OPENING PANDORA'S BOX: A SPEECH CONTEST

"Have you ever tried to commit suicide?  I have." 

This was the opening line two years ago of one of my students who was competing in a local speech contest, as reported to me by a fellow ALT who was there.  I'm confident that this was an accurate quote, and doubt that the ALT was exaggerating.  Having attended the speech contest this past summer, I've witnessed firsthand the awkwardness of this event.  Speakers open their mouths, and out comes a Pandora's box of misfortunes: deaths, illnesses, handicaps, injustices.  The formula is always the same: something negative happened, and they overcame it.  Sometimes the challenges are framed in unexpected ways.  One girl with dead eyes spoke in a grim monotone and extolled the virtues of the color pink and how much she loves it, and then went on, "And when my baby twin sisters died suddenly, I loved pink even more.  It made me happier."  You could have heard a pin drop.

There's a toneless recitation, however, that robs the events of any meaning, significance or sentiment.  It may be my cynical Grinch heart at work, but it makes me uncomfortable that these otherwise cheery kids trot out stories of the tragedies of their lives in order to curry favor and sympathy from the judges.  My students never seem to pick anything sensational.  The student I'm coaching this year has chosen child abuse as her topic, but thankfully is not approaching the subject with any personal anecdotes, but rather, a more philosophical discussion of abuse.  I feel a slight pang, because I know that no matter how much we practice, there will be a student from another high school who has a parent who went to Bible college in the United States, or studied abroad in Australia for a year, and their accents and inflection will be near perfect, regardless of the content of their speeches. 

The speech contest is in a week, and God knows what awaits us.  Especially since DL and I have been asked to emcee the event.  Pray for us. 

KOYASAN

As part of my attempt to make this the year of doing ALL THE THINGS, I have been trying to steadily knock out some of the entries on my Japanese bucket list.  Recently I escaped to Koyasan, a temple complex in the mountains of Wakayama prefecture, and one of the holiest sites in Japan.  The journey to Koyasan is quite a pilgrimage in and of itself; 3 hours of various train lines, a cable car, and a bus.  The town is unremarkable; it consists mostly of a mainstreet of souvenir shops where you can buy religious talismans, and offerings of beer and sake.  The real draws are the temples nestled into the sides of the mountain, as well as the extensive Buddhist graveyard. 

Cemetery at Koyasan

Hands down, the best part of the getaway was staying overnight in one of the temples.  The monks rent traditional Japanese rooms to travelers for a night or more, allowing guests to explore the old buildings and their grounds.  You're encouraged to wear a yukata (a long, lightweight cotton robe) around the temple during your stay.  On my way to the communal Japanese-style bathrooms at 9pm, my yukata tied around me and grasping my toiletries and a change of clothes, I ran into a young monk in the darkened halls.  He very generously offered to show me and my friends around some of the more beautiful rooms of the temple, including a tatami room with giant floor-to-ceiling screens.  The entire room glowed, as the screens looked to have been made of gold leaf.  

A delicious vegetarian dinner and breakfast were included, with lots of colorful small dishes: soups, fruit, tofu, pickles, and a variety of vegetables.  Each morning, the guests gather at 6am for morning prayer, listening to the monks chant and make offerings of incense.  A glorious way to escape from the hurly burly for a weekend.

Our room

Women's communal bath.  You undress and clean yourself at the showers before soaking in the large tub.  Heavenly.

BACK TO SCHOOL

For me, school life is characterized by questionable comments from my students and entertaining misunderstandings.  Our first week of classes was no exception. 

One student approached me in the staff room and said, "Eri-sensei, I'm friends with you on Facebook.  I saw the photos of the baby you posted.  Is that your baby?"  Momentarily flummoxed, I had to take a minute to recover before saying, "Um, no.  That's actually my nephew."  She was embarrassed; so was I, slightly.  All I could think was, "My students think I'm old enough to have a baby.  I am old." Only later did it occur to me to ask her if she thought I had been pregnant for the past 9 months and then popped out a kid, returning to work the next day.  I guess eating all this tempura has caused me to put on some weight?

Third years were expected to write a short composition in class about their summer vacations.  Assignments like these require close supervision, as it is a struggle to get the students to write 3-5 sentences in English, much less a couple of paragraphs.  The JTE and I circled the room, checking students' work, until the JTE motioned me over.  "She [the student] says that she went on SM Tour this summer," said the JTE to me, wide-eyed.  "Can you believe it?"  I shook my head.  "No, what is SM Tour?" I asked.  "You know!" she said.  No, I really didn't know.  We went back and forth like this, and for a moment I wondered if the teacher was talking about S&M, which seemed to be the only logical answer, given her shock.  However, I quickly put this thought out of my mind, given that 1) the JTE in question is a woman several years younger than I am and quite the innocent, and 2) we were talking about the summer plans of our 17 year-old student.  I turned to the student and asked, "What is SM Tour?"  "It is concert by Korean idol," she responded.  I looked over at the JTE, whose eyes had gotten wide.  "Ooooohhh," she said, exhaling with relief.  "I thought it was SM. You know, like sadism, um, maso..."  I chuckled uneasily and didn't pursue the topic.  But the exchange has definitely made me reconsider my JTE and her straightlaced facade.  

EDUB AFTER THE DENTIST

There are people in our lives who have to meet a certain level of trust for the relationship to work.  Strangely, this doesn't always apply to friendships or romance, but rather to hairstylists, doctors, mechanics, etc.  Some people are pickier about their proctologist than their significant other.  And when you have to switch to a different hairstylist/doctor/mechanic/etc., it can be all the more nerve-wracking to have to build a new relationship with someone else.  

I don't like going to the dentist.  I don't like the idea of someone taking a metal pick and rooting around in my mouth, scraping and prodding, and some of my nightmares are recurring dreams in which my teeth fall out.  I've had two dentists in my entire life; first, a wonderful and jovial man who has known me since before I even had teeth, and feels more like an uncle than my DDM.  Then when I moved to Washington, DC, I figured I should get a new dentist, since a) I couldn't just fly to Texas for my 6 month check up, and b) my old dentist wasn't covered by my insurance.  

So you can imagine my state of mind when I ventured out for my first dental appointment in Japan.  There was a baseline anxiety associated with going to the dentist, and on top of that, nerves associated with going to a new dentist, and beyond that, the trepidation of going into a situation where I can't actually communicate with anyone.  My first we're-not-in-Kansas-anymore moment was when I had to remove my shoes and put on slippers in order to enter the dentist's office.  Backless, too-large slippers are difficult to walk in, much less make a quick getaway, so I shuffled in feeling even more vulnerable.  The cleaning and check up were fairly standard, except for a moment when the hygienist stuck in my mouth what looked like the blunt end of a cell phone charger that you plug into the cigarette lighter of your car.  This probe made strange beeping noises, and a couple of sounds reminiscent of the forlorn sighs of R2D2 in Star Wars.  "Not good," I thought, "Not good at all."  The hygienist started conferring in rapid Japanese with another hygienist.  In America, when hygienists start talking to one another in hushed tones after looking around in your mouth, it's usually a bad sign.  The only word I could catch was "sealant-o" [sealant]. Panicked, I asked the hygienist, "Sealant-o daijoubu deska?" ("Are the sealants ok?") "OK," she flashed back at me, surprised. I heaved a sigh of relief.

The final hurdle was meeting with the actual dentist, who was a fairly young guy who spoke no English, but was determined to do his duty and give me his thoughts after a quick examination.  "Good teeth" was the first bit of feedback.  From there, it got more complicated, as he had certain bits of advice he wanted to impart to me, but the translation proved difficult.  Out came his smartphone, and thanks to an electronic dictionary, he was finally able to convey that I am brushing my teeth the wrong way.  Japanese dentistry dictates that you should brush up and down, not horizontally, starting at the gums, and flicking the toothbrush out over the teeth.  This was demonstrated several times on the plastic teeth model in the office, and then more awkwardly in my own mouth by the dentist himself.  Finally, I had to prove to him that I could perform this task on my own.  Finally satisfied after a couple of tries, the dentist bowed me out of his office.  I waited 30 minutes (having promised the dentist after doing the requisite fluoride rinse), and then had myself a few beers.

HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO

DL stopped by my desk last week to ask if I had heard "the news."  Lacking any clues, I had no idea what he was talking about. "Well," he said, "I was at the train station on my way home yesterday, and I heard these male students saying some kind of awful things.  At first I thought they were just trash talking each other, you know, because kids are like that sometimes, but then, as I looked more closely, one of them reached out and PUNCHED the other kid in the face! Hard! And the kid's friends just stood there laughing, and no one did anything!"  So DL went to the station manager and told him what had happened, and the station manager asked the kid who got punched if he wanted to call a teacher at school.  The kid demurred, saying he would talk to someone the next day.  Not satisfied, DL called the vice principal and told him what happened, and the vice principal instructed him to come in the next day and point out in the student directory which students were involved.  No word on how the attacker was disciplined, but I think DL was a little traumatized by the whole thing, particularly that no one stood up for the victim.   

The grannies love any bit of gossip I can throw their way (sometimes I get outright requests for it), so I repeated this story to them.  Their faces turned grave, and around the table, heads began to shake.  "This is a big problem in Japan," said Jet Set Granny.  Many students are bullied, and commit suicide every year.  They were surprised to learn how bullying has changed over the years, with technology and the Internet making it possible for kids to torture each other from afar, or even anonymously.  Mr. M spoke up, saying, "When I was child, we would fight all the time.  It was part of growing up.  You fight with other boys, but that's it."  

FREE WHEELIN' 

Biwako, or Lake Biwa, is Japan's largest lake, and the destination for one of my most recent Japanese adventure.  The day had been framed as "a chance to do some cycling" along the lake, suggesting that we would take a leisurely ride, and at some point turn back. The full circuit around Biwa is 220 km, and no one seemed keen to do it in its entirety.  So we set off in the hot sun, dodging joggers (one wearing a black ski mask), before coming across a battle of the rock bands held by some local universities.  They had clearly been partying all night, judging by the litter, sleeping bags, and other detritus.  We stopped to take a look at the set list, which included bands with innovative names like "Scheisse," and "The Dry Sex." 

Scenic Biwa

Moving onward, we soon found that Biwa isn't exactly a flat course.  We rode uphill over several bridges, passing lone fishermen and jet skiers. About halfway into the ride, we stopped for sushi and ice cream (and wonderful mix) at the local 7Eleven.  This decision came back to haunt us as we rode over a long bridge that turned out to be mostly uphill.  Later it was determined that we rode 1.4 km at a 70 degree angle.

How we all felt after the bridge

Post-bridge, we felt it was time to get back to the bike rental office.  Unfortunately, this was the most tired and ugliest leg of the journey, along a major highway that lacked sidewalks for significant stretches.  Thankfully, Japanese motorists are attuned to cyclists, and we rode on without incident.  Five hours, several sunburns, and a mass case of dehydration later, we stumbled and limped around looking for food, coffee, any kind of sustenance.  But we felt a sense of accomplishment, and, in my case, serious bruising in the bum region.  It was all worth it as we watched the sun go down on the lake. We've pledged to do the entire route one day. Thanks to Google Maps, we figured out that we biked 40.4 km that day.  Just 180 km to go!

Sensible athletic practices: group stretch post-ride