Back to the Mines

Well, we've returned from our first sojourn back to that strange, far-off land that made our passports and most of our clothes (well, the clothes were probably made in Malaysia, but you know what I'm getting at). Our minds are still...fuzzy. Keep waking up at 5 in the morning, thinking it's time for dinner. Still getting adjusted to eating squid eyes, traffic on the left, shoes on our hands, etc. With all the confusion, we're having trouble assembling all of our recollections into anything coherent, but here are a few scattered impressions, mostly variations on the themes of Reverse Culture Shock and Reverse Reverse Culture Shock:

To define our terms: reverse culture shock is what expats suffer when they return to their home culture after living in a foreign country for an extended period. Think Brooks from Shawshank, you just get institutionalized. All of a sudden simple activities like eating a Chocolate Chip Pig-in-a-Blanket on a Stick seem weird for some reason and you start to long for some good old-fashioned sea urchin. Reverse reverse culture shock, which is a sociological term that I pulled out of my ass, is...well, that's pretty obvious, I guess.

America is big. Not just the dinner portions, which are dinosauric, not just the Midwest, which is still as full of nothing as it ever was, but the rooms stretch to obscene sizes, kitchens the size of tennis courts, hallways like bowling alleys. Even Jenn's brother's 4-room apartment, which is by no means inordinately large, seemed to have miles of unused floor space. The bathroom was half taken up by the toilet, shower, and sink, and half completely unused, something not only unheard of but actually physically impossible in Japan. An interesting side effect of getting used to different spaces (and consequently, furniture being at different heights and widths), Jenn and I spent 3 weeks in a state of extreme clumsiness, constantly tripping on chairs and tables that we were expected to be somewhere else.

We had a hell of a time breaking some habits we've formed over the last year and a half, most notably our conversational habits. Jenn and I have a fondness for discussing filthy things in the middle of a crowded train, graphically discussing sex or the quality of a recent poop, all generously sprinkled with four-letter words, secure in the knowledge that no one around will have any idea what we're talking about (and if they do, there's no chance in hell that they'll say anything).

I've gotten much worse at interacting with strangers. Every time a waitress or cashier asked me how my day was (and Lawrence being a friendly place, this happened a lot), I was struck dumb. What do I say? What do I do? What does this person want from me? Inquiring into the personal well-being of a total stranger is right up there with public nose-picking in Japan (public farting is fair game, but that's a matter for another blog post). Plus, I kept bowing to strangers and making weird hand gestures that, while a sign of politeness in Japan, are a sign of a seizure or extreme funkiness in the rest of the world.

Within 2 hours of getting back home, a whole list of things I hate about Japan began composing itself in my head: Japanese milk is terrible, sickly-sweet and the last inch of the carton is prone to clumps that plop into coffee and almost scare me enough to dump it (almost); Japanese bread is completely wretched, bland and white, thick as a pocket dictionary and nowhere near as tasty; and everywhere, always with the bowing and the apologies and the horrible little jingles that play inside and outside every shop for hours and hours and hours and hours.

But then, there are the things to be happy about. The anonymity, for one thing, is refreshing, and it increases proportionately with odd or unruly behavior: you could wander the streets in a chicken suit and never get a single glance (if you're into that). We know where everything is in the grocery store, and we don't have to stress about being able to read the labels on food (knowing for sure that we just won't be able to). And more! Something more rational coming next week. For now, please enjoy this weird, intensely foul beverage that, believe it or not, comes from the good old U. S. of A.:

Well done, America! Japan's got nothing on you for Most Disgusting National Food Product!

Happy Chaka Khan!

Happy Hanukkah, everyone! I trust your Hanukkah season has been going well, full of plenty of festivity, all the traditional Hanukkah songs and decorating and parties and TV specials? How was your Hanukkah shopping? Boy, the malls sure get crowded with shoppers looking for last-minute Hanukkah gifts around now, huh?

In an effort to bring multiculturalism and novel international experiences to the children of Osaka (instead of my usual grin-and-wait-out-the-clock strategy), last Wednesday I planned and executed a Hanukkah lesson plan for Free School, our two-hour after-school program for first through fourth graders. And when it comes to fostering multiculturalism, I think I can say with some confidence that it was at least as successful as Pirate Day or Water Cycle Day! Honestly, it warmed my heart in a way that I didn't think Hanukkah was capable of.

"Don't be a schmendrick," I urged Kaito when he was teasing his sister. And you know what? He stopped.

While planning this lesson, I didn't give much thought to my status as half-Jewish. I guess I never have, really. I've always considered it sort of a membership card, entitlement to bust out Yiddish words or get offended by anti-Semitism or feel entitled to cook some good old fashioned Jew Food, but only as long as there isn't anyone more actually Jewish in the room. That's about it, though; I've been the most Jewish person in the room for the bulk of the last few years mainly because of my recent choice of rooms in decidedly Goy neighborhoods (Kirksville and Japan). As I recently wrote in a story I've been working on, I was Kirksville's only Jew in the same way that Bill Clinton was called the first black president. I'm Jew enough for the food but not the god, for the dreidel but not the synagogue, for the paranoia but not the guilt, for a half-hearted Hanukkah right next to the Christmas tree. In fact, I was unaware until I happened to look it up that Free School Hanukkah Day was being held on the actual first night of Hanukkah.

And you know something? I never really liked Hanukkah that much. It could be that I'm just a bit biased since Christmas was the main winter holiday celebrated at my house, but there just didn't seem to be much to Hanukkah. No Hanukkah TV specials, only the one Hanukkah song in English, and ultimately a pretty lame miracle. Which fit well in with our minimalist celebration, actually: spin the dreidel, eat some latkes, light the menorah, then forget about it and go watch TV. I feel pretty bad for the Jewish kids for whom Hanukkah has to compete with their friends' Christmas. And I'm not the only one who feels this way, it seems.

Anyway, the reason I bring all of this up is that I didn't really give a lot of thought to planning out our Hanukkah activities. The English Team considers any Free School that ends to be a successful Free School, so I put about as much care into the Hanukkah celebration as I did Pirate Day; make a dreidel you can stick on a pencil, play Hanukkah Hangman or something, have them color pictures about the story of Hanukkah and read something aloud, maybe let them light a candle, boom, done, two hours finished and I'm on the bus home. Usually the kids are pretty rowdy, occasionally disparaging of our choice of lesson plans, but as long as they make at least a passable attempt at doing the work, it's good enough for me.

But to my amazement, something happened that I can only describe as a Hanukkah miracle. The kids quietly did their coloring and rehearsed their sentences with gusto. When we dimmed the lights and had them come up to recite the story of Hanukkah and light the menorah, they were positively spellbound, and when all 8 candles were lit, the "HAPPY HANUKKAH!" they shouted brought a tear to my eye. Then, since we can't leave candles burning all night in Star Class, we instituted the new tradition of circling the table and blowing the candles out on the count of three. All 14 students quietly sat in a big circle and played dreidel without cheating, without crying, and without punching one another. When we gave them each a doughnut ("HANUKKAH DOUGHNUT, PLEASE!"), they all clapped their hands together and shouted "Mazel tov!" before eating.

"Are you getting verklempt?" my partner asked me when I started to get a little misty. I was. I had had the best Hanukkah ever. And I walked away with a new appreciation for my people's (well, half of my people's) traditions and a brand new stereotype: Japanese people fucking love dreidel.

And now, for your enlightenment, the story of Hanukkah, uncolored but festive nonetheless. Written by Harry Althoff, illustrated by Google Image Search, performed by the Harumidai Kindergarten Wednesday Free School Program. Try to imagine a small Japanese child reading these lines (or, if possible, find a small Japanese child to read it to you).

Hanukkah is a Jewish holiday in December.

On Hanukkah, we play games and give presents.


A long time ago, a bad king took away the Jewish temple.


There was a very bad war, and the Jewish people won!


When they got back to the temple, there was no more oil for candles!


But the candles burned for 8 days! It was a miracle!


On Hanukkah, we light 8 candles. It's called the Festival of Lights.

Let's enjoy Hanukkah!