Catching Flies with Chopsticks:
Galvin's Japan Journal
It was only 10 minutes into second period yesterday when I found myself rushing one of my third graders to the nurse's office as blood was gushing out of a hole in his head and pooling in his own waiting palm. "Chi ga sonna ni dete iru", he said weakly, "Look how much I'm bleeding." Never one to hesitate in comforting young minds in times of emergency, I replied sarcastically, "Kodomo wa chi ga ippai aru kara daizyoubu", or "Kids have plenty of blood, you're fine." I'm sure that doesn't sound like I was doing my best to be reassuring -- and in fact, I wasn't, as I was using my Patronizing Teacher Voice as well. Don't be fooled, however; because other than doing everything in my power NOT to look directly at the gushing hole in my student's head nor the rapidly collecting red pool in his cupped hand, sarcasm and a feigned aura of world-weariness were just about the only things keeping me detached enough not to totally freak the heck out. My student may have been bleeding all over himself, the hallway floors, and, obstensibly, ME at any second now, but it god damn it, it was NO TIME TO PANIC. At least not openly. On the inside, I was crying like a little girl who'd just received some bad news about Daddy's chances of still being alive inside that mean ol' bear.
It's a shame too, because yesterday was shaping up to be such a good day. The third graders at this school are great. I taught two classloads of 'em yesterday, and believe it or not I was actually looking forward to each one. Kid who have never really seen a foreigner before generally fall into one of two categories: Kids who find every since thing I do absolutely fascinating, and kids who believe they must castrate me for the glory of the Emperor. The kids I taught yesterday definitely fall into the former category. They hang on my every word and gesture to the point where I truly believe they would jump off a cliff if only I made it look fun enough (sadly, the kids who I actually wish would jump off a cliff would never listen to me long enough to do so). Thus, it was with great enthusiasm that they set to the assigned task of pushing their desks to the back of the room then arranging their seats in a circle so we could play the day's game. I guess one of the kids must have taken to this rather routine procedure with a bit too much gusto; he was rushing around with his seat above his head and must have put it down so fast that he didn't even notice when it struck and split open the head of one of his classmates on the way down. I didn't see any of this, of course. I was busy answering one of the nonstop questions kids often throw at me such as what color the sky is in America and whether or not we have an ocean too. It was only when I heard someone say "Sensei" and turned around to find a kid holding up a moist red finger that I knew somehow, the innocent game of Fruit Basket had transformed into a veritable bloodbath of carnage and hyperbole.
Now, let me explain something about me: I FREAK at the sight of blood. I can't even watch gory horror movies because the mere sight of any sort of red liquid pouring out of a human being, pretend or not, never fails to send this incapacitating tingling sensation into my calves and makes my sternum twitch. It barely even makes a difference whether it's coming out of me or someone else, because as soon as I see anyone with any sort of bloody injury I immediately start imagining it was me. I can't help it. I'm not so bad that I get all weepy when someone gets a nosebleed or something, but someone say, accidentally cutting into his/her finger when slicing vegetables is easily enough to make me light-headed. Beyond that, well...once, I had a summer job in a hardware warehouse. And at this warehouse, there was this big machine that crushed empty boxes. Well, one day the guy manning this machine wasn't watching what he was doing, and was just kinda leaning his hands on it while it was operating, and well...*glutch*. Bye-bye fingers. Now, I didn't actually see this happen. I did, however, hear a rather inhuman scream even over the loud noise of the machines, followed by someone with bloody rags wrapped around his hands being rushed through the factory, dribbling dark, fresh blood the entire way. After catching a few glimpses of the bloody trail he left behind, and repeatedly going over in my head what it must have felt/looked like when the accident happened, I believe I spent the next 20 minutes or so sitting down cradling my hands in my armpits. Somehow, they felt safe in there.
...come to think of it, this hemophobia of mine is probably my oldest brother Garrick's fault. I was too young to suffer most of his boys-will-be-boys-behavior-gone-wrong antics, but it seems like when we were growing up he made something of a hobby of splitting my other brother's heads open like overripe fruit. I suspect Garrick might have had some rare learning disorder as a child because no matter how many times it happened he never seemed to form a connection between a brother going to the hospital and his say, slamming a doorknob into said brother's forehead, or shoving said brother off a countertop, immediately prior. I know he sent my brother Greg in for stitches no less than three times, but the only incident I really vividly remember is that time when I was 8 where he absolutely obliterated my brother Geoff in the head with a pillow. This of course would have been extremely funny, had the force of the blow not caused Geoff's chin to ram right into a bedpost, cracking it right open and forcing blood to gush out all over the bed on which, after all, I was sitting. My memory of this is a little hazy I guess, because I believe by the time I regained consciousness, it was roughly 1995. Okay, maybe not, but Geoff already had been stitched up and the whole incident became just another forgotten page in the book of my oldest brother managing to physically scar my brothers and mentally scar me at the same time.
Anyway, the point of all this violent nostalgia, I suppose, is that I am a great big wuss. Thus the whole incident yesterday boiled down to a frenzied battle of my inherent wussiness and the external facade of assumed authority my current profession requires. As I was walking the Human Ketchup Bottle down the hall, the way I see it, I had two choices: A) I could conquer my fears and sweep him up into my arms so I could run him to the nurse faster, or, B) I could start screaming my head off like a tear-gassed monkey and stuff my student headfirst into a nearby trashcan just so I would no longer have to look at him. However, since the first available option entailed my actually touching him, and the second seemed somewhat unprofessional, I instead came up with Choice C, which consisted of making the aforementioned stupid sarcastic-yet-pseudo-reassuring comments while secretly wondering just how fucking far the nurse's office was, anyway.
At any rate, as you've probably guessed the kid was, indeed, fine. The nurse barely batted an eye at the sight of a sheet-white English teacher and a blood-red student bursting into her office. She merely wadded up some nearby toilet paper, pressed it to the kid's head would, and said I should just go back to class. When I got back, I didn't know what else to do, so I just continued the game as always, despite the pool of blood in the corner by the door. I figured it was probably best to keep the kids distracted, and within 5 seconds my plan had come to fruition. Later when I went to check on the kid I was told his mother had already taken him to the hospital for a couple stitches, and not to worry, because he was fine. Naturally, I apologized my ass off anyway, but surprisingly, everyone, from the nurse to the principal to the homeroom teacher who had left me in class alone, felt obliged to apologize to ME. The nurse, after confirming that the injury was just an accident and not from a fight or something, seemed to see it as just another day at work, but thanked me for dealing with it anyway. The principal actually got a great big kick out of it, since earlier that morning I also had been on the receiving end of a local farmer's angry tirade about some prank the kids had played on him, simply because I was the first school personnel he saw. So after the whole incident with the kid too, the principal came up to me and, in between fits of whooping laughter, thanked me for dealing with TWO unexpected incidents on behalf of the school that day. In fact, the only person from whom I got even the slightest hint of a negative vibe was the homeroom teacher, who actually apologized to me far more than anyone else, and very expressively at that. I don't doubt his sincerity, but I do worry that what he was REALLY feeling bad about was trusting Dumbass-sensei to teach the class by himself for five minutes without one of the kids ending up with some kind of head wound.
Oh yeah, and in case I forgot to mention it, yesterday was ALSO the day that, I'm convinced not entirely coincidentally at least in the cosmic sense, my supervisor was visiting that school. He wasn't there to see me, thank God, but to critique another teacher's classes. Still, though...of all the days, huh? Next time one of my kids ends up bashing his head open, I'm gonna make sure it's on a day that is not quite so inconvenient for me.
I had the opportunity to attend a little festival in my town this weekend. It wasn't any big deal, just a tiny l'il dealie where local vendors could set up stands selling the Japanese festival equivalent of hot dogs, pizza, funnel cake, and cotton candy: Octopus balls, yakisoba, okonomiyaki, and crepes (yeah, that last one doesn't really seem to fit, huh? Crepes're big here). Every one of these fairs is just about the exact same, but I still like going to them because it means I get to eat lots of tasty Japanese junk food and have it count as my dinner. I happily attend them even knowing that each one will be a veritable minefield of students I know. It can actually be quite an unnerving situation -- I teach so many students that EVERY SINGLE kid I walk by could be one of them, but I have no way of knowing unless they say something first. Thus I spend lots of time kinda half-smiling at little kids I walk past. Half the time, it will indeed be one of my students because he'll then yell "CHOW-SENSEI!", and I'll return a quick "Hello" before sprinting off like there was an invisible rope connecting my groin to a passing car. The other time, they DON'T actually know me, and were just staring at a smudge of jam on my face or something, and I merely end up looking like a possible child molester. I feel like a soldier wandering around a village during the Vietnam War, because dammit, my students just melt into the crowd. I swear, I'm going to insist my students wear uniforms everywhere they go from now on.
Anyway, like I was saying, I've been a bit better about dealing with my students in recent months, so I wasn't afraid about going this time. In fact, I was actually looking forward to it, because it meant they would get to see me in a different light than they usually do. No more of this strict, ruler-wielding, button-down Chow-Sensei, but rather, just cool, laid-back Galvin; someone with whom my students, nay, my kids, could feel comfortable around and just rap with a while.
Either that or, y'know, I could just get dead stinking drunk:
From Zero to Drunk in 400 yen
Okay, so I wasn't really so bombed I was falling over or anything, but I certainly had enough to get the ol' red glow of the Asian Curse going: which for me would be ah, one beer (Asian Curse. Told ya). Boy, do you know that a year ago, I was thinking about completely giving up drinking, 100%, cold turkey? With seriously, not second thought ONE about it? Yeah, then I came HERE. When people tell you drinking is a necessity in Japan, they mean drinking is a necessity in Japan. Not so much to escape the non-stop 24 tour of pain that is my daily life, but because, like I said, you need to drink here. It's practically in your job description. Japanese people commemorate pretty much EVERYTHING with a drinking party. Every time a new teacher arrives, whoop, let's drink! Every time an old teacher leaves, whoop, let's drink again! Hey, Kobayashi-san, did your dog just sneeze on a Thursday? Whoop, let's DRINK!
At any rate, one benefit of the bottle-centric culture of Japan is that public drunkeness isn't so much a taboo as it is a biological function, like menstruation. See, in other countries, elementary kids might shy away from people reeking of booze, but here, they gravitate towards you because you smell like their uncle. I had frickin' TEN YEAR-OLDS cracking 'old drunk' jokes at my expense, that's how normal a sight it is for them. The girl in the above picture, a junior high student of mine, even chastised me for getting that red-faced on just ONE beer.
Still, even though the kids didn't mind, I got the feeling that some of the PARENTS sure did! After all, I kinda blend into a crowd myself here, so it's not immediately obvious to parents that the over-smiley person offering their young son or daughter food is in fact their English teacher. It didn't help that many of my younger kids would insist on holding my hand and walking me through the fair. If it was more visibly obvious that I was a foreigner, most people would just kinda assume I was an English teacher. But well, things being what they are, I got a lot of uh, cautious looks from parents at the fair yesterday. Usually once the kids introduced me, it was okay, but a lot of the younger kids would see absolutely no reason whatsoever to clue in their parents on just who the fuck I was, and why I was holding a delicious confectionary treat in one hand and their son's or daughter's innocent little paw in the other. Hmm. Come to think of it, maybe I oughta start wearing some kind of uniform around myself.
One of my third graders just beat me up. I can't begin to tell you how embarassing this is. I've got a reputation to uphold. I mean, I beat up students a fifth my size on a daily basis, so I'm no pushover. But this kid -- his hands were as big and imposing as Dixie cups, and he moved with the speed of a remote control boat running on incorrect voltage -- he just twisted me in knots. At least there's some solace in that it was an ASIAN third grader that physically dominated me. After all, if 80s movies have taught me anything, just about every other Asian kid is some kind of martial arts master. Except this one actually was.
...okay, so I'm exaggerating to make myself look better: see, by "martial arts master", I meant, "has been studying Aikido for three years at some strip-mall dojo". And by "physically dominated", I meant "was able to put me on the ground after asking to show me a move". Still, I think it's fairly impressive. Even though I let him put me in that arm lock in the first place, it was a lot harder to get out than I would have liked to admit. I've actually studied Aikido myself -- for about three months, that is, during which I learned how to defend against highly unlikely forms of physical assault: let me tell ya, if any of you are ever planning on attacking me with a cartoonishly high overhead chop, or perhaps running up and gingerly grabbing both my wrists, brother, you'd better watch out, 'cause it'll be like I was running a Fucked Store and YOU just became my best customer.
Anyway, if the Karate Kid movies have now indeed taught me anything, I can expect the kid who beat me up to now break some of my beloved bonsai, harass me while I am dressed as a shower, and then during the big tournament try to 'sweep the leg'. Don't worry about me, though. I'm gonna train real hard for my next encounter with the little punk. I imagine we will have a climactic battle in the middle of the town square after the kid violently interrupts a beautiful fan dance performed by the lady I currently love. Then, I'll have to call upon all my training, draw on the overwhelming moral support of those around me, take a deep breath, rear back, and kick him SO hard in the groin that his testicles pop up into his eye sockets. Let's see the little pisser Aikido THAT.
I spent much of my time at work today trying very, very hard not to stare at one of my 9th grader's breasts. It wasn't my fault, I swear. Part of it was that not one month ago this student looked like your regular, innocent, flat-chested girl, but today when I came in all of a sudden she's Busty the Chest Monster. And I'm not talking regular, even modest-sized breasts here. These were monstrous, aggressively large sweater monkeys that look like they were grafted on by Mother Nature to ward off predators. If this girl ever gets shot at, I would be not at all surprised if one of her boobs just kinda reached up and batted the bullet away. Lord knows they seemed to have the necessary capacity for independent motion.
Now, noticing something like this on ANY of my students is bad enough, but what makes it far, FAR worse is that today I was at my SPECIAL school. YES, I KNOW. I certainly didn't TRY to notice, but even if I didn't look, the gravitational pull generated by these things would have eventually torn my retinas from my sockets. Part of it was that they were so damn gargantuan, literally almost as big as her damn head, and part of it was that they seemingly grew overnight. Now, I willingly admit that I don't really know a whole lot about the development cycle of young girls' bodies, but basic physics seems to dictate that NOTHING should be able to grow that much and that quickly without flat-out EXPLODING with the force of a thousand suns. I suppose it's entirely possible that this mentally handicapped girl had somehow just gotten the idea to start stuffing her bra -- stuffing her bra with dozens of extra-absorbent diapers and then standing in the rain for four hours, that is -- but if not, quite frankly, she is some kind of phenomenonal pubertactical miracle.
Just so you don't misunderstand me here -- it wasn't anything gross or sketchily-rooted that was making me look; not at all. It was the sheer astonishment and SPECTACLE. I mean, it was as if this girl had suddenly sprouted a third arm, or revealed to me that all her limbs are in fact detachable. Regardless, looking was looking, and looking was, no matter how you slice it, VERY VERY BAD.
Naturally, the very second I noticed my student's, uh, changes, I resolved right then and there NEVER to look. And for the most part, thankfully for the eventual destination of my eternal soul, I succeeded. But, proving once again that there IS a God and he likes to fuck with me, events were set in motion that didn't make my visual discipline any easier. For one, guess what the exercise activity was for today? That's right, JUMP ROPE! Followed by, I am NOT EVEN KIDDING, an extended session on the trampoline. And for whatever reason today's physical education session was extended from 40 minutes to THE ENTIRE MORNING. Also not helping was the fact that this girl for whatever reason just seems to love me; whenever she spots me she never fails to call out my name and then come running up to me in huge, bounding gallops. Thus my attempts to merely isolate myself with other students who would only cough and drool on me were futile: sooner or later, this girl would run up to me, grab my hand, and enthusiastically shout, "Come watch me jump rope, Chow-Sensei! Come watch me jump rope!" Thus, I spent much of this morning staring directly down at the floor, periodically saying things like, "Yes, that's very jumping, Miki. Yes, very impressive. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pay a bunch of Druids to beat me to the death with the Bible."
Those of you that read my July 4th entry know how freaked out I was having a student with a gushing head wound next to me. Well, believe me when I say that, in terms of personal and professional comfort, I'll take a gushing head wound over giant bosoms anyway.
No, I DON'T have time for an actual update, but I'm just putting this here so you will notice my brand new links section that really, had to happen sometime. I've been against having a links section for a long time, mostly because they're usually pretty worthless, but I figure the more links I exchange the more hits and visitors I can get, and then when I get enough, I, I dunno, receive a diamond-encrusted pony in the mail or something. Anyway, again, check the LINK SECTION out, and help me feed my shrewd commercial impulses. Okay, so there's only four sites listed there now, at least two of which you've been to before, but hey, at least it's not totally full of lame, all right? Right, that's it, I'm off to a lakeside shindig of some sort now. Talk amongst yourselves.
...oh, fine. Here's a link. A rather disturbing one, at that. Thank you, reader Mandy Mitchell.
A new JET is coming over in August to take overYachiho, my only junior high, from me, so yesterday I put on a suit and tie, made a little speech, taught my last couple classes there, and said good-bye...FOREVER. Okay, so it wasn't quite so melodramatic, but I did actually found myself getting a little sad over it. I mean, the kids have never been nicer to me. Even the ones I've kinda been butting heads with over the past few months went out of their way to come say good-bye to me. Some even wrote me nice little notes in English; hell, some of them even gave me PRESENTS. A 7th grader gave me a stuffed Pluto doll signed in ugly black marker by her and four of her friends. An 8th grader gave me a nicely-wrapped handkerchief, presumably to curb my bad habit of blowing my nose on my pants. The 9th graders all signed these oversized hand-made cards, in English, featuring such messages as "Please stay healthy forever" and "From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew it was love". But the kicker was when one kid, who in lieu of ever talking to me has always elected to annoyingly poke me in the ribs, timidly approached me, gave me an awkward handshake and a hug, tossed a brown paper bag at me, and sprinted off. I opened the bag to find a dainty little stuffed bear inside. I'm gonna miss these kids.
The last hour I was there was probably one of the most hectic I've ever had here. I don't know if I've ever mentioned it, but a lot of elementary kids have the habit of asking foreigners they see for their signature. I'm not sure what they ever plan to DO with them, but I'm always compliant since it seems to please them; as well as feed my voracious narcissism. Anyway, like I said, I've only ever been mobbed for signatures at elementary school before, but yesterday was the first (and last) time it's ever happened at my junior high. I think it started with just one kid, but soon enough they were lined up at the office door brandishing anything available that could be written on --notebooks, hats, shoes, backpacks, even hands -- for me to sign my name. As you read this there are probably kids at my former JHS playing baseball right now wearing bright white hats with "GALVIN CHOW" written across them in my unreadable cursive scrawl. Man, the instant I get famous, which you know has to happen SOMEDAY, come on, those are gonna be some wealthy kids. Assuming they never do laundry, that is.
Of course, my begrudgingly missing the kids isn't the ONLY reason I'm sad about leaving my junior high. Compared to elementary school, junior high was always a cakewalk. In between reading the paper and drinking coffee, I'd occasionally wander up to a classroom and read a few sentences out of the textbook in a funny voice. Then, I'd head back to the teacher's room, where I'd read one of the old copies of People that are oddly sitting around, and maybe check my email for a while. It was a good deal. But now that my JHS is gone, leaving me with 7 elementary schools and one special-needs school, I'm gonna be spending nearly every work day teaching 4-6 classes, essentially by myself, in my broken Japanese to boot. Essentially, losing my junior high like this basically means I have signed a big imaginary contract that reads I, the undersigned, guarantee I will go completely ass-bananas crazy by October of next year at latest. Admittedly, I've gotten considerably better at handling myself at elementary schools lately, but I'm seriously wondering if I can hack it doing it every day. Well, at least I have summer vacation to think about it.
Actually, yesterday served as an interesting preview of what things will be like next year when I leave Japan altogether. I was actually getting pretty uncharacteristically sentimental when making the final walk from the school to the train station. I kept thinking, "This is the last time I'll be waving bye to the baseball team. This is the last time I'll be walking this path. This is the last time I'll be buying a ticket from this nice lady at the station who always says hi to me." And this is just one school. What's it gonna be like next year when I leave eight others? I realized that, when I leave back for the States this time next year, I'm going to have to accept that I will NEVER see any of these kids again. It's kind of a weird thought; being a part of these kids' lives for two years, only for basic geography to dictate that there is a 99.9% chance of absolutely never crossing paths again. Equally weird is the notion that someday, when these kids are old enough to idly be nostalgic, some of them might even get briefly nostalgic about ME: "Remember Chow-Sensei?" one student of mine will say to another over a beer. "Yeah," the other will reply, lifting his glass with his one remaining arm, "Every time I look at this stump on my shoulder."
One last thing I wanted to share, for it is likely my last JHS anecdote ever -- for my last class yesterday, I played Jeopardy! with the kids. It was a lot of fun, a great way to end, but I made the mistake of letting 7th graders choose their own team names. In case you were wondering how things turned out, Team Ultrasex ended up beating the Cherry Nipples $2100 to $1900. I'm gonna miss the perverted little bastards.
I was walking to the school gym today when I heard a strange, low, guttural noise. It sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn't identify it, so I figured it musta just been some stupid kid playing a trick on me. However, when I walked a little further, all of a sudden this big fluffy white THING leapt up out of nowhere, propped its front feet on the dividing fence, and with a mighty bellow let lose a fearsome cry of BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Yes, there are fucking SHEEP at my school. Just kinda hanging out behind the waist-high fence, chewing grass, drinking water, dropping feces where ever they please; as if, y'know, they're supposed to be there. After a year here, I'd forgotten just how countrified my town is, but then a sheep nearly jumps the fence and BAAAAAAAAS in my face to remind me. If that isn't a metaphor for my time here, well fuck if I know what is.
So the last couple weekends have been pretty good:
I may be sleeping in my own filth, but at least I'm reasonably safe from earthquakes
Generally I like to stray away from the OLOLO I GOT TRASHED TIHS WKEND OLOLO2005!!!!!1111 style journal entries, since, let's face it, I'm not good enough a writer to make them sound interesting to anyone who wasn't actually there. Still, there is the fact that drinking has come to play a larger and larger part in my weekly routine since coming to this GODFORSAKEN HELLHOLE, and it is my sworn duty as a self-important web journal-er to paint a picture of his lifestyle that is accurate even if slightly dramatized on occasion. That being said: if my life were a play the role of Drinking would go to the obnoxiously untalented niece of the producer, who, due to shameless nepotism, would eventually find her stage time comparable to that of the leads, and her name listed third on the marquee.
Anyway, last weekend me and a bunch of friends rented a cabin by Lake Matsubara, not too far from here. Although I say "cabin," what I really mean is "unbelievably large, modern mansion" that would easily have accomodated double the 20 or so people we loaded in there. I can't say I ever actually saw the lake, but hey, the 'cabin' was indeed nice, as were the barbecued meats and spirits with which we all filled the place. Like I said though, I don't know how to describe weekends like this without coming off as obnoxious. However, it doesn't really matter, because mostly I'm writing about this as an excuse to show this ooh-tastic picture of my friend Michelle's glowstick stylings, which we managed to photograph mostly because it was taken with a camera that was either very good or very sucky. I'd include a picture of ME swinging around glowsticks, but unfortunately I couldn't go long enough without striking myself about the face and ribs long enough to get an actual picture taken. Good time, regardless, that probably would have been even better had I not had a separate engagement the next day that again saw me drink too much and perform a really pretty hilariously pertinent rendition of Domo Arrigato, Mr. Roboto on karaoke. The best part was seeing my Japanese hosts join in for the first two lines, and the chorus, but nothing else.
This weekend, then, was filled with more singing, barbecuing, and drinking, again in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. This time it was in a house in the woods that my middle-aged Japanese host had built himself, which is something that I find endlessly impressive. The only time I have ever built any kind of structure myself was when I was 10 and me and my friend decided it would be a great idea to nail a large piece of cardboard to the top of a tree and call it a Secret Awesome Clubhouse (SAC). However, whereas our architectural effort came to a tragic end one rainstorm later, my host's self-made house actually looked like a real actual house even after prolonged exposure to the elements. What's even more amazing is that seemingly every one of the host's friends and family could both speak English fluently AND play multiple musical instruments with professional-level skill; as was proved by the requisite Beatles performances that took place throughout the night.
Of course, at one point, your truly even got up there, took a seat behind the drums, and rocked SO HARD that it's a wonder the self-made house was even left standing. Okay, so really I only managed to keep a repetitive and reasonably steady beat; something that really, should have been far less of a chore given my psychologically-scarring secret marching band past. But that's a story that will have to be told another time, since right now, I'm too write to drunk. LOL2005!!!111
Okay, so this is a pretty pointless irritatingly blog-like entry. Really though, like I've said before, alcohol is seriously as big a part of Japanese culture as uh, kabuki or samurais or any of that crap, so as a self-proclaimed cultural ambassador I feel obliged to sample it. After all, I firmly believe that, when one is in Rome, one should do as the Romans do, even/especially if the Romans happen to be getting naked and really liquored up. I would, after all, not be a very good guest if I did not keep an open mind about all things. P.S. pls think i am cool.
Today during a break I was giving one student a ride on my shoulders (horsey ride), which of course prompted approximately six dozen others to mob me and state loudly and obnoxiously that it was THEY that truly deserved the horsey ride. The ones that expressed this belief merely verbally really weren't so bad, since of course after a year of teaching screeching children I'm basically deaf to any tone higher than a bassoon exploding in slow-motion underwater. No, the true problem kids were the ones who simply could not wait for the current rider's endless 3-seconds-and-counting horsey ride to be over and thus decided to compromise by climbing onto me and hanging off of any part of my body that wasn't already occupied by another kid. I tried to explain to them that the added weight of 16 other children was making it increasingly difficult to balance the original 1 on my shoulders, but that was about as successful as you might expect.
See, I always forget that these children are not so much stupid, evil children as they are just YOUNG. They have, after all, only been on this planet for about five years and probably have only been outside of their own homes a cumulative total of 4 weeks of their entire lives. They still don't have any real concept of danger, nor of what is a good idea and what is a bad idea in general. They don't yet get that actions can have consequences. I was reminded of this lesson today when, near the very abrupt end of the horsey ride session, one sharp little future rocket scientist postulated that, if Chow-Sensei could handle the weight of a dozen of his classmates without being jump-kicked in the groin, then certainly Chow-Sensei could do it WITH being kicked in the groin. And, inquisitive little guy that he was, he then set out to personally test his hypothesis.
Let me tell you, it's a very emasculating feeling watching a small, mischievous figure barreling towards you for what you know by now could only be one reason, and not having a limb free to do anything about it. I practically saw it happen in slow-motion, but short of dropping a kid directly in front of my crotch to intercept the blow, there wasn't a thing I could do but brace myself. "Chinpo!!" (penis!) the kid triumphantly screamed. "Unfgah", the hapless English teacher murmured, as he struggled to keep from crumpling to the ground. Luckily, there wasn't much weight behind the kick so I managed to keep my balance, but still. He's lucky there WAS enough weight behind the kick to keep me from chasing him down and creating a very big headache for the Child Welfare Committee.
Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened. Back when I first started teaching, I was amusing myself by carrying around a first grader above my head one-handed, when one of his classmates thought it'd be a real swell idea to jump off of a fucking piano and drop-kick me in the knee. He and his friends thought it was absolutely hysterical of course, watching me wobble frantically afterwards; hell, even the kid I was CARRYING thought it was quite funny. Angrily I explained to them that leaping off the piano and drop-kicking the teacher is not advisable behavior under ANY circumstances, let alone when he is carrying one of their compatriots in not exactly the most stable manner. You can tell that what I was saying really got through to them because they then hooted wildly and made fun of my pronunciation. See, now do I chalk this up to youth or stupidity? Is there a difference? Either way, this is why I rarely ever actually play with children outside of class, and instead opt to spend my breaks sitting in the corner of the staff room drinking coffee and muttering to myself. The innocence of youth, indeed.
A phrase I seem to mutter a lot ever since coming to Japan is "So this is my life." It may not be art, but it's a very versatile phrase whose meaning changes depending on whether it is followed by a resigned sigh or a big shit-eating grin. Combining its negative and positive uses into one entry definitely shoots it to the top of my Mutterance Lexicon, easily bumping off former stalwarts I bet this could cut a vein and i do not like men i like women i do not like men i like women i do not like men i like women. Yes, whether I am beating a student to death with his own leg, or I am beating a student to death with his own leg, it seems like there is nothing I experience here that cannot be followed by some utterance of so this is my life either sardonic or euphoric. But what's really surprising, however, is realizing just how long I've been saying it. Because, I recently realized, after today, I'll officially have been in Japan for a YEAR. A YEAR. I'd start hysterically shrieking at the thought, but I'm in the office, and the appointed Hysterical Shrieking time isn't scheduled until after group calistenics at 3 PM. And I'm serious about at least half that sentence.
But yeah, I've been here a year. 12 months of small children stripping my dignity off in little pieces. 52 weeks of collecting the first steady paycheck of my (arguably) adult life. 365 days of yes, painting a melodramatic picture of my life here on the Internet (actually, that one probably scares me the most). Yesterday was the last day I'll have to teach for over a month. I should be uncompromisingly happy; fuck that, I should be euphoric, running naked through the streets covered with nothing but whiskey and eventual police-baton-shaped bruises. And believe me, part of me is that ecstatic, but realizing I've now been here a year has injected annoying bits of more complicated feelings into the equation. Which is appropriate, because at its core, this has been a year of severe ups and downs. Things have settled significantly in the past couple months, true, but in general, this past year has been one big bumpy roller coaster ride of emotional whiplash.
Waking up each morning is like a roll of the dice: What mood will Galvin be in today? Some days I'll wake up and just feel so honestly gosh-darn lucky to be here that the only thing capable of spoiling my mood would be an errant mack truck suddenly appearing in the path of my bicycle. Other days, I'll wake up to find that someone snuck in during the night and drew a fake moustache and boobs on my self-image.
One thing I do not want anyone to mistake is that living in a foreign country is HARD. Even when it's great, it's still hard. There are times I curse myself for ever wanting to 'challenge myself' in the first place, times I wish I would have just let myself be content having a day-to-day life where settling my water bill wouldn't give me an ulcer and not understanding what I'm to do at work is due to mere stupidity and not a language barrier. I once read that Japan is one of the hardest countries to live in, because everything looks so much like America but it's not; I've since decided this is completely accurate. You see McDonald's, you see American movies advertised everywhere, hell, you see the fucking Simpsons advertising soft drinks, and you think, damn, this ain't so different. But it's the little things. The little things are what get ya. Whenever I have to eat a bee or walk out of a store finding someone dressed as a giant crepe -- that's easy. That's weird, that's exotic, that's novel; my mind easily wraps around it because it's so new and different to me I have no point of reference. The subtle things though, the not so black and white, little differences you don't even consciously notice for months on end, those are the sticky parts. A teacher taking me aside and patronizingly telling me that my lesson of having each student say "I like _____" is too difficult for 6th graders -- I smile and nod, and thank him for his advice, but later I'm wondering -- "Was he being Japanese, or just fucking stupid?" And if I question his judgement, am I being strong-willed? Or merely culturally insensitive?
Those arent even the 'little things' I'm talking about. You'll think I'm crazy, but...here in Japan, I'll say, bite into a donut, and it will be, quite distinctly, a donut, but it'll taste somehow different in a way I can't quite put my finger on. And it's not like I freak out right then and there in the middle of Mister Donut screaming DEAR GOD THE DIRTY JAPS HAVE PERVERTED A CLASSIC, but, it is something that will make an almost imperceptible yet present mark on my brain. THAT is the sort of stupid, little difference I'm babbling about. I'm talking about turning on the TV without first thinking, "Y'know, didn't I hear ENOUGH of this language at work today?" I'm talking about realizing that it's been a long time since you flicked a light switch that moves vertically instead of horizontally and actually getting kind of sad about it. 99% of you probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but maybe some of you who are also in foreign countries, or were at some point, probably have some idea of what I mean, even if my examples were a little too weird or specific. Because it is these tiny, insignificant things, these subconcious but omnipresent reminders of what you've left behind that can make it hard to live here.
Semi-relevant pop-culture tangent: there's a great episode of The Simpsons that shows that, to combat potential homesickness, the toilets in the American Embassy in Australia have special devices installed to make otherwise the clockwise-flushing water flow counterclockwise in the "correct, American way". Homer then flushes the toilet and a tear drops from his eye as he sings the Star-Spangled Banner, and of course it's all very humorous, but you know what? TOTALLY TRUE.
In the end, though, they are just little things, and not your entire life. And the fact of the matter is, these are the little things that the large majority of you will never have the privilege of realizing you always took them for granted. Yeah, the privilege. Because ultimately, beyond the money, the language study, the endless pursuit of weird, my mentally and financially crippling hobby of buying schoolgirls' dirty panties from vending machines other assorted interests -- much of the reason I decided to come to Japan in the first place is, really, to challenge myself and my sensibilities. Living in a foreign country FORCES you to realize what you really do, and do not, need. So of course it's hard. It's supposed to be, and I knew it would before coming here. But the point is, every time I find myself uttering "So this is my life," it at least means I am having some sort of concrete reaction to my own life. Which is more than I can say for my life before coming to Japan.
So yeah, I've been here for a year. Weird, huh?
Frequent (relatively) contributor Harrison Breueueruer dropped me a friendly e-mail to say hi a couple days ago:
To: crapmaster@kindofcrap.com
Subject: you moron
goddamn it you retard, Homer doesn't sing the National anthem in
Australia,
he sings My Country Tis of Thee. Get it right, announce your error and
credit my intelligence for correcting it.
Harrison
As you can see, we here at kindofcrap.com have a staff that is mutually respectful of each other's feelings; even Harrison, that pompous pooface. But goddamn it, he's right. I KNEW using a Simpsons reference was dangerous, since this is the internet, meaning SOMEONE was bound to correct me on the tiniest mistake. Back when I wrote that Fight Club/Calvin and Hobbes thing, I got emails correcting me on Calvin's age for about A YEAR. So this time, I'm nipping 'er in the bud: I KNOW it's wrong, so don't e-mail me, you obsessive freaks.
In other news, while pretty much all other JETs have vacation, I get to sit in the office every day for 8 hours. Faargh. Oh well, you know what that means...plenty of journal updates! Yippee! Hooray! BE EXCITED GODDAMN IT
And now, for your amusement, I present a picture of a grown man wearing a Megatron costume:
"I belong to NOBODY!! Except, oh, you. And you. And ooh, YOU."
HAHAHAHAHAHaha. That, my friends, is 10 pounds of pedophile in a 5 pound bag. A 5 pound, paper mache bag. Meticulously constructed in his parents' garage. Admittedly, the costume itself is actually pretty impressively well-made, but that does not change the fact that the man inside of it looks like Hitler if he were reincarnated as a Miami Vice fan. I no longer question what makes people dress up as giant robots, or cartoon characters in general. I merely mock them from afar. From as afar as possible, in fact. Again, if anyone has any funny captions for this picture, send 'em in. Maybe I'll actually post them this time, too! Here's some to start you off, which again, at least half of which you will only get if you as big a nerd as me:
Woo. Well, that's done. NOW what do I do with the rest of the day in the office?
As evident from my latest guestbook entry, it's good to see Paolo-Sensei made it back to the states all right. Eat a taco for me, pally. Several. I, meanwhile, shall take care of the Miniskirt Police. "What Miniskirt Police?" the rest of you are now asking, because you are trained sheep. What Miniskirt Police, you assbuckets ask? Why, THESE Miniskirt Police:
Keeping the streets safe from everything that's not an STD
Is it me, or have I been rather picture-happy this month? Oh well. Anyway, I dunno about you, but I sure sleep sounder at night knowing the streets of my neighborhood are being patroled by by bimbos in white vinyl police uniforms who look like they could complete an entire math test without writing one number. Obviously I can only speak for myself here, but if I were an evildoer and saw one of these intimidatingly skanky figures of justice sashaying towards me in a righteous manner, I'd drop my brown cloth bags with green dollar signs drawn on them and hightail it the hell outta there. For those of you not practiced at reading between the lines, I shall now point out that THEY'RE NOT REALLY POLICE THEY'RE WHORES YOU IDIOTS
Well, perhaps "whore" isn't the right term, because frankly, I'm not entirely sure how far their, ah, jurisdiction extends. Though rest assured, I aim to be filling that particular vacuum of knowledge as soon as possible, rest assured. However, until I scrape up the necessary funds, let's just go with the all-encompassing "sex worker", just to be safe. What I DO know however, is that this girl and many dressed exactly like her set up shop right next to Paolo's girlfriend's apartment a couple months ago, and every time we walk by there -- and reportedly whenever Paolo and his ladyfriend are trying to get some sleep -- we can hear them and several very sloshed male guests singing wild, rousing songs about breasts. All of which seem to go like, and I am not kidding, Ai ai ai ai oppai oppai oppai oppai (Boobies Boobies Boobies Boobies)! Personally, I find it a very moving song, and were it up to me it would be this country's national anthem. Speaking of which...what IS this country's national anthem?.
Anyway, I'm actually rather proud of this photo simply because it marks the first clear shot we've ever got of them. You wouldn't think it, but sightings of these ladies are surprisingly elusive, not that it hasn't become a well-nigh nightly ritual to look for them. For whatever reason, they only seem to come out at odd hours on weekday nights, and usually only when it's raining (?). Every time we go to see if they're prowling about they're either not there, or we forgot a camera. In fact, the only previous picture we have of them came out all blurry. They're like Bigfoot, only marginally more attractive. But now, finally, they are captured on film; although, call it a hunch here, something tells me it isn't the first time for them.
The kindofcrap.com messageboard is coming together; I'll probably put it up in about a month. I'm going to regret this, aren't I?
I've mentioned it before, but for whatever reason I seem to get a disproportionate amount of emails from people in the military. I never quite understood how some scrawny kid in Japan writing about why anime is stupid appeals to people who know how to kill me with their thumbs, but one guy writing me from a chemical weapons depot summed it up thusly:
Well, I can't speak of the others, but what I find in your writing is some of the same frustration and hostility that I feel on a daily basis in the Army. Feeling trapped by something you volunteered for, irritated by millions of small issues that build up and never seem to go away. You know,that kind of stuff. Plus you swear a lot and get drunk, which is second nature to military types.
Sounds about right to me, although I never knew I had so much in common with the army. Anyway, along those lines, here's a webpage you should check out. It's by a guy named Scott Harris, an apparent frequent kindofcrap reader who is stationed in Iraq right now. I honestly can't imagine what it must be like being over there right, under those circumstances. I like to think I'm some great big adventurer by living over here in Japan, but looking at stuff like this reminds me of just how much of a pretentious ass I am for even thinking it.
At any rate, Scott has some pretty fascinating pictures of Baghdad (and Alyssa Milano, in Baghdad) you should definitely see. Some are sobering, some are surprising, some are funny, and some have Rebecca Romjin-Stamos in far too little of a shirt. One even has Uncle Jessie himself, John Stamos; which I think is hilarious because you can just kinda hear the soldiers saying "Beat it, assboat, we only care about your wife."
Seriously though, it's the variety of the tone of the photos that makes me feel like Scott's page paints a pretty accurate picture of what it's actually like in Iraq right now. I especially love how a lot of the pictures just kinda makes it look like they're on some cheesy group tour. Some of them almost make it look like they're on vacation. Then you notice the rifles in their hands. I dunno, I guess it's just kinda cool to see these guys fucking around like anyone else would in a new country. It's very humanizing to see stuff like this, instead of just thinking of the people over there right now as the faceless AMERICAN PRESENCE. At any rate, keep up the good work, Scott. And if the fuckbots that read this site end up killing your bandwidth, I'm sorry.
