An English Sensei in Japan
Japan
It was never a “dream” of mine. It just sort of happened. I was no longer myself. I took on a new identity, you might say.
No, I wasn’t schizophrenic, running away from myself, or even a criminal and no criminal tendencies! In fact, I took on my new identity in a far different way. It was the decision I made to take a leap quite literally across the ocean and become a sensei (teacher), teaching English in Japan.
Living in Japan for two years as an English teacher was the “experience of a lifetime”, as the cliché goes. Being submerged in the daily life and rituals of the Japanese, as the only foreigner at a high school with 700 students, filled my days with endless questions.
Questions not only from my students, but also from myself.
My eager students returned my queries with questions such as:
Not really on the topic of “English”, my specialty, but they were questions that were important because they asked. I was there to answer those questions. I let the students know that I didn’t personally know Brad Pitt, but had a crush on him for years. Yes, indeed I did eat sushi and lots of it, to be exact. (Maybe civilization didn’t need fire after all! I wouldn’t go that far, but it did open my eyes to life before actual cooking and the invention of the wheel and I thought about this seriously off and on for two years). And no, I didn’t own my own gun in America.
Those students taught me a whole lot about life. They taught me not to take myself too seriously. After all, how could I? Standing in front of forty students in each class with the feat of trying to even pronounce one of their names was a daily failure I learned to face. I eventually gave up trying to memorize all three hundred names I saw on a weekly basis. Always giving it a hearty college try and usually being way off, or pronouncing their name in some fashion that loosely translated into something ridiculous like “dried fish” or “yellow octopus” followed with more laughs.
A Japanese classroom would be an aspiring comedian’s dream, I quickly realized. With hardly any effort whatsoever, you can gain the laughter and howl of the crowd. All one must be is non-Japanese, your normal self, teaching English to Japanese students. The results are more laughter from a large group of folks in one performance than most comedians get in an entire aspiring career. This laughter only prepared and educated me for more Japanese wonders.
How could I be serious? After all, to the students I didn’t know the latest Japanese rock bands. For that matter, what did it matter? I couldn’t have pronounced them anyhow. This was only the beginning.
How could I be serious when I couldn’t read the signs for the restrooms – always guessing and hoping I entered the correct one, until I understood the differences in the symbols. I can say luck was on my side with this one. I always seemed to hit the right gender. I didn’t frighten any unsuspecting Japanese males, that I am aware of, anyhow.
How could I be serious when I put soy sauce on my rice until I learned it was a total “no no” in Japan. I was being the rudest of rude by “contaminating” my rice in such a way. I’m not sure when I learned this great truth of life. I may have committed the sin for almost six months before repenting.
How could I be serious when I couldn’t “really” shop for food because I couldn’t read the labels. Unfortunately, the Japanese don’t cater to non-natives with pictures. Trial and error. It’s almost like shopping in a black bag – just pull out what you can reach and hope for the best. Can you say, “expanding your palate”?
How could I be serious when on a weekly basis, I ended up on the wrong side of town or the city when I accidentally took the wrong direction on the train home. Deciphering all the maze-like train signs, I felt like an early explorer trying to figure out what messages the Ancient Egyptians left on the Pyramid walls. Can you say patience, or learning it?
How could I be serious when I decided I wasn’t going to pay for Japanese public television because I couldn’t understand it. When the cable guy showed up religiously each month at my door (in Japan, it is common for many services to be paid directly to a person who comes to your home versus mailing payments) he would yell outside my door, “April Sensei, April Sensei” for twenty minutes. Everyone in town then knew who the foreign sensei was as the decibel level would rise with each yell of my name. I pretended I wasn’t home. This went on for several months, until I finally figured out how to tell him I didn’t have a television, which, of course, was a lie. Hey, learning to lie about such technical matters in a foreign tongue takes time.
How could I be serious when I thought I’d come down with a good case of strep throat and the whole office of teachers I worked with insisted they see for themselves before taking me to the doctors. Let’s just say it’s not a pretty sight when the foreigner needs to show the curious Japanese what strep throat looks like on an American girl.
How could I be serious when seriously ill with a long delayed case of strep, in fact, lying on the physician’s table, it is determined I need a shot by the medical expert. Have you seen comedies on TV when they highly exaggerate the size of the “shots” to enhance the comedic effect? Well, those exist in the real world in Japan. I saw a shot coming at me from above towards my arm about the size of a large turkey baster. I started to mutter, “What is it? What is it?” I got a pat on the head from the nurse calling me “cute”, or was it “scared”? You see, the words for cute and scared are so similar in Japanese, it’s hard to determine. I never found out what was basted into my arm that day, but I assume it was some massive amount of antibiotic. I overcame the strep throat and a trip to the Japanese doctor’s office without taking myself too seriously.
How could I be serious when, while dining out one evening with co-workers, a platter of nice fresh raw red meat on a bed of lettuce was brought to our table (the raw thing again). This time I thought to myself, “Ah, we will be cooking it here at the table, kind of like a fancy Asian BBQ, only inside.” Wrong again. A bell should have gone off. The meat was quickly and neatly wrapped in the lettuce and munched away. Feeling unnerved at the thought of eating raw beef, I questioned my choice of adventure versus sickness the next day. Should I throw in the towel and give raw beef a try? Before I could even decide, I was informed from my fellow co-worker munching away, “But April Sensei, this is not beef, it’s – how do you say – ah, it’s horse.”
Sitting before me was a large platter of raw horsemeat. I imagined the little horses running around in a field. I decided this would be the one “delicacy” that might have to remain a mystery in my Japanese life. I had two simple rules I set up quite early on in my arrival to the Island for Japanese cuisine. I would not eat items that still had eyes nor would I eat items which I considered “furry pets”, horses, of course, falling under the second law. Pretty fair, I thought, but certainly not taking myself too seriously.
All in all, life as a sensei taught me a large lesson about living in a foreign country. Things aren’t always as they seem and if you think they are, then you’re probably taking yourself too seriously.
