Hakodate, Casa Tsunashima, 8/5/09, 9:39 pm
There are days when the work I put into learning Japanese seems to pay off. I was reading “Kafka on the Shore” in the original, and I was reading a line, and suddenly I realized I was beginning to understand metaphor. One line of dialogue reads “You don’t think that money appears like mushrooms do, naturally sprouting in the forest, do you?” After two or three reads, I realized that, surprisingly enough, mushrooms were not the subject of the sentence, but money was; not only that, but that there was no forest to speak of; only the image of one. It then dawned on me that this might be the Japanese idiom for “money doesn’t grow on trees.”
Another line came soon after. Loosely translated, it meant “‘I’ll think about it then,’ he said, repeating my words as if weighing them in the palm of his hand.” It’s a straightforward enough metaphor, but I still feel quite proud understanding it. We, and by that I mean Japanese language students, are fed an almost constant stream of political/economic vocabulary words, read newspaper articles, and say things like “intensify,” “internationalization,” and “drastic” in class. Learning words like “reflection,” “crimson” and “nestle” is a rare treat, and one I savor.
There are other days when I find myself cursing this language altogether. When I was rewriting my script for the speech contest final (didn’t win, sad to say, but it’s in Japanese; I’m happy I got as far as I did), my instructor and I had long discussions about making my sentences less “direct.” In English, I would say “Uganda is in deep economic peril.” The statement is presented as a fact, whether or not it is arguable. If it is not, I move on. If it is, I present information to justify the conclusion. A subjective statement like “I think Uganda is in deep economic peril” does not go over very well with many audiences, if only because it implies that the speaker has a legitimate outlook on Uganda’s economy not based solely on data, but also based in his vast experience which, when distilled, comes out as a trustworthy opinion. Because of this, the people who usually would have the right to say ‘I think’ are PhD’s in the field, or else other experts, and not laypeople. Another example would be how we are ok with election analysts on CNN saying “I think so and so has a good chance” based not on poll numbers but rather political savvy, whereas we would prefer a high-schooler, if asked the question of whether so-and-so will win, to give clear, declarative arguments backed up with numbers and the opinions of others, not himself. Japanese is quite different. The proper way to talk about Uganda would translate into something like “I’ve been thinking, doesn’t Uganda seem to be in a deep economic crisis?” If one were to come out directly and say, as a fact, “Uganda is in a deep economic crisis,” not layered with polite self-doubt, it would smack of arrogance, lack of respect for the opinions of others, and a blinkered, inflexible mind; in a word, it would be “cheeky.” As a result, my speech, as well as the rest of my writing, is full of “I think” and “It seems,” none of which changes the content in any significant way, but rather subtly modulates the force of the arguments I make, depending on how close they are to a straight out “this is so” statement. What gets me worked up is that, as an English speaker, I read my Japanese work and think I sound like a limp noodle (there are far ruder words I could use, choice ones from Yiddish, but I will refrain), flopping all over the place instead of hitting the point on the head like I would, and have trained others to do, in English. I have a newfound respect for the translators, who have the awful choice of either faithfully conveying words as written and said, or to follow Thucydides and convey the message of those words “as they should have been said” in the receiving language. I would have trouble deciding. “Oh, but a sailor’s life for me…”
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Kafka on the Shore
I stopped by a bookstore in town today. I had found in my room the book Bushido written in a bilingual English/Japanese edition and I wanted to see if there were any other interesting books in the series. The idea is for Japanese to read the text in their own language and refer to the english every once in a while for practice, but it works just as well the other way around.
I did not end up buying a bilingual book, though I encountered a small stack. Instead, I book Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore (海辺のカフカ, umibe no kafuka) in the original. I read the book in english last year, and after skimming the first page, I decided that, since I know the plot, I might be able to slough through it in Japanese one way or another. I heard my teacher at HIF tell another student that Murakami's prose was very "english" in its sentence structure (a significant point, seeing as there are few languages more distant from english in terms of sentence structure than japanese), making it a reasonable read for students. So I bought the book and am now anotating the vertical japanese text with pronounciation guides for glyphs I don't remember, meanings for new words like "cynical" and "manage somehow or another," and otherwise being very proud of myself for buying my first japanese book. Now if I could only read Tolstoy....
I did not end up buying a bilingual book, though I encountered a small stack. Instead, I book Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore (海辺のカフカ, umibe no kafuka) in the original. I read the book in english last year, and after skimming the first page, I decided that, since I know the plot, I might be able to slough through it in Japanese one way or another. I heard my teacher at HIF tell another student that Murakami's prose was very "english" in its sentence structure (a significant point, seeing as there are few languages more distant from english in terms of sentence structure than japanese), making it a reasonable read for students. So I bought the book and am now anotating the vertical japanese text with pronounciation guides for glyphs I don't remember, meanings for new words like "cynical" and "manage somehow or another," and otherwise being very proud of myself for buying my first japanese book. Now if I could only read Tolstoy....
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Tsunashima House
Hakodate Central Library, 7/19, 2:30 pm
I haven’t posted in a little while, so some rapid updating is in order: I moved host-families last weekend, during the semester break; it wasn’t a matter of dissatisfaction on anybody’s part; I was just one of three students in the program whose families, for prior scheduling reasons, couldn’t keep us for the full two months. Anywho, I am adjusting very well to my new home. It’s in a neighborhood farther from the rest of town and school, but it only means that I have an extra twenty five minutes added to my morning commute, which still adds up to less than my commute in Tokyo.
My new hosts are named Yuri (woman) and Yoshihito (man). They are a couple with no children; Yoshi a university administrator and former cram school teacher; Yuri a house-wife, piano teacher, and until recently a sales representative for Amway Japan (the large American cosmetics and personal health holding company). While I don’t have any idea of their relative income to that of the Tagawa’s, but the difference that not having four children is very clear, both in the size, quality, and location of their home, as well as their mode of living: the compulsive energy saving on Okaasan’s part, the constant switching off of lights, the regimented laundry schedule, is not present here; that, and they have two cars instead of one family-size SUV, and one of them a Mercedes.
These are the sorts of comparisons for another time, but what I want to talk about in this post is something quite different. Yoshi is teaching me Shougi, Japanese Chess. The premise of the game is the same: two sides, one board, trap the king. However, the similarities only highlight the differences. For starters, the pieces are small wooden chips shaped into arrow heads with Chinese characters to indicate their value; at first glance they look like Mah-Jong tiles. The board is nine by nine, and the first three rows are your territory. There are pawns, bishop, rook, knight, and king equivalents, with slight differences in rules. There are also “silver” and “gold” pieces which move forward, but have differing restrictions on lateral and backward movement, and a rook-like piece best referred to as a scud missile, moving forward as far as there is space, but which cannot move back.
The most clever thing, though, is this oddly Buddhist notion in the game that any piece you take is also a piece you can use at will. You can reincarnate a taken piece anywhere on the board, which is a radical dynamic change from western chess. It means that one can have separate defensive and offensive strategies simultaneously; imagine defending your territory from onslaught while also dropping paratroopers behind the enemy king. This combined with the rule that most pieces, save the king and “golds” acquire extra movement powers once inside the three rows of enemy space, and Shougi looks much more realistic from a military strategy standpoint than chess does.
Yoshi has been teaching me by playing me with a handicap. Because of the reincarnate aspect of the game, the notion of handicap can be taken to its logical extreme; the first game we played had me playing with a full set and Yoshi with only the king of the board and three pawns in his “graveyard.” From this position of weakness, Yoshi was able to collect successively more powerful pieces from me and then use them for himself when reincarnated. I, on the other hand, could really only get pawns. We’ve played five games so far, and now I’m at the third “step” in handicap, where now yoshi plays with a full set of pawns, a king, and two “golds.”
I’ve clearly become entranced by Shougi, and in doing so I can’t help but think back to when my grandpa Mark tried teaching me chess. He was an Associate Master in the Soviet Union, and his was a mind that valued the logical order and discipline of the game. As a child, certainly, mine was not, and I never took it seriously. Still, some of the lessons grandpa taught me have stuck, and I’ve used them playing Shougi in a way that seems to impress Yoshi. Still, I’m not nearly as skilled as I could have been if I had actually listened to my grandfather, and though it is perhaps inappropriate for an eighteen year-old to regret anything in his life quite yet, I do wish I had been more willing to learn as a small child; not because of chess itself, but because now, when I think of grandpa, I can’t help but associate him with it. Had I the chance, I would bring him one of these Shougi sets as a present. I think he would have enjoyed the game.
I haven’t posted in a little while, so some rapid updating is in order: I moved host-families last weekend, during the semester break; it wasn’t a matter of dissatisfaction on anybody’s part; I was just one of three students in the program whose families, for prior scheduling reasons, couldn’t keep us for the full two months. Anywho, I am adjusting very well to my new home. It’s in a neighborhood farther from the rest of town and school, but it only means that I have an extra twenty five minutes added to my morning commute, which still adds up to less than my commute in Tokyo.
My new hosts are named Yuri (woman) and Yoshihito (man). They are a couple with no children; Yoshi a university administrator and former cram school teacher; Yuri a house-wife, piano teacher, and until recently a sales representative for Amway Japan (the large American cosmetics and personal health holding company). While I don’t have any idea of their relative income to that of the Tagawa’s, but the difference that not having four children is very clear, both in the size, quality, and location of their home, as well as their mode of living: the compulsive energy saving on Okaasan’s part, the constant switching off of lights, the regimented laundry schedule, is not present here; that, and they have two cars instead of one family-size SUV, and one of them a Mercedes.
These are the sorts of comparisons for another time, but what I want to talk about in this post is something quite different. Yoshi is teaching me Shougi, Japanese Chess. The premise of the game is the same: two sides, one board, trap the king. However, the similarities only highlight the differences. For starters, the pieces are small wooden chips shaped into arrow heads with Chinese characters to indicate their value; at first glance they look like Mah-Jong tiles. The board is nine by nine, and the first three rows are your territory. There are pawns, bishop, rook, knight, and king equivalents, with slight differences in rules. There are also “silver” and “gold” pieces which move forward, but have differing restrictions on lateral and backward movement, and a rook-like piece best referred to as a scud missile, moving forward as far as there is space, but which cannot move back.
The most clever thing, though, is this oddly Buddhist notion in the game that any piece you take is also a piece you can use at will. You can reincarnate a taken piece anywhere on the board, which is a radical dynamic change from western chess. It means that one can have separate defensive and offensive strategies simultaneously; imagine defending your territory from onslaught while also dropping paratroopers behind the enemy king. This combined with the rule that most pieces, save the king and “golds” acquire extra movement powers once inside the three rows of enemy space, and Shougi looks much more realistic from a military strategy standpoint than chess does.
Yoshi has been teaching me by playing me with a handicap. Because of the reincarnate aspect of the game, the notion of handicap can be taken to its logical extreme; the first game we played had me playing with a full set and Yoshi with only the king of the board and three pawns in his “graveyard.” From this position of weakness, Yoshi was able to collect successively more powerful pieces from me and then use them for himself when reincarnated. I, on the other hand, could really only get pawns. We’ve played five games so far, and now I’m at the third “step” in handicap, where now yoshi plays with a full set of pawns, a king, and two “golds.”
I’ve clearly become entranced by Shougi, and in doing so I can’t help but think back to when my grandpa Mark tried teaching me chess. He was an Associate Master in the Soviet Union, and his was a mind that valued the logical order and discipline of the game. As a child, certainly, mine was not, and I never took it seriously. Still, some of the lessons grandpa taught me have stuck, and I’ve used them playing Shougi in a way that seems to impress Yoshi. Still, I’m not nearly as skilled as I could have been if I had actually listened to my grandfather, and though it is perhaps inappropriate for an eighteen year-old to regret anything in his life quite yet, I do wish I had been more willing to learn as a small child; not because of chess itself, but because now, when I think of grandpa, I can’t help but associate him with it. Had I the chance, I would bring him one of these Shougi sets as a present. I think he would have enjoyed the game.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Okaasan
For the last three weeks now, I’ve observed a quintessential house-wife in my host mother: rising at 4:30 each morning (I know this because I have woken up to her moving through the corridor), she prepares breakfast, school lunches, and watches over Youko as she studies; they sleep in the same room, as is custom for the youngest child in many Japanese families, and so Youko lives by her mother’s chronometer. I wake up some time around half past six, eat, and leave by seven thirty for HIF. When I get home, usually after five, Okaasan—Japanese for “mother” (お母さん)—is either busy preparing dinner or doing some other house-hold chore, or, twice a week, she is volunteering as a teacher’s aid at a local private learning center for small children, a kind of cram school for five year olds.
Okaasan is a competent household manager, and such is her pride in her station that she feels a slight wariness for what she sees as the lack of “tradition” in Hokkaido. Originally from Osaka, Okaasan grew up in an old, well defined, and settled cultural setting; one in which families meet for formal marriage interviews, a tradition developed from the older custom of dowry negotiation and the concept of marriage as a contractual agreement between parents, not children; and one in which a woman’s role as the manager of the household, and not as a breadwinner, retains strength in a way long ago faded in the United States.
Hokkaido, by comparison, is a young and freewheeling place; the northern island, whose current name can loosely translate to “[By way of] the North Sea Road,” is separated from the main island, Honshu, by a straight so narrow that on a clear night one can see across to the other side from the top of Mt. Hakodate, not very far from my home. As close as the two are, though, Japanese from Honshu only crossed to Hokkaido during the Edo period, in the seventeenth century; in many ways, the history of the Japanese in Hokkaido is no older than that of Europeans in America. As a result, in Okaasan’s view, the old ways of Osaka do not easily translate here; marriages without interviews are the norm, elopements are not uncommon, the incidence of divorce is far higher here than in Honshu, and women work and raise children at a rate that, it seems, Okaasan needed to get used to during her twenty some years here (*point of clarification: this is all relative. Hokkaido’s women still work far less prevalently after having children than do their counterparts in America).
As much as she has seemed to accept this, though, Okaasan still makes a great deal of her role as a typical Japanese homemaker. I have several times found myself in the awkward position where Okaasan will ask me whether my own mother does things the same way at home in America. These range from questions about how we share meals as a family, to whether or not Mom handles the bills. While there is no reason that these questions should, in themselves, pose me any grave concern, they come from Okaasan riding on a certain tone of moral certainty that, while not malicious, begs the question of whether Okaasan judges me, my mother, or even my upbringing by the answer I give. Add the fact that my own mother is a working professional who did not choose the hearth as her calling, and I find the need to word my responses very carefully.
Then again, there are times when Okaasan seems positively un-house-wifely. One day at breakfast, I was describing how I climbed Mt. Fuji when I was Tokyo the summer before, and almost immediately upon hearing the word “mountain” (Yama 山) , Okaasan began her own story about her mountain-climbing days, in her twenties, when she had just moved to Hokkaido for school. Initially I tried to finish my own story about Fuji, but I stopped when I began to look at her; Okaasan’s entire manner had changed. Her almost constant semi-stern demeanor, the one best suited to dealing with three children at home from moment to moment, had melted away like snow in a rainstorm, and was replaced with an eager smile and eyes that were as excited as a little girl’s.
Her posture had changed, too; her hands, almost instinctively holding something and, if not, down at her sides a la femme japonais—that is, still and controlled—were now wildly moving in pantomime, her back bent so that she leaned forward, groaning as if she really were climbing a mountain. I nodded politely in interest to her story, but what really intrigued me was her. There is clearly a woman in Okaasan that I will never get to know: the twenty-something mountain climber with eyes that smiled. This was surely the woman that my host-father met, fell in love with in that most distressing Hokkaido way, and started a family with.
Seeing Okaasan this way was almost like meeting someone for the first time, and it impressed upon me the effect of years. Certainly I will be different twenty years from now, but the idea that I may become almost unrecognizable, that the years may bury my 18 year-old self to provide a floor for my 38 year-old self to stand on, has never occurred to me before, and is a not mildly disconcerting feeling. I can only hope that, if it does happen that way, that I, like Okaasan, may not forget what it is like to be a young traveler with eyes that smile, at least on occasion.
Okaasan is a competent household manager, and such is her pride in her station that she feels a slight wariness for what she sees as the lack of “tradition” in Hokkaido. Originally from Osaka, Okaasan grew up in an old, well defined, and settled cultural setting; one in which families meet for formal marriage interviews, a tradition developed from the older custom of dowry negotiation and the concept of marriage as a contractual agreement between parents, not children; and one in which a woman’s role as the manager of the household, and not as a breadwinner, retains strength in a way long ago faded in the United States.
Hokkaido, by comparison, is a young and freewheeling place; the northern island, whose current name can loosely translate to “[By way of] the North Sea Road,” is separated from the main island, Honshu, by a straight so narrow that on a clear night one can see across to the other side from the top of Mt. Hakodate, not very far from my home. As close as the two are, though, Japanese from Honshu only crossed to Hokkaido during the Edo period, in the seventeenth century; in many ways, the history of the Japanese in Hokkaido is no older than that of Europeans in America. As a result, in Okaasan’s view, the old ways of Osaka do not easily translate here; marriages without interviews are the norm, elopements are not uncommon, the incidence of divorce is far higher here than in Honshu, and women work and raise children at a rate that, it seems, Okaasan needed to get used to during her twenty some years here (*point of clarification: this is all relative. Hokkaido’s women still work far less prevalently after having children than do their counterparts in America).
As much as she has seemed to accept this, though, Okaasan still makes a great deal of her role as a typical Japanese homemaker. I have several times found myself in the awkward position where Okaasan will ask me whether my own mother does things the same way at home in America. These range from questions about how we share meals as a family, to whether or not Mom handles the bills. While there is no reason that these questions should, in themselves, pose me any grave concern, they come from Okaasan riding on a certain tone of moral certainty that, while not malicious, begs the question of whether Okaasan judges me, my mother, or even my upbringing by the answer I give. Add the fact that my own mother is a working professional who did not choose the hearth as her calling, and I find the need to word my responses very carefully.
Then again, there are times when Okaasan seems positively un-house-wifely. One day at breakfast, I was describing how I climbed Mt. Fuji when I was Tokyo the summer before, and almost immediately upon hearing the word “mountain” (Yama 山) , Okaasan began her own story about her mountain-climbing days, in her twenties, when she had just moved to Hokkaido for school. Initially I tried to finish my own story about Fuji, but I stopped when I began to look at her; Okaasan’s entire manner had changed. Her almost constant semi-stern demeanor, the one best suited to dealing with three children at home from moment to moment, had melted away like snow in a rainstorm, and was replaced with an eager smile and eyes that were as excited as a little girl’s.
Her posture had changed, too; her hands, almost instinctively holding something and, if not, down at her sides a la femme japonais—that is, still and controlled—were now wildly moving in pantomime, her back bent so that she leaned forward, groaning as if she really were climbing a mountain. I nodded politely in interest to her story, but what really intrigued me was her. There is clearly a woman in Okaasan that I will never get to know: the twenty-something mountain climber with eyes that smiled. This was surely the woman that my host-father met, fell in love with in that most distressing Hokkaido way, and started a family with.
Seeing Okaasan this way was almost like meeting someone for the first time, and it impressed upon me the effect of years. Certainly I will be different twenty years from now, but the idea that I may become almost unrecognizable, that the years may bury my 18 year-old self to provide a floor for my 38 year-old self to stand on, has never occurred to me before, and is a not mildly disconcerting feeling. I can only hope that, if it does happen that way, that I, like Okaasan, may not forget what it is like to be a young traveler with eyes that smile, at least on occasion.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Mt. Hakodate
To any of those poor souls who follow this blog, I apologize for my sporadic posting. I am swamped more than I can say; after I finish the day’s homework, which can include essays and speeches on top of normal grammar work, I barely have enough energy to curl up and read ten pages of “A Tale of Two Cities” before bed. I feel my written work is improving, and my spoken Japanese, though not becoming any easier, seems to be getting smoother and less hesitant. It’s an encouraging feeling.
Anywho, I have had the time to write something, after I went and saw the view of the city from Mt. Hakodate. It has a little bit of the thoughts that have been swirling around in my head since I've gotten here. It's not very good. I apologize in advance.
The View from Mt. Hakodate
Tell me, Kami-sama, where you are in this town
This town of twenty eight ten-thousands people confused?
Are you on the hill of eighty thousand emissaries,
Or on the pier with the monument to when the Wajin first came?
Are you Kami-sama, as the Wajin call you
Or just Kami as when the they write that
Hajime-ni, Kami ga Ten to Chi wo tsukutta,
That “In the beginning, Kami made heaven and the earth”
Why in this town, this town on the sea
Aren’t you the Kami-sama that you are elsewhere?
When did you decide that the trees, mountains, rivers
Did not suit you like they did elsewhere?
Do you not know, Kami-sama,
The trials that these people have endured
To even have a glimpse of you
In the forms you have shown before?
Are you not that Kami-sama who defied your own nature
When you said Tenjō Tenge, Yuiga Dokuson
The Wajin pronunciation of the Chinese proverb
Translated from the Sanskrit transcriptions of an Indian prince
Who defied all Kami-sama?
What Kami-Sama are you
Who builds temples and churches to yourself
For every interpretation, every inclination
Every obfuscation of your very being
What Kami-Sama are you
Whose image is a glyph
Stamped onto the Shinto Jinja
And crossed on the steeples of churches?
Tell me what to call you, Kami-sama!
Hashem, like I call you at home,
Or G-d, as we all say to each-other,
To show that we are like them, and not like ourselves?
It seems like they did a pretty good job
Telling us how to be like them,
Because we are them now,
And rarely like ourselves.
Such are the thoughts of Shakushain’s children
Who, when the Wajin killed him to end his revolution,
Stopped calling you Kamai,
And started calling you Kami-sama
How do I pray to you, Kami-sama?
Do I throw a coin, bow, and clap,
Or kneel and make the sign of the cross,
Or string a bow and allow myself to follow
The arrow to enlightenment?
How do I worship you, Kami-sama?
Can I sway and say Boruch atah Adonoi eloheinu melech ha’olam
If there’s nowhere to say it
On the slope of eighty thousand emissaries?
Do you love me any less, Kami-sama
If I come from a smaller tribe
One that hasn’t lived on these shores
Except in times of great hardship?
How do I find you, Kami-sama?
Do I don a straw hat, and embark on a pilgrimage to your shrines?
Do I take black robes, and wooden rosary, and seek peace in incense?
Do I take care of your churches, give tours to children, sell candles and cards?
Why did you choose this town, Kami-sama,
To make a show of yourself,
A spectacle of yourself,
Like a catalog of secrets accidentally published?
What good does it do to have
All the children yearn to go to the best catholic school
And all the homes to have the bible
When no one really knows what religion is at all?
Where were you, Kami-sama
When I left the moon-lit mountain top,
Overlooking the slope of eighty thousand drunk and stumbling emissaries,
And couldn’t find my way through the trees that you left to seek another home?
Anywho, I have had the time to write something, after I went and saw the view of the city from Mt. Hakodate. It has a little bit of the thoughts that have been swirling around in my head since I've gotten here. It's not very good. I apologize in advance.
The View from Mt. Hakodate
Tell me, Kami-sama, where you are in this town
This town of twenty eight ten-thousands people confused?
Are you on the hill of eighty thousand emissaries,
Or on the pier with the monument to when the Wajin first came?
Are you Kami-sama, as the Wajin call you
Or just Kami as when the they write that
Hajime-ni, Kami ga Ten to Chi wo tsukutta,
That “In the beginning, Kami made heaven and the earth”
Why in this town, this town on the sea
Aren’t you the Kami-sama that you are elsewhere?
When did you decide that the trees, mountains, rivers
Did not suit you like they did elsewhere?
Do you not know, Kami-sama,
The trials that these people have endured
To even have a glimpse of you
In the forms you have shown before?
Are you not that Kami-sama who defied your own nature
When you said Tenjō Tenge, Yuiga Dokuson
The Wajin pronunciation of the Chinese proverb
Translated from the Sanskrit transcriptions of an Indian prince
Who defied all Kami-sama?
What Kami-Sama are you
Who builds temples and churches to yourself
For every interpretation, every inclination
Every obfuscation of your very being
What Kami-Sama are you
Whose image is a glyph
Stamped onto the Shinto Jinja
And crossed on the steeples of churches?
Tell me what to call you, Kami-sama!
Hashem, like I call you at home,
Or G-d, as we all say to each-other,
To show that we are like them, and not like ourselves?
It seems like they did a pretty good job
Telling us how to be like them,
Because we are them now,
And rarely like ourselves.
Such are the thoughts of Shakushain’s children
Who, when the Wajin killed him to end his revolution,
Stopped calling you Kamai,
And started calling you Kami-sama
How do I pray to you, Kami-sama?
Do I throw a coin, bow, and clap,
Or kneel and make the sign of the cross,
Or string a bow and allow myself to follow
The arrow to enlightenment?
How do I worship you, Kami-sama?
Can I sway and say Boruch atah Adonoi eloheinu melech ha’olam
If there’s nowhere to say it
On the slope of eighty thousand emissaries?
Do you love me any less, Kami-sama
If I come from a smaller tribe
One that hasn’t lived on these shores
Except in times of great hardship?
How do I find you, Kami-sama?
Do I don a straw hat, and embark on a pilgrimage to your shrines?
Do I take black robes, and wooden rosary, and seek peace in incense?
Do I take care of your churches, give tours to children, sell candles and cards?
Why did you choose this town, Kami-sama,
To make a show of yourself,
A spectacle of yourself,
Like a catalog of secrets accidentally published?
What good does it do to have
All the children yearn to go to the best catholic school
And all the homes to have the bible
When no one really knows what religion is at all?
Where were you, Kami-sama
When I left the moon-lit mountain top,
Overlooking the slope of eighty thousand drunk and stumbling emissaries,
And couldn’t find my way through the trees that you left to seek another home?
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Some Detached Thoughts
Some detached thoughts…
6/20/09
Today Okaasan took me to hear a famous picture-book reader read some of his and other authors’ work. She went for new book titles for her part time job as a teaching assistant at a kindergarten. I was brought along because children’s books are simple, clear, and good listening practice.
The teacher’s appearance surprised me for its almost un-Japanese eccentricity. His hair was white and long, pulled back into a pony tail. He wore a tan jacket and a dark green sweater. He had the deep, even tan of someone whose life was spent near the sea. He looked more typically Hawaiian than Japanese, and I suppose his eminence among the picture book audience (of which we are all a part at least once) allowed him to act with some latitude. There was a sense of wisdom that sees past social trends. Then again, perhaps that is the impression generally given off by the aged hippie.
6/24/09
A few days ago I found myself wondering about the phrase “If you don’t ask, the answer is always no.” I needed to find someone to interview for my independent study project on the Ainu. I had already narrowed my question to a particular event, but I didn’t know how to go about finding someone to talk to on top of my book-research. I had heard from a classmate that Mr. Yamazaki, the retired local biology professor-turned director emeritus of HIF, could be a great help in tracking down leads. Frustrated, I brought up the courage needed to walk into his office on the third floor and ask for his help. As strange as this may sound, chances are that I would never have gone at all had it not been for, of all things, H1N1. On top of our semi-quarantine at the hotel, for the first week the snack seller, who sold baked goods in the school office during the twenty minute “tea time” break in the middle of the school day, decided against coming to HIF. Yamazaki took her place as the “o-pan-ya-san” (‘pan’ from the Portuguese for bread, ‘ya’ for shop, ‘o’ to honor the establishment, and ‘san’ to honor the man himself; literally meaning “the honored representative of the equally honored brasserie”; or, more simply, “the baker”).
Yamazaki went to his temporary work with relish, patiently explaining to a line of students with, at best, a hesitant grasp of the language the contents of the ¥100 basket: rice balls with salmon and others with kelp, sugar crackers, jelly-filled bread, choco-bread, raisin bread, melon-bread (yes, it exists), and all sorts of other delicacies. He smiled and was in every way a cheerful, grandfatherly figure. In fact, his smile reminded me of my own granddad’s. He came off as approachable, an impression I might never have gotten had life been as usual this year.
However, Yamazaki-Sensei still posed a problem for me. Japanese is an extremely rank-oriented language, and its speakers are attuned to the nuances of politeness and respect in a way that cannot be easily conveyed back into English. Suffice it to say, I knew exactly how one should speak to a man of Yamazaki-Sensei; I also knew that I would inevitably fail. Such is the trap of my current language level: I know exactly how I’m going wrong while at the same time I haven’t the versatility to correct my mistakes.
Anywho, long story short, I walked (more bowed, actually) into the man’s office, introduced myself, and after a several minute conversation about my project, he called up the museum I had mentioned, and secured me an interview with one of its curators. I go this Friday. Evidently he forgave me my linguistic indiscretions.
山崎先生、どうもありがとうございました
Yamazaki-Sensei, Domo Arigato Gozaimashita.
Actually, my thank you was much longer, and involved several bows to the waist.
平成二十一年六月二十四日午後十時半終
6/20/09
Today Okaasan took me to hear a famous picture-book reader read some of his and other authors’ work. She went for new book titles for her part time job as a teaching assistant at a kindergarten. I was brought along because children’s books are simple, clear, and good listening practice.
The teacher’s appearance surprised me for its almost un-Japanese eccentricity. His hair was white and long, pulled back into a pony tail. He wore a tan jacket and a dark green sweater. He had the deep, even tan of someone whose life was spent near the sea. He looked more typically Hawaiian than Japanese, and I suppose his eminence among the picture book audience (of which we are all a part at least once) allowed him to act with some latitude. There was a sense of wisdom that sees past social trends. Then again, perhaps that is the impression generally given off by the aged hippie.
6/24/09
A few days ago I found myself wondering about the phrase “If you don’t ask, the answer is always no.” I needed to find someone to interview for my independent study project on the Ainu. I had already narrowed my question to a particular event, but I didn’t know how to go about finding someone to talk to on top of my book-research. I had heard from a classmate that Mr. Yamazaki, the retired local biology professor-turned director emeritus of HIF, could be a great help in tracking down leads. Frustrated, I brought up the courage needed to walk into his office on the third floor and ask for his help. As strange as this may sound, chances are that I would never have gone at all had it not been for, of all things, H1N1. On top of our semi-quarantine at the hotel, for the first week the snack seller, who sold baked goods in the school office during the twenty minute “tea time” break in the middle of the school day, decided against coming to HIF. Yamazaki took her place as the “o-pan-ya-san” (‘pan’ from the Portuguese for bread, ‘ya’ for shop, ‘o’ to honor the establishment, and ‘san’ to honor the man himself; literally meaning “the honored representative of the equally honored brasserie”; or, more simply, “the baker”).
Yamazaki went to his temporary work with relish, patiently explaining to a line of students with, at best, a hesitant grasp of the language the contents of the ¥100 basket: rice balls with salmon and others with kelp, sugar crackers, jelly-filled bread, choco-bread, raisin bread, melon-bread (yes, it exists), and all sorts of other delicacies. He smiled and was in every way a cheerful, grandfatherly figure. In fact, his smile reminded me of my own granddad’s. He came off as approachable, an impression I might never have gotten had life been as usual this year.
However, Yamazaki-Sensei still posed a problem for me. Japanese is an extremely rank-oriented language, and its speakers are attuned to the nuances of politeness and respect in a way that cannot be easily conveyed back into English. Suffice it to say, I knew exactly how one should speak to a man of Yamazaki-Sensei; I also knew that I would inevitably fail. Such is the trap of my current language level: I know exactly how I’m going wrong while at the same time I haven’t the versatility to correct my mistakes.
Anywho, long story short, I walked (more bowed, actually) into the man’s office, introduced myself, and after a several minute conversation about my project, he called up the museum I had mentioned, and secured me an interview with one of its curators. I go this Friday. Evidently he forgave me my linguistic indiscretions.
山崎先生、どうもありがとうございました
Yamazaki-Sensei, Domo Arigato Gozaimashita.
Actually, my thank you was much longer, and involved several bows to the waist.
平成二十一年六月二十四日午後十時半終
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Tagawa House
6/17/09, 9:37 PM, Tagawa House
I have never spoken so much Japanese for so long in my entire life. I am simultaneously exultant and exhausted. Today was my first day at the Tagawa house. After class, I did my homework as quick as I could and waited for the pending meeting with my new hosts. The final moment came at 5:30 pm. We were all corralled into a narrow hallway on the third floor of the building where, behind closed double doors, was an auditorium full of expectant Japanese families. I was assigned the very first spot. When the doors opened, all those inside turned their heads, and the first person they saw was very likely me. I felt like I was in a line of cattle being led to the slaughter, and I was hit with a momentary feeling of deep embarrassment and self-consciousness. The moment passed quickly though, as I was corralled into the room by one of the instructors and hurriedly met my host mother and her younger daughter (Youko, age 12). We briskly got my luggage from the holding room, and went outside to the waiting car, inside which was my host father. The drive home was about fifteen minutes, and upon reaching the house (which I will describe in more detail in a later post), I met their older daughter Machiko, age 15, and younger son Masahiro, going on eighteen (Yasahiro, the first born, is at university in Kyoto).
The following three hours tested my every Japanese skill. As I write this, I have a slight headache from the experience, but I feel that it will only get easier. Last year, I spoke almost entirely in Japanese with my host parents, both of whom knew English. A year later, I finally have the skills necessary to actually discuss moderately complicated topics, tell stories, and give my opinion. However, I’ve never actually had to do it “in the wild” before, as it were. I feel immensely satisfied.
However, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a language barrier. Right before leaving for bed, Youko told me that she had forgotten her text book in my room. It took me three tries to understand her, because I didn’t recognize the word “desk” and did not register the word “textbook.” It seems that while I can tell the whole history of my family in Japanese, the simplest things will continue to throw me. I only hope Youko doesn’t think me any worse for it.
I have never spoken so much Japanese for so long in my entire life. I am simultaneously exultant and exhausted. Today was my first day at the Tagawa house. After class, I did my homework as quick as I could and waited for the pending meeting with my new hosts. The final moment came at 5:30 pm. We were all corralled into a narrow hallway on the third floor of the building where, behind closed double doors, was an auditorium full of expectant Japanese families. I was assigned the very first spot. When the doors opened, all those inside turned their heads, and the first person they saw was very likely me. I felt like I was in a line of cattle being led to the slaughter, and I was hit with a momentary feeling of deep embarrassment and self-consciousness. The moment passed quickly though, as I was corralled into the room by one of the instructors and hurriedly met my host mother and her younger daughter (Youko, age 12). We briskly got my luggage from the holding room, and went outside to the waiting car, inside which was my host father. The drive home was about fifteen minutes, and upon reaching the house (which I will describe in more detail in a later post), I met their older daughter Machiko, age 15, and younger son Masahiro, going on eighteen (Yasahiro, the first born, is at university in Kyoto).
The following three hours tested my every Japanese skill. As I write this, I have a slight headache from the experience, but I feel that it will only get easier. Last year, I spoke almost entirely in Japanese with my host parents, both of whom knew English. A year later, I finally have the skills necessary to actually discuss moderately complicated topics, tell stories, and give my opinion. However, I’ve never actually had to do it “in the wild” before, as it were. I feel immensely satisfied.
However, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a language barrier. Right before leaving for bed, Youko told me that she had forgotten her text book in my room. It took me three tries to understand her, because I didn’t recognize the word “desk” and did not register the word “textbook.” It seems that while I can tell the whole history of my family in Japanese, the simplest things will continue to throw me. I only hope Youko doesn’t think me any worse for it.
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