Not Since the Deliveryman Called me Harry Bellafonte...

Yes, yes, the concert last Saturday went well. Lots of fun, even if it was a little tense because about half of our audience (5 of 11 people) were musicians, meaning they probably could catch it when I screwed up. Still, one guy was enthusiastic enough to ask for three encores, and we had a nice little session time after the show where the audience came up to play a few numbers. And we played one more, too.

Before the show, we had a rather interesting encounter with a Japanese man whose name escapes me (not an uncommon phenomenon) who seemed keen on America to the point of...well, oddity. A few of his points (as best I could understand them) are here enumerated (and no, I really didn't make any of these up):

1. Japanese people are all very short compared to foreigners.

2. Japan has way more homeless people than America does.
2a. Furthermore, Japanese homeless people are ugly and smell bad.
2b. By contrast, American homeless people are certainly all attractive.

3. Japanese people cannot grow facial hair well.
3a. Foreigners, who can grow excellent facial hair, all look like Charles Bronson.

It's really refreshing, especially after some recent nastiness, to confirm that even the people who really like America still have no idea what foreigners are actually like.

Today in Shameless Plugs

Just a last-minute plea for attention from anyone who might be in Osaka tomorrow (that would be Saturday, October 23rd): Jenn and I will be performing two sets of live jazz and blues at our home away from home away from America, Raku Cafe. Please enjoy this copy-pasted advertisement, free of charge!

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Yes, once again, Jenn, Harry, and Yutaka-san will be performing jazz and blues at New Raku Cafe in Shin-Imamiya! We've been some days in preparation; a splendid time is guaranteed for all! Bring your friends!

Yutaka-san - Guitar
Jenn - Vocals and Cello
Harry - Ukulele

From Shin-Imamiya Nankai: Take the North exit (near the Festival Gate exit), turn right and walk with the train tracks on your right and the large construction site on your left. Turn left at the end of the construction site and go straight to the first intersection (about 30 seconds). Raku is on the corner.

From Dobutsuenmae: Take Exit 1 or 2 and turn left to cross under the train tracks. Turn right, walking with the tracks on your left. Turn right on the first street after crossing the tram tracks (seriously, it's about a minute if that). Go straight to the first intersection (about 30 seconds). Raku is on the corner.

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Hope to see you there, true believers! Being on another continent is no valid excuse!

Promoting Intercultural Harmony Through Suckiness

There's this thing, we have it sometimes. It goes away for long periods, but it always comes back, usually at inconvenient times. Stop me if I get too technical here.
I'm referring, of course, to culture shock. Those of you guessing "body odor," "bedbugs," or "Foreign Accent Syndrome", better luck next time. We were warned about culture shock early and often before coming over here -- a JET alum in Kansas City drew us an intricate diagram that Jenn dutifully copied down, here reproduced for your illumination:

Ha ha, butt.

The term "shock" is really a bit of a misnomer; it captures the depth of the feeling, sure, but "shock" implies a sudden jolt that is over quickly, like jumping into a cold pond or getting an injection, while culture shock is more of a long-term recurring stress that haunts the sufferer for a long period of time, like drinking Pancake Drink.

"What brings this to mind?" you may ask. "Why now, why today, did something happen?" Quiet down and I'll tell you. Last week at work, we were tasked with a unique responsibility: removing the water from a muddy field by hand so 150 children could march on it. Yes, friends and relatives, we were given the job of cleaning mud. By "we," of course, I am referring to teachers-in-training, junior teachers, and anyone else who couldn't find something else to be busy with fast enough.

I could glorify it, I really could. I could explain how important this job was, how vital to the well-being of the kindergarten and the safety of our children it was to soak up puddle after puddle with huge sponges. I could wear my mud-soaked shoes (and pants, and shirt) like a badge of honor, knowing that I put the good of others ahead my own comfort. I would do that in a heartbeat if I had any idea why the higher-ups decided this task was at all necessary or, you know, possible.

The reasoning was straightforward if laughably impractical, provided by the shrewdest managerial minds that didn't have to do it themselves: keep the kids from getting too dirty while we're rehearsing for the Sports Festival. Never mind that the first part of the rehearsal would be performed in the Hall (which is, you know, indoors). Never mind that the actual Festival will be held on another school's grounds. Never mind that the sun was coming out or that simply walking across the field produced still more muddy springs, even after half an hour of mopping.

It was when I was carrying my third bucket full of dirt from one end of the playground to another -- a literally Sisyphean task, covering wet dirt with dry dirt that immediately became wet -- it occurred to me that my career had taken a turn for the strange, and after mentally preparing a new resume, I started to linger on the Culture Shock "W." Ankle-deep in mud, I tried to calmly put my feelings in a point on a chart, a natural byproduct of living with a culture different from my own, and not an unquenchable rage that burned inside me like a thousand suns. If a group of teachers in the U.S. had been ordered to do a task like this, the day wouldn't end without at least one resignation, firing, or lawsuit. And while I'm not exactly the most well-informed guy in the world (room), I can safely assume based on meetings with fellow expats that shit like this wouldn't really fly in the U.K., Canada, Australia, South Africa, or France.
Here, though, it's just kind of...what you do. It's the reason the Japanese teachers stay here until 8:00 or later every night, even if they don't have work to do. It's the reason we buy souvenirs for every one of our friends, neighbors, relatives, coworkers, and house plants. It's the reason we foreign teachers attend meetings even if we don't understand a word of what is being said, even if we have nothing to contribute and can't benefit in the slightest from being there. It's the reason land meant for everyone shouldn't be used by anyone. In short, it's Just What You Do, and it kind of sucks.

If we were to look for one thing about Japanese culture that makes life difficult, this would be it; even if circumstances differ in individual cases, even if no one either wants or needs to go through with it, everyone does what is expected of them. If the boss isn't leaving until 7:30, who the hell are you to decide that it's important to leave earlier? If someone decides that every school day should start with the students greeting the principal (who's not in the room at the time), then that's what we do; if it's decided that it's important to start the day with standing on one foot and quacking, you'd better believe that will be followed to the letter. If someone decides that the mud is too muddy, then we grab those sponges and get to it.

Now, I really don't want to give the impression that the Japanese are about blind loyalty or obedience or anything slanderous like that; really, I'm not trying to be racist here, and I'm not trying to claim superiority or assign negative qualities to an entire nationality. Hell, people in the States do some pretty shameful things to keep their jobs, and especially in this recession, pride is something most people can't afford in the workplace. What I'm trying to get at, however clumsily, is that the pressure to do what is best for the group rather than what an individual wants or feels is very, very strong. It's one reason Japan is so amazingly well organized: teamwork is incredible over here, and I've seen it inspire my students in downright heartwarming ways (a group of boys getting competitively involved in a worksheet to encourage a discouraged classmate). Hell, it's how Japan makes great cars. It's just a cultural force that involves a fair amount of obnoxiousness and...well, mud.

Career opportunities, the ones that never knock.

"How do you say 'mendokusai' in English?" asked Enamoto-sensei, lifting a bucket of dirt.
"This sucks," I offered. Mike thought it over and slowly enunciated, "Pain in the ass." The teacher tried it out, tasting each syllable.
Another teacher, one covered in mud, looked up and asked, "What's 'daiten ma-ma' in English?"
I looked to Mike, who laughed. "Good enough." The teachers looked impressed. I snickered; "Good Enough" is the English Team motto.
It was kind of a beautiful moment, really, and it was reassuring to know that my coworkers, the ones who had grown up following what they were expected to do, still got kind of cheerily pissed off about having to do an annoying job. Or, as Mike put it very eloquently, "Nothing brings people together like having to suck it."

Racist, Racister, Racistest

Last week, when we were strolling down Midosuji as we are wont to do (hey, karaoke isn't going to come to us), we heard music, a sort of bouncy, cheery march, floating between skyscrapers and down alleyways. We smiled at each other; it was a nice day, the first Sunday of autumn, and the music added a lightly festive air to the sunny weather. We could hear some lyrics in the vaguely Japanese-sounding tune, but hell, we can barely understand slow, perfectly enunciated Japanese, so understanding lyrics is still at least a decade of study beyond our abilities. We held hands. I wondered if I was being paranoid or if passersby really were giving us more nasty looks than usual...

Then the loudspeaker kicked in at frightening volume: the only words we understood were "Amerika," "gaijin," and "Nippon" (meaning "Japan," but with nationalistic connotations). And then we saw, rounding the corner of Shinsaibashisuji, the Crazy Racist Van, decked out in Japanese Battle Flags and illegible (to us) messages that we could only assume are jingoistic slogans.

It wasn't much of a demonstration, but then, it never is. We've seen this sort of procession before, always on a weekend or national holiday, never more than a dozen or so people, always in the same area around Midosuji, one of the biggest streets in Osaka. The most we've seen is a couple of trucks with a parade of silent, headband-wearing, flag-waving middle-aged dudes (always men); the least was the unaccompanied Racist Van.

I'm not really qualified to talk about the extent or severity of racism in Japan; I'm just a dude who happens to live in a country. So, in the spirit of journalistic circumspection, I will limit this post to stuff that has happened to me, to Jenn, or to anyone we happen to know. Or...anyone we've heard of. Plus here are some links. Information in the fifth person or less, is what I'm saying.

A couple of friends of ours just took their Japanese driving tests for the third time; the first, they failed because they failed to wear dresses and make-up (they're women, that is probably a relevant fact). This last time, it was because one of them crept out at a stop sign to look each way before proceeding (for shame!). Each time, they say, they have words with a group of cheerful gaijin who are taking the test for the fourth or ninth or eleventh time. I know, I know, it must be because white people are such terrible drivers. Even if that weren't the case, though, word is that they fail each time for a similarly made-up-sounding reason -- too far to the left, too far to the right, too slow, too fast, too close, too far, etc. The ultimate conclusion that most of them came to through laborious application of the scientific process: they don't want gaijin driving, so they find reasons to fail them.

Having exhausted my anecdote and my other anecdote, it's time for the conclusions! Once again, I'm not saying that Japan is more racist than the U.S. or anywhere else. Kirksville, MO was home to one of the biggest names in Neo-Nazism in the Midwest, and he was an extremely vocal minority indeed, but he was representative of Americans in the same way that Spider-Man is representative of New Yorkers. Japan has a reputation for dealing with race differently than the U.S. does, but shit, so does everywhere else. We share a large part of our history, culture, and language (well, pretty much) with Australia, and look what came out of there last year to riotous applause:

If you ask me, it says just as much about how easy it is to entertain Australians as it does about race relations.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is: it's interesting being put in a situation that I have heard about and read about my whole life, but never experienced in the first person (well, second person). I'm certainly glad that my first foray into discrimination is in a country where most people are far too polite to speak to strangers even of their own race...though it would do wonders for my liberal self-righteousness to be able to speak of my own struggles with conquering racism; as it is, "one time I saw a truck that was racist" is so little hardship that sociopathic white supremacists would be unimpressed by my plight.