How Many Suitcases, Karen?

A curious thing happened to me this summer when I was getting ready to go to the USA for a long overdue visit.  The first hint that something was amiss bubbled up most unexpectedly right there in the middle of a casual conversation with my American friend who also lives in Japan.

“Hey, Pamela,” I said.  “How many suitcases are you taking home to USA when you visit this summer?”

“Are you kidding,” she gasped, her eyes wide and bulging (honestly I thought they were going to pop right out...).

I wasn’t kidding.  I was thinking I’d make my trip simple simple this time… only the basics….maybe even just go with a knapsack…a carry-on…you know, light.  But by the extent of how far her eyes had protruded from the sockets by my question, I could see some major back-tracking was in order.   Somehow I had broken the rules of my expat club membership and yikes, oh, man, they were going to kick me out!  I was missing something and something big!  

“I am going home with at least three,” she said narrowing her eyes and backing slightly away, “and two of them will be empty.”

“Empty”?  I asked, still clearly still not getting it. 

“Of course! Are your daft?  How else are you going to bring ALL THE STUFF BACK?”

“Ohhhhh!  All the stuff!  Yes, of course,” I said nodding quickly and smiling.  “Yes, all the stufffff.”  And with that utterance I could see that for now, my membership was safe.  But I was still thinking, “Do I need to bring so many suitcases?”

In past trips back to the States, an extra suitcase or two to be filled or rather stuffed to the brim with anything and everything that was USA, was a no-brainer.  After all if I was going to Americanize Japan than I was going to need a lot more space.  Everyone knows America does not fit into a knapsack.  But this time, somehow, it hadn’t even occurred to me to bring more.   What had changed?   Well, I have been in Japan now for 15 years and had not visited the States for three.  So what “stuff” did I really want to bring back?  Nothing?  The very thought made my skin tingle and then a disturbing mantra popped into my mind and I struggled to breathe at the very thought: 

You will be assimilated.

Resistance is futile. 

You will be assimilated. 

Resistance is futile.

You will be assimilated.

Resistance is futile. (Okay, so maybe I watch a too many Star Trek repeats)

Had I been assimilated?  Is it possible that the fact that I didn’t need any suitcases mean that, gasp, I had become JAPANESE?  Had they finally “gotten” to me? 

Ok, ok, calm down.  First of all, are you sure “assimilation” is the right word to describe what’s going on with you?  According to Wikipedia (where else would I go)  “Assimilation usually involves a gradual change and takes place in varying degrees; full assimilation occurs when new members of a society become indistinguishable from older members.”  Oh dear, have there been some gradual changes? 

Over the years, it seems I have struggled with my native culture verses my new.  At times I have fought with determined passion.  It seems my American culture, is so deeply ingrained, so utterly a part of me that it if you cut me my blood would very likely flow red, white and blue.  Many Japanese cultural conventions did not come easily, and for quite a long time I did resist, clinging to my native culture like grim death.  So, despite the often extreme effort it took to live American in Japan, I continued to push and yank, and wrestle and pin to the mat anything that was out of my comfort zone.  The plan was to Americanize all of Japan so that I would feel comfortable.  So, I baked brownies. Made lasagna.  Celebrated Thanksgiving with turkey, gravy, sweet potato pie, dressing, squash and all the trimmings. Bought the biggest artificial Christmas tree I could find (which was not easy), scoured the town for anything that looked like a Christmas decoration, and made many more.  I ordered DVDs from the States, spoken only English (for the most part) at home, met with my American friends on a regular basis to complain about Japan, voted in the Federal elections, filed my USA taxes and resisted, resisted, resisted. I quite honestly wore myself out trying to live the American life right here in Japan. 

Don’t get me wrong – at the time, I was completely unaware of what I was up to – there were two of me really… split personality.  One happy lady was thoroughly enjoying the new culture everyday by cheerfully, breathlessly, eagerly, passionately embracing all that was Japanese.  I  danced down the roads with kimono-clad ladies during matsuri (festival); I welcomed every guest into my home with green tea and a treat; I sang at the neighbor karaoke night, brought up the rear lugging portable shrines through the streets, suffered through sake overdose, ate noodles with the best slurp I could muster.  The other lady, well, she was AMERICAN. 

Yes, I really enjoyed, but this is the thing:  I was enjoying, but as a tourist enjoys and  it was quite a few years before I realized that unlike a tourist I would not go home…this was my home:  I LIVED here.  And before I knew it the kimono-clad ladies dancing down the street for the umpteenth time was no longer as interesting.  For heaven’s sake…hey, that matsuri comes each and every year.  The newness wore off and, curiously, what was left had become familiar.  Where did Japan go?

So, the tourists had gone home, but I was still here and I had to find my comfort zone.   So I retreated and surrounded myself in America as best I could. What else could I do?  But the funny thing was while I was retreating, I was also trying to adapt and blend in: 

 “Hey honey,” I asked my husband one summer’s day, “if I wear these sunglasses do you think people here might think I am Japanese?”  They were rather big.  Hid most of my face...or so I thought.  Cool.

“Are you kidding?” he said.  Yeesh, talk about bursting a very comfortable bubble.

Ok, back to the suitcases, and I won’t lie:  I went to the USA with empty suitcases (after all I am not completely out of the expat club yet) and I lugged them back brimming with a lot of stuff that  I frankly would be just fine without.    It seems that the roots of that first culture spread wide and deep and its grip though may loosen a bit, remains firm despite constant competition.  In the end, I have to say that yes, in fact, I have adjusted and adopted many conventions of this culture:   I take off my shoes before entering the house, I finish a conversation on the phone by bowing, I suimasen (excuse me, or sorry) anyone and everyone as much as possible, I sneak eat Japanese food (otherwise my husband would get it), and I even cast my eyes down and look away when the situations calls for it.  So yes, I have become a bit…hmm, Japanesey  And yes, by becoming a bit “Japanesey” it has made it easier for me to live here, but complete, utter, assimilation?  I don’t think so.  And actually, just the thought of is quite scary  -- not that the Japanese are the Borg or anything but because a lot of who I am was shaped by my USA culture so losing that somehow would seem like losing me.  I have adapted though.. relaxed, accepted the differences, founded a nice middle ground – and that is okay – for now…but check back with me in a few years because who knows, I may feel differently then.  But in the meantime, a couple of more suitcases please!

How to do Church

Image via Wikipedia

Bible

Unless you live in Tokyo (which I do not) it can be quite difficult to find a church that has religious services in English.  Okay, so the second choice, of course, is to do it in Japanese…bit of a learning curve here.

Of course the Bible is the Bible in any language…but even when the Bible is in English, well, we are not talking about street language are we…So as you may imagine, the Japanese translation of the Bible is on the,well,  formal side (meaning "get out the dictionary").  But that being said, if you can catch a Japanese word or two that you DO know, and if you know the stories (which I do) then you can sit in Service and imagine what is being said.  This works okay for the most part, but on a regular basis it can be rather exhausting.

I found a church in my city and even one in a city a bit away, that has a Mass, once a month, in English.  In the church one city away, I was actually warned against attending the Mass there by a very nice Nun…now if a Nun tells you you might want to stay away, you’d better listen.  Why?  Well, apparently it turns out to be a bit of a free for all for the kids…which is great for the kids, and I am all for that…but apparently exhausting for the adults (even those WITH the rambunctious kids) so I decided to try the Mass a bit closer to home.  It is a small church and those around here that attend the English mass tend to be from the Philippines and a few Americans like me.  Most of the Americans, though, unlike me, are temporary residents, right out of college, here for a year or two to experience Japan and teach English while they are at it.  We permanent residents call them “tourists”.  Some do end up falling in love and making Japan their home and then they are upgraded to “lifers” ….for no extra fee.

Back to church.  So yes, deciding to give myself a break from the Japanese Mass, which is nice but in Japanese, I decided to attend the English version.  I was actually very excited.  It would be fun and meaningful to connect to others in my language and in my religion (which happens to be Catholic but I will not get into the man-made messiness about this denomination here but…ya….).  I knew that many of the attendants would be from the Philippines, but I have met many people from that country and culture and the experience has always been marvelous and I was expecting much the same…and I was not to be disappointed in many ways.  At the same time I also expected to see a few of my fellow Americans, perhaps a Canadian or two….an Australian maybe…so my enthusiasm was fairly high.

When I arrived at the church, as expected, most of those filing in were from the Philippines.  They were smiling and friendly, but naturally I still hoped and expected to see one or two from my culture as well.  By the time Mass was about to start, it was fairly clear that all good people that day were Filipino….and only one was American….me.  Well, never mind, I thought, the Mass will be in English anyway so I settled back.  The opening hymn began with guitars and a very lively group of singers and in strode a very friendly looking Filipino Priest (oh what fun).  Once all the commotion had settled, the priest, looking rather impressive in his robes, began the opening prayers….and at first I didn’t understand what he was saying….I couldn’t quite hear well…didn’t his mic need a bit of adjusting….ah, wasn’t he saying the usual opening prayers?  Why, yes he was….he certainly was……but in Tagalog!  

Well, the Priest, bless his heart, noticing the lone American face, took pity and said that since so few Americans show up, if ever (those darn tourists), that they had decided to do the Mass in Tagalog instead.  But because this fine group also understood English, that day he did the Mass in both  languages, switching seamlessly from one to the other…all for my benefit!  Now was that kind or what?!

Now usually, I am one of those people who likes to sit  in the back drawing as little notice as possible to myself while quietly contemplating my existence…this was not to be.  Suddenly, I was quite aware of everyone being quite aware and it was a little difficult to relax into all this.  I have to say it was quite a surprise having gone to Mass looking forward to a break from a foreign language only to be confronted with another...  Ironic, isn't it?                                                        
                                                                                       It all ended ok…..of course!

Image via Wikipedia

Pretty church in Tokyo

 But I was unable to find my comfort level attending a Mass in Tagalog, and especially since I was the only one, it didn’t seem quite right to force all the others to English just on the account of one, so that was my first and last time.  It is not that anyone said anything to me, but I understood that these kind people, just like me, were trying to find their comfort level as well…and for them that was Tagalog….it wouldn’t be nice for me to throw a wrench in their respite from Japan…would it? 

Well, that was a few years ago and I have found my way here…it does not include Sunday Mass every week, or every month or even (gasp!) every year, but in many ways, I feel that this lack of church community has forced me, in a way,  to search more on my own….so I read.  I read the bible, in English, I read Francis Collins, C. S. Lewis, and St. Augustine and any other heavy stuff I can get my hands on.  And when I feel like my head is going to explode with all the weight of that,  I read the lighter stuff too:  Taylor Caldwell and even Elizabeth Gilbert….you never know where you may get a bit of an uplift and encouragement by someone else’s struggles.  And…on occasions, I get in heated discussions with my friends.

I won’t get into the ins and outs of my Catholic religion  and what faith is and what it means….we all don’t fit into neat little boxes.  It is not always easy to maintain a devotion to a Christian religion here in Japan…going to Mass, being involved in church community …well, that is my case anyway…I suppose many other “Lifers”  in this country are in some sense “tougher” than me and just go with “what-the-heck” kind of attitude and plunge in every week…but I find I get very little out of that….just sitting there, not understanding, guessing…and more often than not this kind of church going becomes just an added source of stress…and I guess it is my belief that God did not intend for me to go to church to get further stressed.  I find, and have found, that I can still maintain my devotion to my beliefs and faith in many other ways…and perhaps even more meaningful ways.  I sometimes wonder if I had remained in the States, would I have read and explored my faith as much I have here?  

Little Close Encounters

I have always been afraid to speak to children in Japan – it is probably because their Japanese is so much better than mine, and not only is that extremely humbling but also very embarrassing.  Now I know there is no way I can compete with the natural development of a language – the constant attention of mother, the daily give and take with brothers and sisters, grandparents, and friends…not to mention television.  I mean, who can compete against television?!

Image by Danny Choo via Flickr

Not that it is a competition, but as you learn a language you like to think that you can go beyond speaking like a kid…maybe better than a kid.  Of course this only happens with a lot of practice and the memorization of adult type words and phrases….but enough of the language acquisition lecture.

It seems silly to be intimidated by the littlest language companions, but sometimes I am.  Actually, when you come right down to it, kids probably make the best language partners.  They’ll ask anything and everything without hesitation, embarrassment or any inhibition.  They welcome any conversation and they don’t mind at all when you make a language mistake.  That’s no big deal to them, after all kids are pretty much used to a world filled with the puzzling, the perplexing, the bewildering. They take it all in stride when things don’t make sense to them….so many things don’t.   So, are far as they are concerned, your Japanese (my Japanese) is perfectly fine and quite often fun and amusing.

There is a story circulating about a fine young man – a graduate student at an English speaking college here in Japan - who when asked his name by a few children at a local party, tried a little bit too hard with his Japanese.  His name is Omar and in his desire to help the kids understand, he pronounced his name in the “Japanese” way and told them his name was O-ma-ru (adding a “u” at the end of his name)….to which to the kids broke into squeals of delight and gales of laughter asking him, much to his own confusion, to repeat this name over and over.  They were perfectly delighted to learn that his fine man’s name was “potty”…which is what “omaru” means in Japanese.  Now really, what can be better when you are five and six years old than to have an adult tell you his name is “Potty”?  Needless to say he was a big hit at that party.

Neighborhood in Japan

My own encounter a few weeks ago has made me rethink my strange allergy to speaking with kids.  This time it was the English-speaker’s turn (me) to be amused.  On a brisk walk home from the grocery store, I happen to bump into a couple of kids from the neighborhoods – one child I knew from down the street, but the other was new to me…and me to him.  I stopped my exercise to greet Kochan, but it was his walking companion that jumped to the head of the line to interact with me.

“Gee,” he said looking at at me, his mouth agape, his 8-year old eyes fixated on my face, "You look like a foreigner (gaikokujin mitai.”)

"I am a foreigner, I replied, and I'm pretty sure the world stopped spinning for him right then.
"EEHH, Really!”  I could see him trying to process this as he further studied me.  “Do all foreigners walk that fast," he asked.

“No, all foreigners do not.  I was just walking very fast because I was exercising,” I said in near perfect Japanese.  His face relaxed a bit, but I could tell the inquisition was not yet over.

“How come you know Japanese?" (nande ninhongo ga wakaru) he demanded, his brows squeezed tight forming the lines that would one day show age rather than wonder.
"I studied it," I replied at which point I thought I was going to lose him altogether.  So he and Kochan, as kids do, decided this was just about enough for now and scooted on up ahead of me to home.  As I watched them disappear from sight, I realized  how much I had enjoyed that encounter with those kids and probably them with me as well…and to think how simple it all had been and how big the pleasure -- and all I had to do was....speak.

The Cutting Edge



Image by Tub_am via Flickr

check out www.chefknivestogo.com/

 Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat tat – like an old-fashioned windup toy bear rapidly tapping on a little drum, the steady, quick beat of a knife on a wooden cutting board signals that in a few short minutes my mother-in-law will call me to help make dinner. I don't mind helping with dinner. In fact, I rather enjoy it. But once I hear the sound of the knife, I always get an uncomfortable lump in my throat.

It seems like almost everything that you might make for a Japanese meal involves some sort of chopping, mincing, slicing or dicing. From cutting the head off a fish, to chopping up green onions for miso soup, the knife is probably the most used tool in the Japanese kitchen. My mother-in-law owns several of varying types and sizes and all of them look pretty scary....and very sharp. I own one. I have long tried to learn how to use the knife correctly, but it seemed the only thing that I was good at cutting were my own knuckles. As a child growing up in a typical American family, I had learned how to stir up batter with a mixing spoon. I had learned how to flip an egg with a spatula. But the curriculum had not included how to hold a cleaver and chop with such rapid speed and precision that it qualifies as an Olympic sport. As I watched my mother-in-law in action, I could almost hear the excited, breathless accolades of the announcer : … “and my goodness, Johnny, that is a new record! Reiko-san wins Gold for Japan by slicing 5000 carrots in three seconds..and that is all without a drop of blood, folks!” I come from the school of the awkward but safer method of sawing my food to death. Yes, it takes more time, and it is not quite as pretty, but the food still tastes good.

Perhaps one reason I am having trouble learning this skill is that I am.....well, afraid. In Japan, the only knife worthy of a Japanese cook is the razor-sharp kind – the scary kind – the one that only appears in horror movies... or the operating room. How sharp are they? Well, sharp enough to cut a long story short, and a couple of fingers too if you aren't careful. I sometimes have nightmares about my mother-in-law's knives.... Each week my father-in-law (Otousan) takes out his sharpening stone (I swear he has a gleam in his eye) and in slow, rhythmic strokes, presses and grinds the edge of the blade across the stone's gritty wet surface until the gray, steel blade sparkles a precision edge. I sometimes watch, from a distance, letting my imagination go wild. My husband tells me a good sharp blade is a must and has Otousan (dad) sharpen our knife as well. Hubby tries to reassure me by claiming it's so much better to cut yourself with a sharp knife than a dull one as it hurts a lot less – I don't find this very comforting.

www.chefknivestogo.com/
Geishaboy500 photographer

But despite my apprehension with wielding a knife myself, I have to admire my mother-in-law's skill: she takes up the knife in her right hand and holding the green onions on the cutting board with her left hand, bending the fingers and tucking her nails in, she places the edge of the knife flush against her knuckles and quickly chops up and down moving her left hand back little by little as she does. I have never used a knife that way before in my life, but in Japan this kind of training seems to start young. When my daughter was about four years old and still at daycare, I showed up one morning to find all the little ones lined up at a table, aprons neatly secured around their little necks and waists, wielding knives and chopping up carrots for a special soup they were making for their lunch. I counted her fingers that day when she got home.

My mother-in-law is not ready to give up on me yet, so she hands me the knife and throws an encouraging look. I reluctantly hold the handle in my right hand and placing the flat, cool surface against my sore knuckles on my left hand, I give it another try, slowly at first, and then increasing speed as my confidences grow– rat-a-tatyyy – rat-a-tatyyy tat – tat – rat – a – . But before long, I am back lounging around in the safe and familiar and sawing away.... apparently I'm not cut out for this.

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Waiting on the Platform

Image by justindoub via Flickr

I am waiting in line, first in line that is, on the bullet train platform, looking straight ahead, trying to appear composed and relaxed. Across the track, on the opposite platform, stands a young mother. She is well dressed, dark suit, high heals, hat, pocketbook. She is wobbling slightly, but not without help. By her side, a small companion stands, or rather hops – a little boy. He cuts a sharp contrast to his mother's reserved, polite pose. He is in constant motion, stretching his neck, looking left and right, swaying back and forth, one foot up, one foot down, hop, hop, hop – a bottle of pop all shook up and fizzing out the top. His mother tries to steady herself, spreading her feet slightly, taking balance. The bullet train now pulls into the station, pulls in front of the boy and his mother, and they quickly disappear behind it. Soon, however, I catch him bobbing in the window in a display of kinetic energy enough to power the train itself. As the train starts to pull out, all motion ceases and he presses his nose hard to the glass and plants a hand on either side tattooing the window in prints that announce in no uncertain terms: “an excited little boy was here.” I watch him, watch him in his celebration, jealously. I know how he feels, but the norms for adult behavior on a train platform discourage any outward display of excitement. But the truth is, I want to hop up and down, too. I look around and wonder, am I the only one, the only adult on this platform, who is feigning nonchalant, ho-hum boredom when nothing could be further from the truth?
Trains are a way of life here in Japan with many traveling, even on the bullet train, regularly to work. I travel by bullet train quite a few times a year for various reasons, but I never seem to get over the novelty of it. My husband teases me. I am a country bumpkin...so unsophisticated, so unschooled in train etiquette. But I do want to fit in. I want to appear cool and collected. So I give it my best shot by going deep undercover. I stifle a travel-weary yawn as I flick an innocent look at the overhead sign for car number and departure time. I check my watch in exaggerated annoyance as I drop a casual glance towards the illuminated train schedule on my right. I tell myself: I'm just another traveler. A seasoned commuter. I glance, innocently once, OK, maybe twice, at the queue marks on the floor. It's just another day. No reason for my skin to tingle from head to toe. No reason for my breath to catch at the arrival announcement for my train. I do my best. I really do, but this facade is hard to maintain. And, in the end, all I can really manage to do is to not grin foolishly.
The announcement comes again: “The super-express 3 5 7 bound for Tokyo will soon be arriving”....my heart quickens. All pretense at travel decorum falls away, flowing down to the platform and dribbling onto the train track below. My cover is blown. I strain my neck and lean forward for a clearer look. The track stretches far to my right, a stiff metal zipper with teeth in straight, short, rows. Right on time, it rounds the corner and glides in confidently down the track like a boxer entering the ring. Black tinted window glass wrap around its face like cool, dark shades. Headlights shine like two diamond studs on its broad, slick nose. It moves in straight and sure, growing larger and larger as it nears, thick broad shoulders boasting its strength as it parades sculptured bulk past the waiting crowds. It hugs the platform close, humming its mantra low and steady, exhaling hot, dry air as it heads with clear intent to its mark for its clock-timed pause – Down the track it coasts, clearing a path in a final screech of metallic brakes that swell to crescendo as it comes to a

complete

and perfect

stop.

And there it looms above me, a double-decker in all its glory: State-of-the-art train travel with two decks of padded, reclining seats and large windows, a snack car, a waitress with a food cart, and powder rooms. The doors open, and I head straight to the second floor where the car is quite filled with commuters and students, mothers and children, grandmothers and grandfathers, and couples and singles, and somehow, somehow I manage to get a window seat and I slide in. And then the doors close. And as the train pulls out from the station, sets course down the track, I notice that someone is standing on the platform – standing on the platform and watching – me....watching me as I press my nose to the glass, and tattoo my hand prints on either side.

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Finding Home Away From Home

By Buck82 via Flickr

Sweeping down the aisle, the basket over my arm bumping rhythmically against my hip, I shop for the evening's dinner at rapid pace. Already late, and the store quickly filling with the five o'clock crowd, I grab items off the shelves and toss them in one after another without too much thought. But when I pause momentarily in my rattled rush to check my shopping list, I find myself coincidentally, or perhaps not so, staring it directly in the face. I freeze, standing for a moment or two in this statued state blinking in confusion as my brain tries to register what seems to be so out of place. It's a rare find – but a very familiar one. And, as to be expected it triggers the usual debate:

“You certainly don't need it, and of course it's a bit overpriced,” I point out to me.

I step back for a wide-angle view. “How attractive it looks, sitting there in its natural setting," I muse. "Surely there would be no harm...."

“You shouldn't be so frivolous,” I scold. “And don't you already have a similar one at home?” I ask wagging a finger in my face.

“But, wait a minute, don't I deserve it?” my other self protests. “After all it's such a small compensation. Haven't I suffered enough with all that strange language, odd culture, and kanji – not to mention driving on the left-hand side of the road?”

I linger for a moment longer, waiting for a retort, but none comes. So I carefully, tenderly lift it from its place and cradle it in my arms. And then, sliding my hands down its cool, smooth hips and then up its straight, slick back, I softy, gently, affectionately murmur its name: “Scrubbing Bubbles Toilet Cleaner.”

Though I have been living happily in Japan for a number of years now, I don't think the day will ever come where I will not succumb to a nostalgic reminder of home in name of that common malady – homesickness. For me homesickness never comes all at once, but instead crops up sporadically as I bumble my way though daily life. One day it pinches me when a familiar tune plays over the PA system at the grocery store reminding me of outing at Old Orchard Beach, Maine. Several weeks later it might weave in and out of an amusing conversation with an American friend about leisure suits. Still at another time it could jump out in a pang of regret from having to miss a family member's birthday celebration, or a special gathering or even just a casual meal.

In an effort to thwart its onslaught, to lessen its sting, I find myself embracing every cliché and stereotype that seems to say “home.” In my case this means an occasional unplanned purchase of a cleaning product. At other times I find comfort in surrounding myself with anything that means “American home” to me: beanie babies, quilted bed spreads, embroidered pillowcases and decorative pillows (one stuffed with pine needles from upstate Maine that I have sniffed a thousand times), a poster of a yellow school bus on an autumn day, a rocking chair and an embarrassing collection of videos and DVDs from the 1960s, 70s and 80s. I have been fortunate in that I have never had the knock-me-down, rip-me-apart, spit-me-out and send-me-screaming-to-the-nearest-airport kind of homesickness, but I had a friend that was quite close to that scary precipice – and she was Japanese.

When we were still living in the states, before our move to Japan, I befriended a Japanese women named Reiko, the wife of a visiting researcher at my husband's company. Reiko was completely thrilled to be in the USA and delighted to have an opportunity to improve her English. I was just as delighted to have a Japanese-speaking friend to improve my Japanese. We were a perfect match and got along very well. All was going swimmingly until one day she got very, very homesick. Truly it was one of the worst cases I have ever seen. Over the course of about an hour she proceeded to tell me everything she hated about the USA. How she disliked the manners, the food, the people, the attitudes, the restaurants, the grocery stores and much, much more. This onslaught left me pummeled and staggering. I'm only human after all, and my first instinct was to roar like a mother lion protecting her cub. But as much as I wanted to defend my own, I quickly realized she was just homesick. She was saying that she missed the familiar, the secure, the homey, and the safe. On that day I learned how to be a good friend to a foreigner who needed a good friend. I offered a sympathetic ear, and I am glad that I did.

I have approached that homesick precipice many times, peaked over the edge, wobbled, but I've never slipped off; perhaps because I really do like living here. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t often miss home, or don’t often long, even ache for things that are familiar and comforting. So for those times when I’ve had enough of all things Japanesey, I go “home.” I close my living room blinds, take out my secret stash of Hersey’s Chocolate Kisses (the traditional kind) flip an I Love Lucy video from mom into the obsolete player and watch, commercials and all, the episode where Lucy and Ethel work at a chocolate factory, and I laugh. And for a while, I’m in a familiar place, with a familiar language, and a familiar culture and somehow Walmart is just down the street with plenty of Scrubbing Bubbles, and my family is only a short drive away, and the doctor understands everything I say, and the newspaper uses a familiar alphabet and everyone, everyone is driving on the right-hand side of the road. And for that brief time, I am home.

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The Curse of the Kanji

As I look down at the table, pen at the ready my hand slightly shaking, I realize that most of what lays before me resembles a random toss of the child's game “Pick-up-Sticks.” Some of these images cut sharp, bold lines and clean angles as simple as the slats on a venetian blind. Others twist and curve like branches and vines from a forest so dense even light couldn't escape. But some give pause, threading strokes in delicate patterns mirroring the motifs of needlepoint lace. I can appreciate its history. I can appreciate its beauty. But to learn kanji or Chinese Characters, appreciation is not enough.

In Japan, kanji lurks everywhere and without it daily life is a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle with a couple of pieces missing. A simple container of shampoo suddenly looks threatening with all that kanji on the back as you worry if it will give your hair more body or less. Those yummy chocolate cookies might contain sugar, but perhaps it's a bit of asbestos instead...you can never tell with kanji. The directions on the box of laxatives might say “take once a day, every day, for four days,” or perhaps it reads “take once an hour, every day for ten days.” Food packages, laundry detergent, mouthwash, cleaning products ...even toilet paper, are all silly with kanji. Even the ladies room becomes a frightening and confusing place with state-of-the-art toilets and slick control panels -- all in kanji. Trying to figure out which button to press for flush quickly turns a minor pause in a busy schedule into a major event.

Kanji Dictionary

So here I am after fourteen long years in Japan and basically illiterate and all because of kanji . Wow illiterate! So then the question is what happened? Why am I not further along here? Well, first I would like to engage in a little finger pointing as I feel it isn't entirely my fault. I'm not sure who it was, but somebody, somewhere, decided that the Japanese language needed three writing systems? Yes, that's right: hiragana, for all Japanese words, katakana for all borrowed foreign words like computer, television, and of course kanji just to make things interesting. Three seems like a bit of overkill to me. Nevertheless I decided early on in my Japanese life, I should at least try. So I started with the hiragana and the katakana and somehow over the years I tripped and tumbled my way through them both to some success. With these two I could decipher some store signs and a few advertisements and a children's book or two. It was a good start, but not quite enough. I could read around the kanji and guess, but the comfort level for my daily life still wasn't there. I needed kanji. So I decided to give it a try.

When my daughter entered elementary school, I thought it might be great to learn kanji along with her. Night after night she filled her little notebook with lines and squiggles, and I sort of filled mine. I plodded diligently through the exercises for about a year or so, scribbling with feverish attempt only to have my daughter out perform me at every turn – not that it was a competition, but it was a bit deflating to have your six-year old get better grades than you. My enthusiasm further eroded into lackluster desire when my husband, trying to toss encouragement my way, told me I only had to learn about two-thousand of these little puzzles to read a newspaper. Was he kidding? Two-thousand! Needless to say, as life got busy, kanji took a backseat. Soon it was riding in a locked trunk and the key was no where to be found. And that brings us up to today.

laundry detergent

Life without kanji certainly has its disadvantages, but I found tensions and frustration over this lack of control got me nowhere. Instead I learned to relax into the idea that it was OK if I didn't understand everything. And I also learned to cope in other ways. I swallowed my pride and asked the sales lady for help when I couldn't read the shampoo. When I bought a new MP3 recorder, I searched the internet to find instructions for something similar online. I became an expert at bugging, pestering, and probably thoroughly annoying anyone who might read the pamphlet on the new alarm clock or the directions on the aspirin bottle or the warning label on the fancy electric fan. And somehow this has all worked, and I am doing OK.

I still might get back to kanji study... one day...after I catch my breath a bit. But until then, I won't hesitate to use any coping skills I can. I recently discovered a new one a while back when I bought a washing machine. I needed to do a wash and hubby was not around to explain all the buttons. So I coped. I somehow made do and did the best I could. I did it tekitou-ni – which roughly translated means I closed my eyes and pressed....and thankfully, it worked.

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