modified our ball toss game, as well, with the help of some of our school's favorite toys and stuffed critters. There are still baskets with corresponding vocabulary flash cards, but Ryusuke is no longer trying to sink a ball into them. Instead I turn over the baskets and atop them I place Max the dog, his old, decommissioned replacements, and this one creepy, fragile witch doll that no one on staff remembers coming into the school. Then when I say a vocabulary word, Ryusuke rains down balls in wrath upon the corresponding victim.

Recently while Ryusuke was digging through the classroom cupboard, obviously against my wishes, he found a hidden stash of heavy bean bags. Once he knew where they were there was no turning back. He can really pack a lot more velocity into his throws now, so I mostly stay out of the way.

His mom smiles and thanks me after every lesson, but she has the apprehension of someone returning to the office after a spa date.

Of course, every now and then Ryusuke still decides to rub a soiled cushion all over his face and as of now, I'll allow it. You have to pick your battles, and I've already come so far with Ryusuke.