Just 'Cuz They're Crucifying You...

(Note: hilarious and wildly inaccurate reflections on Japan will begin next week.  Please stand by for an important rant.)

I love hyperbole.  It is, clearly, the greatest thing that has ever been invented by God or man, and it accounts for roughly 3000% of my daily speech.  Among its many, many daily uses, hyperbole is good for adding melodrama to one's life, and what is life without melodrama?  (Answer: boring.  Life is boring without melodrama.  Moving on.)

However, one subject I don't like to inflate too much is the persecution of myself by others.  I don't really like to claim to be persecuted by anyone; again, to remind our readers, I, Harry Althoff, am a heterosexual white middle-class American man, which automatically makes me a member of the least persecuted group in history (though we are one of the most prone to complaining).  Assuming that slights against me are the result of persecution by people who desire to make my life worse out of nothing more than sheer malice -- I have some friends who are of such an outlook, and it's almost like they have some kind of...I don't know, complex of some sort.  Napoleonic complex?  I'll come back to this.

Anyway, when life's little hiccups and bad turns come my way, I try my best to assume that no one has it in for me in particular, but that my own personal preferences and goals are just worth so little that they get trampled unnoticed in the great scrum that is the world.  It's a personal philosophy born of equal parts Occam's Razor and low self-esteem; why would the world bother to waste their time and effort on a harmless chump like me?

And now, at long last, we get to:

The Point!      (Fanfaaaaare!)

One of the less glamorous parts of the glamorous expat lifestyle is dealing with visa issues.  There are many millions of forms and visa-related procedures that expats must wade through at regular intervals.  Conveniently, there are a plethora of websites dealing with Japanese visa issues, none of which are applicable to you, and none of whom know who, if anyone, can answer your particular question.  Whoever said "Bureaucracy is the deepest pit in hell" wasn't kidding around, and also he is probably very handsome (hint: it was me).

This guy.

In short (if that isn't too offensively incorrect by now), Jenn's visa lasts until the final day of her contract here on the JET Program, July 26th; basically, she is allowed to stay until her last day of work.  The norm for JETs when they return to their country is to stay for another few weeks or so to tidy their affairs, carefully pack their goods, and ritualistically perform the time-honored gaijin tradition of selling their dirty, broken possessions and nasty furniture to the next gaijin to come off the boat.  The JET Program even acknowledges that this is the case -- JETs are reimbursed for their ticket home as long as they leave within a month of their final day of work (please note that they are given 30 days, rather than 0 days, the alternative that some characters who shall appear later in this narrative will suggest).  The only time this procedure is kinked up is when the JET in question leaves after three years of work: JET visas and visas issued to their spouses are good for three years from the date of entry into Japan, at which point JETs who plan to stay for longer must apply at the Immigration Office to extend their term of stay.  A bureaucratic formality, all said, which requires a very straightforward filing of paperwork that is seldom if ever rejected or challenged.

Our situation, however, is far from straightforward, apparently.  Having bought our tickets for August 22nd, about three weeks after Jenn's final day of work, we went about figuring out how to gain permission to extend our visas by an extra 30 days.  First, Jenn utilized the resources available to her from the JET Program, the organization that had brought her to Japan, found her an apartment, offered a social and legal support system, and otherwise been a boon to our lives here.  They told her, in a word, "Iunno."  Or, in slightly more words, "Gee, yeah, that's hard.  Only 3rd-year returnees need to worry about that.  You should probably look into that."

Inspired by this complete lack of assistance, I called the Immigration Office directly.  Summoning all of the facility I've earned by six long years of Japanese study, I asked if there was anyone there who spoke English.  When the man told me that there was not, I proceeded to explain our situation in the most polite, respectful broken Japanese that I could muster.  The man told me in rather obscure, technical Japanese that there was no such thing as a visa extension, and the best option would probably be to go fuck myself.  Fair enough, I thought.  There must be someone else to ask.

Looking through the pile of resources that Jenn was given when we first came here, I found (among a trove of useful information we accumulated about what to pack and what to do about Japanese foot fungus) an English-language help line for CLAIR, the organization that runs the JET Program.  Giving them a call, an American explained to me that all we needed to do was apply to change our visas to a tanki taizai, a "short stay" visa that would cover us until our departure date.

Encouraged with a new vocabulary word, I tried Immigration again and was connected to the same employee.  Once again I did my best, carefully explaining that we needed a couple of tanki taizai, and could we please have our tanki taizai already?  The man considered for a moment, then replied that he had no idea what I was talking about.  I explained again, using even simpler words that I was surer of.  Also, I gestured a lot, though I don't think he saw it over the phone.  Now he was clearly frustrated, and told me to call back when I had someone who could speak Japanese with me.  I pleaded with him to let me try to explain one more time; now approaching tears, I threw up random information about our status, mostly implicating the JET Program in letting us believe that this was what was done.  Finally, he grudgingly informed me that maybe we could apply for our tanki taizai maybe possibly, but he couldn't guarantee that the request would be accepted.  He recommended that we wait until July to come in and apply.  I thanked him copiously, grateful beyond words that I had won him to our side.  I should note that I was about 70% confident that I understood his instructions, but I figured that asking for further clarification would probably infuriate him enough to get me deported.

Time passed.  We worked, we played music, we ate okonomiyaki, we saw the worst, campiest performance of Romeo and Juliet I'd ever seen in my life.  Finally, on July 5th, the day that we had planned to take off from work to go into Immigration, it hit me at about 6 in the morning: how bad an idea was it to apply for something as complex as a visa change with only three weeks to go on our visas?  I was a wreck that day until we got to Immigration: I photocopied every document we owned, I printed out three copies of our plane tickets, I called CLAIR twice and spoke to a different employee who gave me radically different information -- apparently now we didn't want tanki taizai, we wanted to apply to extend our visas, and that was what all 3rd-year returnees did.  There is no metric that can fully capture the sweat stains that I had worn into my clothes by the time we got to Immigration.

When we got to the office, we sat down at the information desk for a consultation.  The man instantly understood our situation, and he politely, carefully explained in simple Japanese that we would have to fill out a form to apply, after all, for tanki taizai.  Another man, a foreigner full of smiles, answered some questions we had about the forms.  We turned in the paperwork, took a number, and sat down to wait for it to be processed.  I was relieved beyond measure at this point.  As far as I was concerned, we had won the day, and it was all smiles and rainbows and unicorn farts until August 22nd.

Which is why it came as such a blow when we were called to another consultation after turning in our paperwork and waiting for our number to be called.  This man, a hard, middle-aged businessman-type who looked exactly like I had imagined the man I spoke to on the phone would look, spoke to us at length in some high-level, technical -- nay, sesquipedalian -- Japanese.  We both gave him shocked looks, mine of non-comprehension of his words, Jenn's of disbelief.

"Do you understand what I just told you?" he asked, and I shook my head as Jenn nodded.  He sighed, then repeated in English: "You have to leave Japan before July 26th, you can't extend your visas or stay any longer than that date.  You must change your plane tickets to leave before July 26th."  My various internal organs shrank and emitted whimpering sounds.  The rainbows and unicorns disintegrated.  Now, we were looking at losing thousands of dollars or being thrown in jail.  I was now almost positive that this was the same man I had spoken to on the phone.

Jenn protested that her contract required her to be at work until the 26th, so leaving would be impossible.  She then explained that the JET Program told her that getting a tanki taizai was SOP for their returnees.  The man, so put out that he looked like he might catch fire, rose and told us to follow him.  We rushed after him across the waiting room, dodging biracial children and cheek-kissing women, and he led us back to the information desk where everything had seemed so bright and clear.  After some silent rummaging through drawers, he gave Jenn a sheet of lined paper and told her to write the reason for our application.

"Can I write in English?" she asked.

"Can't you do it in Japanese?"

"No."

He grimaced and walked away, which we took as a reluctant assent to we pitiable wretches' plea to write in a language that we could use to express complex ideas.  Jenn stated our case plainly but urgently, and we turned in our form and took another number.  As we sat and waited for our number to be up, we seethed and discussed what Mister Fucking Important's problem was.  Evidently his strategy for petitioners was to tell them that what they wanted was impossible, and only under protest let them know that their request actually is possible, but you have to fill out a thing.  If we hadn't fought with him, our lives and our plans would take a serious hit.  For someone who seemed to so clearly dislike foreigners, this guy, this toad, this asshole had certainly chosen an odd profession.

When we were called to the desk again, a different employee explained to us that the application would take three weeks to process, at which time we'd have to come in again to (presumably) get our updated visas.  We pointed out that we only had three weeks exactly until our visas expired, realizing only at that point just how badly the asshat at the other desk had screwed us over by telling us to come in in July.  She reassured us that it would probably be fine.

Aaaaaaaand that about brings us up to speed.  We're now two weeks and six days away from either getting our new visas or going to jail and making several dozen new friends with tattoos and missing fingers.  If we haven't heard from them by July 25th, we'll have to make a run for the border that is even less fun than one that involves Taco Bell; if we go to Korea and stay for 24 hours, rumor has it, we can come back to Japan on a tourist visa that will cover us until our departure date.  For now, our futures rest on whether or not that Dickhead Who Shall Not Be Names intercepts our applications and, I don't know, sets them on fire or something.  I'm taking it a little personally, if you can't tell.

I was going to conclude this account with something profound about the immigrant's experience, about how all of the yelling and politics about immigration always overlooks the personal toll that the bureaucracy takes on immigrants who follow the system, about how bureaucracy allows for a lone douchebag who's having a bad day to sabotage a family's hopes and dreams at a whim.  Yeah.  Guess I blew that one.

Next week: either Japan Recap Part One or Gaijin Go To Jail!

Forget Harder or Smarter, Work More

I've been having a hard time getting accustomed to working full-time. Blame my generation (hell, everyone else does). I know, I know, it's something that everyone has to get used to, if it wasn't work they wouldn't call it "work," a penny saved is a penny earned, cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, I am the walrus, etc. etc. I think my problem is amplified, though, by starting full-time work here in Japan: up until now, I've worked solely as a dishwasher, a Toys R Us "associate," a teaching assistant, and a pizza delivery driver (in that order) -- all less than 20 hours per week, each one requiring little more than a pulse and a pair of pants -- and now I've plunged into the most hardcore dedicated workforce this side of the Doozers from Fraggle Rock. Or, put another way, having taken my first tentative baby steps, I've decided to skip walking and running and go straight to bareback elephant riding.

A staple of pop culture for much of the 1980s (if my old school Dilbert anthologies are to be believed) is the idea that Japan has marshaled its workers into almost superhuman efficiency. Putting aside the current state of the economy, for a long time in American business there was a struggle to be more like the Japanese. I realize this ambition has probably been dead for a long time, but let me just put it to rest for any employers in America: your employees will never, ever be as committed or loyal as Japanese employees. Ever. You can give your employees all kinds of incentives and benefits to being invested in the well-being of the company, you can hand out salary incentives and profit-sharing and overtime and benefits (none of which they do in Japan), you can copy the Japanese exactly and have your employees do calisthenics and retreats and mandatory bonding activities, but you'll never, ever conquer the fact that they will always prefer to be somewhere else. There's just something magic about employee behavior in Japan that can't be replicated elsewhere. Even if Japanese employees hate their job and everything about it, they keep that free will shit to themselves.

Of course, this has already been well documented on this fine website. But to give you a further example of the level of dedication I'm talking about, let me recreate a typical morning for your enlightenment:

Every morning, I roll into work at around 9:25, a full 5 minutes early (this being about 110% for me). By this time, the Japanese staff has already been in for...well, I have no way of knowing since I've never been more than 5 minutes early to work. I've heard that the day begins at 8:30, which is fun, since the school day begins at 10:30. I can only imagine what happens between 8:30 and the morning meeting at 9:30ish, when the fun really begins.

The morning meeting includes at least one of the higher-ups and anywhere between three and six helper teachers; I assume the classroom teachers have already done their own morning meeting by this point, because they've already moved down to their classes. Every day, a different participant is tasked with conducting the meeting, which means that she announces (shouts) what they will do just before doing it, i.e., "Now we are starting the morning meeting for January 27th!" First, the teachers recite the "Harumidai Kindergarten Affirmation" in unison. Now, my Japanese is somewhat sketchy (yes, still), but I can puzzle out the basics: "Today, Harumidai Kindergarten will become #1!" This is followed by reading a passage aloud from the official Harumidai Kindergarten teacher's book, typically a story or anecdote about friendship or opportunity or motivation or some crap. This, too, involves everyone shouting in unison. Side note: absolutely anything sounds creepy as hell when it's read aloud in perfect unison by a group of people.

Next, some issues of the day are discussed. I tune this part out, since it's usually pretty boring, but I should at least mention that there is a strict protocol for posture and body language during meetings, all of which was demonstrated in a 3-hour seminar given by our principal last year, every word of which I expect to hear again in a few months. The end of the meeting is my favorite part:

1. The meeting leader announces that the meeting is over.

2. At the top of their lungs, everyone chants, "私たちは空いている！" twice. I've had a damn hard time figuring this one out, since "空いて" means "empty" in the same sense as "my stomach is empty" or "the bathroom is unoccupied," so the teachers are essentially saying "WE ARE EMPTY!" I've been told that it has connotations of being receptive and eager, but still. Damn.

3. The meeting leader directs them to clap. Which they do, for about 3 seconds. Again, yes, in unison.

4. The meeting leader directs them to stop clapping, so they punctuate their applause with three synchronous claps, like, CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

5. The meeting leader directs them to bow.

6. They (informally) thank each other. For...something. Clapping well? Probably for putting up with their clapping, and for helping them become as empty as they can.

As with all the bowing, the souvenirs, the frequent working weekends, the late hours (junior teachers are expected to be the last to leave), and the expectation that medical leave be accompanied by copious apologies and repeated explanations of one's illness to every staff member, the morning meeting wouldn't really fly in other places.

Of course, it's conditions like this that make Japan such an appealing place for people outside the system. This is how good cars get made. When a friend from Pittsburgh came to visit, he kept commenting on how sparkling clean Osaka is, which is especially striking because Osaka is considered one of Japan's dirtiest cities (it could have something to do with Pittsburgh, but that's neither here nor there). Why is Japan so clean? Because shopkeepers are expected to wash the sidewalk in front of their store every day. Because schools don't employ janitors since the school is cleaned every day by the teachers and students as part of the school day. Because, in short, doing shitty demeaning tasks like scrubbing tea kettles and cleaning mud is, depending on the day, part of your job, and in Japan, your job is what you do. I know that Americans do what's expected of them at their job, but I put it to you: if you showed up to work one day and it was just suddenly understood that all employees were expected to perform some new menial cleaning or organizational task, what would your reaction be? Would you protest? Quit? Grumble, at least?

Of course, on the other hand, maybe there's something to all this. Yeah, it kind of sucks for everyone with a job, but there's something to be said for destigmatizing everyday tasks, right? In the States, cleaning up after other people is something beneath us, something reserved for the invisible lower class, millions of people who sort our garbage and pick up after our kids and wash our filthy toilets whom we'd prefer not to think about. Consequently, by choosing to keep the tasks necessary to modern life secret, we push the needs and misfortunes of the working classes out of our mind, which can only contribute to the increasing impossibility of life for the working poor.

What do you think? Putting aside the whole team spirit thing that weirdly persists past high school, would it do the West some good to learn to clean up after itself? Or is too much of our life already claimed by Work to be expected to dedicate still more time and energy and dignity to our employers?

Life of Why

Combing through my notebook, I stumbled on a piece that I wrote about interviewing at Nichibei English Service, back in my days working as a part-time sofa cover. I present it now as a look back at what a noob I was those many months ago. Let's enjoy, won't us?

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I continue to sweat through my only suit as I turn in my chair to stare out the floor-to-ceiling window that looms 26 stories above Osaka's Kita Ward. The city is usually described to Westerners as ugly, industrial, metallic, boring -- at best, these epithets are followed by a "but" and something uninspired about history or culture. I wonder: am I the only hakujin in this vast office building packed to the gills with salarymen, kimono-clad old women, jewelry stored, coffee shops? How many gaijin are there in the hundreds of squatting concrete monstrosities in my line of sight? How many of them are unemployed, too?

I turn back to face the tiny classroom I've been waiting in for nearly an hour. The whole room is done up in a monochromatic rainbow, but the effect is less Men in Black and more modernistic community college: gray carpet, gray plastic desks, whiteboard, white acoustical tile, eggshell wallpaper, black-and-white photocopied fliers stapled to gray felt message boards. The room seems set up for two dozen students, but conditions are cramped; I had to shove one of the desks forward to accommodate my modest gut, crushing the row of chairs in front of me as I did so. At 5'10, I am clearly uncomfortably big for this room.

Staring up at me from the cramped table (my legs press uncomfortably against its black metal underbelly) is my application for Nichibei English Services that I was given by the secretary who showed me in when I arrived at 1:10, a full 20 minutes before my interview was scheduled. In my ignorance, I had politely introduced myself to her and offered her a copy of my resume, grinning like a fiend to seem as genki as possible. Now, 40 minutes after my interview was due to begin, I can't stop my mind from lingering over the bursts of feminine laughter that periodically echo in under the door.

"No, no, he seriously said 'Good morning, I am English teacher, appointment interview have!"

"Ha ha, really?"

"Yes! And he wouldn't stop smiling for some reason! I think he thought I was in charge!"

"Tell us again about how sweaty his suit was!"

I sigh deeply, in the process blowing a few drops of sweat onto the application. The hideous cyclopean blank under the final unanswered question glares up at me: "Why did you come to Japan?"

I glance at the clock. 2:15.

It seemed a fair question, on the surface. No teaching certification, no work visa, little knowledge of Japanese (say, on par with David Sedaris's French), two degrees in an unusably academic discipline...why the hell did I come to Japan?

I had certainly been asked this question, this accursed, stinking, raging motherfucker of a question before: by parents, by friends, by teachers, by all the acquaintances and random strangers my mother had told for some reason. Usually I was able to pass off a joke or a bullshit answer, something ranging from "Why not?" to "I've always had a fascination with the elegance and and complexity of Japanese culture" to "Well, I like the food, ha ha!", each of which contains some kernel of truth, but is still beautifully meaningless.

Still, there always seemed to be something suspicious or evilly prying about the question (feelings only intensified when seeing it in print on a job application). I mean, hey, why the hell do you do what you do? Huh? Why do your work your job? To pay the bills, right? TO advance your career? To try to eke out a little happiness in this thoroughly fucked-up world? Boredom, maybe? Fuck you!

Then again, I had been asked the big "why" question during my interview at Pizza Hut the summer before flying to Osaka...maybe Nichibei English Service just wants a bullshit answer, too. Maybe they'll be as relieved as the Pizza Hut RM was to hear something stupid like, "Well, I've always loved eating here, ha ha!"

2:25. I keep spotting a silhouette through the narrow papered-over window in the door. Eyes glazing over, sweat painting my brand-new Hanes undershirt yellow, I can swear that someone is checking to see if I'm finished yet. The door stays closed.

OK, then, why the hell did I come to Japan? Other than "the food" and similar hoo-ha, there are two real reasons, neither of which would be interesting or even acceptable to a prospective employer.

The first reason is simple, or at least comprehensible: love. My wife and I had discussed coming to Japan for years. We gleefully filled out one application form after another for the JET Program, a Japanese governmental program that imports hundreds of smelly foreign barbarians every year -- most of them fresh out of college, with zero teaching experience or Japanese ability -- to serve as Assistant Language Teachers in public schools. Essays written, letters of recommendation forwarded, we passed our final year at Truman State University cheerfully planning our futures. JET Program to Peace Corps to MATESOL, maybe? Or JET to Fulbright to PhD?

(...Oh god, it just hit me. Truman State University? Could I have picked as worse alma mater for finding a job in Japan? I strongly consider doctoring my photocopied diplomas to something less offensive, like, say, "Al Gore State University.")

The sympathy poured in from all corners, most of all my own. "Gee, I was sure you'd be a lock!" "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear it!" "How is it that you didn't get in, even with your teaching experience and Japanese?" Like, I know. I immolated myself in self-pity for hours before bothering to congratulate Jenn, behavior for which I'm still extremely ashamed. We were married two months later, and we dropped our visa applications in the mail a week after that. I am legally a "spouse," as far as the Japanese government is concerned.

2:31. Still haven't been escorted out of the building and exposed as a fraud. The "food" answer grows ever more tempting.

I begin: "I came to Japan because"

No college-boy tricks here. No double-spacing or margin-fudging. No typographical acrobatics, no obfuscation or unfounded generalizations or meaningless jargon -- you're not in Kansas anymore.

The second reason I came to Japan, and really, the lesser of the two, was a very provable if idle interest in the country. At 9 years old, I took an after-school course that taught me to count to 99 and to appreciate mochi. At 18, I tried my damnedest to like anime. At 19, I cultivated a short-lived interest in Japanese folk tales. Hell, I took six Japanese language courses and one culture course. Can't they just read my resume instead of having me fill out this ridiculous form?

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Anticlimactic, I know, but as it happens, I never finished this piece. Now, a year and a half later, I find myself almost totally unable to recreate that mindset. I can enter strange restaurants without fear. I've applied for dozens more jobs and I've been working for 14 months. I've moved and opened two bank accounts. I have Japanese friends. All I can offer to finish this story, for now at least, is resolve the two big questions:

1. While I can't remember exactly what answer I finally gave, it was something uninspired that might as well have been copied from the first paragraph of a travel guide to Japan, something about a synthesis of traditional culture and progress. Pffffft.

2. I got the job. Go figure.

Happy New Year and all that. Here's to another year of confusion, be it awkward, joyous, drunken, or all three!

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!

Fight the Pawaa

I've recently become aware of a fierce activist here in Japan named Debito Arudou, an American-born university professor in Hokkaido who became a naturalized Japanese citizen in 1996. He's garnered quite a reputation here as a gaijin-defense activist: protesting Japanese-only establishments, helping foreigners know how to deal with discrimination, all that jazz. Here's his website.

I've heard some pretty conflicting stuff about this guy, which makes it pretty hard to form an opinion. In his own words (well, word), he's written "hundreds" of essays about the experience of the foreign-born or non-racially-Japanese Japanese citizen. In short, as previously mentioned, it's tough for anyone who lives in Japan who doesn't look Japanese. It's even worse for someone who wants to make their life here, who marries a Japanese citizen and wants to do seemingly simple life tasks like get a driver's license or own a home. And yes, this goes even for people of racial groups that Westerners think look Japanese -- Japanese citizens of Chinese or Korean ancestry get a ton of shit here. So on the one hand, I'm all about this Debito guy inasmuch as they take away my liberal card if I don't dig human rights activism.

On the other hand, though...well, after reading more than one of his articles, he comes off as awfully entitled, don't you think? I mean, can you believe it? A heterosexual white man being denied preferential treatment, having to undergo some frustration before getting service at a restaurant or onsen? Tragic! Additionally, one of my coworkers has given me another perspective on the "No Foreigners" bathhouses in Hokkaido: essentially, there are a lot of onsen (public baths) in the North that get visited by Russian sailors semi-frequently. Every time the sailors visit, they trash the place, break a lot of the equipment, vandalize buildings, and intimidate everyone in town. So, recently, those establishments have decided to only serve Japanese customers. My coworker believes that, while racism isn't exactly the shiniest practice in the world, in the case of these onsen it's a way to protect their business from being ruined by a group that has repeatedly proven itself untrustworthy. Not sure what I think about this one myself...

I also wanted to see what you all out there thought about this article by Debito that sprang up a few months ago. Again, seems a little harsh, but...well, honestly, I agreed with pretty much all of his points. On the commuter train in the morning, I see students drilling advanced vocabulary words for upcoming English tests, words like mandate and utility, but in my experience these same students are probably incapable of having anything but the simplest of conversations in English. Without repeating any unfounded rumors, I will say that the JET Program has been under fire in Osaka lately, largely because of the ineffectiveness of bringing over untrained twentysomethings to teach English. But this is why I'm so fond of Debito's central point that JETs aren't meant to be good classroom teachers, they're meant to give their students the experience of interacting with foreigners. I've seen that smile of relief when Japanese shopkeepers realize that I can speak a little Japanese and that I'm not going to wreck their day. I've seen that same smile on old ladies on the train when we share a few simple words of complaint about the weather. Jenn and I can regularly see the look of amazement on a student's face when they hear that we have problems with things like reading our mail or buying groceries, that expression of "Wow, I've never thought about how your life might be different from my own. Crazy!" In short, I think we're both doing something generally positive for the world by being here. Still, is it fair to write off an entire country's culture of teaching as ineffective and imbecilic? I mean, it's not like the American school system is all that great, either, right?

I'd love to hear what any of you in the Web-o-tubes have to say about this guy's article(s)! Flame on!

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.

The Amazing Race

We've only had a few visitors to our place here in Osaka...OK, one (Steve. Hi, Steve!), but every one of our visitors has gone through the same process of adjustment that we did ourselves. After about a week in Japan, we reach a shocking, inescapable conclusion: "Holy cow, everyone here is Japanese!"

I realize we're not dealing in Pulitzer-quality reporting with this one, but it's something that takes a lot of getting used to, especially when you've grown up in a country as racially heterogeneous as the United States. Not that I deserve to pat myself on the back too much for that one -- I mean, West St. Louis County is about as white a place as you'll find in the U.S., second only to Kirksville MO (I met Kirksville's black guy, he's nice) -- but the important thing is that we were brought up with the assumption that we would eventually be interacting with members of other races besides Non-Hispanic Caucasian. There are several taboos you learn growing up in a racially-sensitive culture like the 21st century US, among them "don't generalize across an entire race," "don't assume things about cultures you don't understand," and perhaps #1, "don't do impersonations of other race's physical mannerisms or accents." Oh man does that go out the window after a few days in Japan.

In general, in the States, when you see any given person on the street, you tend to make the assumption that they are American. I realize this may be different in states with a greater influx of immigrants than Missouri or Kansas -- say, some kind of fictional, highly hyperbolic Orwellian state in which police and citizens were legally mandated to harass and demean people of Hispanic descent at every opportunity -- but until we hear someone speak, we have no way of knowing that they didn't grow up just down the road. Even if they're wearing a dashiki, sari, or viking helmet, they're still pretty likely to be an American in touch with their cultural roots.

Not so in Japan. A person of Western ancestry can grow up in Japan, understand Japanese culture, and speak accentless Japanese, but on the subway everyone, Japanese and foreigner, will assume that they are a tourist, a visitor, a gaijin. Which, of course, means that all of this nasty avoidance applies. In Japan, advanced grammar is defined around the in-group and out-group, and membership in the in-group is pretty much limited to Japanese people who look Japanese with only extremely rare exceptions. One of my coworkers at the kindergarten is married to a Japanese woman and has three biracial children, none of whom speak English. He laughingly told me about how whenever his 5-year-old on is asked "Are you a foreigner?", he bugs his eyes out and replies, "AAAAAAHHHHH!"

I'm not saying that Japanese race relations are bad or wrong (I would be expelled from the ranks of academia and Stuff White People Like if I did anything so culturally insensitive), just that people can say and do things that would be considered unacceptable in the U.S., stuff that I could never live with for more than a few years. At a meeting at work last week, this same coworker (whose Japanese is perfect, who has lived in Japan for the last 14 years, who has worked at this school for 5) was complimented for 10 minutes by the administration for translating a memo for the foreign staff. This happens at every meeting. Likewise, a Korean-American coworker is always introduced to parents and students with these two stunning facts: 1. he looks Asian, but he's not actually Japanese, and 2. even though he's Korean-American, he doesn't like kim chi! (The room erupts with people humming "Eeeehhh?", the national sound of impressed surprise). Just imagine how well this would go over at an assembly where the principal shockingly told the student body that their head teacher, Mr. Ramirez, doesn't like tacos.

Here's a fairly high-profile instance of this kind of institutionalized...let's call it racial insensitivity: meet Mr. James, McDonald's Japan's mascot for much of last year:

Cute, ain't he?

Mr. James loves McDonald's. Like, a lot. He's a dorky white guy who keeps a blog all about how much he loves McDonald's. In fact, to promote a line of "Big America" burgers, he appeared in advertisements all over subways, buses, and train stations proclaiming his love of Japan and of McDonald's, always only in katakana. I know we've gone into the difference between katakana, hiragana, and kanji before (trust me), but in short, katakana is used for borrowed words only. Communicating solely in katakana would mean acting like an illiterate, ignorant buffoon. The best analogy I've read would be if, to advertise a line of Asian food, McDonald's in America featured a schoolbus-yellow, kimono-clad Japanese man saying "Me likee McFlied Lice."

I guess to be fair, I'm a gaijin, I'm dorky, and I speak pretty terrible Japanese. But still, it's a rather unwelcome (if interesting) inversion for a white bread liberal like me: here, I'm not the majority, I'm not considered just a regular ol' guy. Here, I'm the oppressed, forgotten minority, the overlooked intrusion on other peoples' good days. Here, I'm the guy who gets to be offended by racially insensitive ads and TV depictions. Here, I'm considered exotic because I have curly brown hair without the use of toxic chemicals!

Remember, Japan is a culture based around preserving the wa -- the harmony of a setting or situation -- and to this end, people stay quiet, don't speak to strangers, don't dress appreciably differently from their peers or fellow subculture members, don't eat in public (this one's a sore spot), don't break the rules, don't make eye contact, don't sing in public, don't chew gum, don't talk on the train. Jenn and I violate the wa just by standing in a room, even if if we follow all of these unwritten rules.

For a more informed perspective on race in Japan (i.e., one containing actual facts), check out this article from the New York Times.

One Nation Invisible

I'm very excited to report that, in my time since coming to Japan, I have mysteriously developed a new...well, there's really no other word for it...superpower. Yes, as an ability I now share with the rest of my race, enjoyed only under the proper environmental conditions -- like the amazing neotony of salamanders, like the Kryptonian susceptibility to the rays of Earth's yellow sun -- I now enjoy the power of invisibility. Unfortunately, those of you familiar with the greater film oeuvre of Kel Mitchell should understand when I say that my newfound power tends to work only under the right circumstances. Example:

A few weeks ago, I was late for the bus. Not too late, not irresponsibly late, but late enough that I was running (brief sidenote: I don't run well. Like most Althoff men, I have a sleek, aerodynamic physique more suited for activities like poker and human cannonball). I was keeping up my best wheezing pace when I spotted the bus, still waiting at the station. I relaxed, slowing to a canter and digging some change out of my pocket as spots danced on the edges of my vision. Still 10 meters or so away, the bus closed its doors with a lurch. It took off, and so did I, stifling my urge to cry "NOOOOO!" I sprinted (more or less) after it, waving furiously, finally thinking to start yelling "Sumimasen! Chottou matte kudasai!" I kept pace with the driver for nearly a minute; when I was just about ready to collapse, he turned his head and met my eyes. I forced a manic smile ("Never Stop Smiling" is but one of the many interpersonal skills I've learned in Japan) and started to slow to get in the rear door...then promptly ate exhaust as the bus zoomed by. I used the last of my breath to call the driver something vulgar and, in retrospect, pretty redundant.

I really couldn't have been that hard to spot -- a big, messy-haired gaijin in a bright green sweater, huffing and puffing and waving and yelling and sweating tends to be more than a little conspicuous -- so you can see why I've settled on the invisibility theory. It's either that or a psychocultural phenomenon known (to me) as Foreigner Blindness or FB, estimated (by me) to affect about 1 out of every 1 Japanese people.

Essentially, when an afflicted Japanese person spots a gaijin near them, their visual cortex begins blocking certain visual signals that would cause them distress, replacing this sensory input with something more reassuring and easily ignored, like a vending machine. My research suggests that this effect stems from an almost paralyzing fear that they will be called on to speak English. See illustration:

Image C and R Krazy Krow, a fine and upstanding gentleman of the sort would never have objections, legal or otherwise, to casual appreciation and reuse of his work.

Indeed, when I approach bus drivers or shop attendants, as soon as I open my mouth they often shake their heads and make an X with their fingers in an effort to ward me away, never mind that my question is in Japanese. This is a country that enjoys a 1:1 customer-to-clerk ratio, yet as soon as I need to ask a question about purchasing goods with my hard-earned yen, employees in a 10-meter radius scatter like startled deer; important matters develop in the back room, merchandise demands immediate reorganization, everyone decides it's time for their lunch break. Ha ha, I'm just kidding. As far as I can tell, Japan has yet to develop the concept of a "lunch break."

Why this crippling Anglophobia? The country is stuffed to the gills with conversation schools and cram schools...English education is clearly big business over here. You can't throw a brick in downtown Osaka without hitting half a dozen gaijin who are here to teach English or die trying. English is absolutely everywhere, on the radio, on TV, on menus and business names...almost everything that isn't just written in English has a Japanified spelling of it (most medical clinics say both "clinic" and "クリニック," pronounced "kurinikku").

Most puzzling of all, pretty much every Japanese person under the age of 50 has taken at least three years of English class in high school, and many have taken much more. For perspective, this is the same length of English language study that is mandated in Sweden, and the average Swede has an infinitely better grasp of English than the average Japanese person. Hell, the Swedish Chef has an infinitely better grasp of English than the average Japanese person. All right, that might be a little unfair, but to test my hypothesis/blatant racism: go to Stockholm, stop five strangers on the street, and ask them if they can direct you to a bus stop. Now try the same thing in Tokyo. How did everyone do? Odds are, in Stockholm at least four people will be able to answer in near-perfect English, while in Tokyo you'll be unable to get anyone to stop and answer.

Ye Olde Kinge's Englishe

I love the British. Seriously, I love London, I love the beer, I love the comedy. I love the music so much that I don't even mind that they improved on something (rock and roll) that is rightfully the cultural property of America (in that it came from music stolen from people that we went to all the trouble of enslaving). I love the culture of politeness. I love the witty, largely unattractive celebrities.

That said, I've been getting pretty pissed off (or "brassed off") by British expats over the last several months. I realize that there's a fair amount of class tension in the US, and anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to get you to vote Republican (or, I don't know, "Tory"). But class rivalry/hatred/discrimination/hilariously stereotyped comedy is a time-honored, openly-acknowledged tradition in the UK; it's what sets aside your Delightful Urchin Chimneysweep from your average Timothy Dalton or Alfred the Butler. By demographics, only about 10% of British people speak with an accent classy enough to be allowed on the radio. But hey, that's their business, right?

The problem is, over here in Japan there are far fewer British people to bear the brunt of this snobbery. Here, many of the British expats I've met have busied themselves with trying to convince the whole world that there's only one kind of English that is, you know, proper and correct and stuff: the King's English. I've been turned down for interviews at two conversation schools because, as an American, I don't speak the King's English, I speak something barely recognizable as language at all.

I realize that American English and British English are different, sure. We say happy, they say chuffed; we say bullshit, they say bollocks; we say color, they say colour. I mean, really, "flavour?" Ha ha, what in tarnation does that mean? They might as well be speaking Martian!

The thing is, I'm generally a big enough person to say that we're speaking two different Englishes. American English isn't the correct form of English. Neither is British English. Yet there are teachers over here who give impassioned, long-winded speeches about how horribly we're miseducating our students when we teach them to say anything other than "all that and a packet of crisps."

One of my predecessors at Harumidai Yochien was apparently given to snide little comments about this: according to one of my coworkers, she told the room, apparently out of the blue, "I want some jelly." For the sake of clarification, someone asked, "Do you mean like jam-jelly, or gelatin-slash-Jell-o?" She scowled and explained: "I said 'jelly,' and I meant 'jelly.'" I guess the Brits have to occupy their time with something since the Empire collapsed and they ran out of brown people to oppress, huh?

In completely other news, I know we haven't been keeping up with the blog lately. The main reason for that (other than our complete contempt for you, the readers -- hi, Mom!) is that we're finally moving into the city! Yes, our horrible, hellish stay in the suburbs has come to a close...we're moving to Motomachi in Namba, 5 minutes' walk from several of the hippest neighborhoods in Osaka, such as Dotonburi and America-Town. As part of the moving experience, we're required to provide several dozens of sets of paperwork to the Man, which leaves us little time to reflect on life's little quirks. We will return you to your irregularly-scheduled snark as soon as we finish the moving process (say, October of 2011). Excelsior!

The Bowing Will Continue Until Morale Improves

Despite our ramblings to the contrary elsewhere on this blog, daily life in Japan really isn't all that different from anywhere else in the developed world. People go to the supermarket, drive around to look for parking, work overtime, hang out at home on the weekends, work oh god so much overtime, and have huge parties to look at flowers or the moon (we do that in America, right?). We don't have to adjust to anything that different from our familiar routines: no landmines to dodge, no martial law, no national dress code, no tiger attacks, no taun-tauns. All said, nothing that weird about living in Japan.

With some exceptions.

There are times, though, where we might as well be living on Mars. In particular, Mars on a planet-wide festival celebrating 100 years of Martian traditions and hierarchical ritual (it shall be called Mars Days). One of the more contentious aspects of Japanese culture is the company-centered group ethos (in Jenn's words, "they start singing the corporate anthem when they're zygotes"; we used to laugh at that joke, once, if there ever was a time when we didn't live in Japan). Recently, I had a few opportunities to witness the bizarre cultish practices of the corporate world.

Since beginning this blog post, I have been notified that some of my coworkers may or may not read this blog (whee! I'm famous!), so I will expurgate any company secrets, incriminating gossip, or overtly hateful slander. Consider yourself warned.

Last Saturday, I was instructed to be at work at 8:30 for the annual meeting -- not to be confused with the daily morning meeting, the daily afternoon meeting, the monthly department meeting, the weekly morning assembly, or the semi-weekly biennial overnight motivational seminar and luau. After arriving in my best (read: only) suit and standing around obviously in the auditorium for a while, I was told that I would have to go through some preliminary practice for bowing and greetings before the meeting began. As usually happens in such cases, my gaijin dander got up. "Hey, what makes you think I don't know how to bow or say "OHAYO GOZAIMASU"? Am I stupid or something, huh?" I thought. My resentment quickly faded to anger when I saw that every employee had to practice these activities before the meeting was allowed to start.

As a group, all 100 or so employees, teachers and administrators and bus drivers, practiced yelling good morning, hello, and thank you on command. Each time we finished yelling, we bowed simultaneously, first towards the principal, then to his mother, who was sitting in for some reason. The first four or five times we tried this, the principal expressed his disapproval if not outright contempt at our collective bow. He had one of the teachers, the Specially Designated Faculty Toady, count us off; you see, for a proper bow to the kindergarten principal, you are supposed to bow at the waist, arms at your sides, feet together, stay down for "Ich! Ni!", start to straighten on "San!", and stand upright only when "Shi!" has been yelled. Confusing, I know, but bear in mind that 9/10 of the people who were being harshly rebuked have been doing this for their whole lives. On the command "rei!" (which my Japanese dictionary translates as "expression of gratitude," "command; order," or "departed soul; ghost"), we were to applaud at roughly the same tempo; on a second command, we were instructed to clap thrice in unison, thus: *clapclapclapclapclap (rei!) CLAP - CLAP - CLAP*. I have seen presidents sworn in with less fanfare than this. Nations have been founded with nowhere near this level of organization.

It was around the third rehearsal run-through when I realized: wait a minute, I've seen this before. Teachers correcting a crowd of people, teaching them to bow correctly and yell "hai!" when their name is called? Sweet jumpin' Buddha, this is exactly how they treat the kindergartners!

Still, we had to put on a good show. Everyone was there, after all, in their best suits, ready to impress. Never mind that the only people who would be at the meeting were already there for the rehearsal, including the principal and his mother. Eventually, after more effort than was put into my grad school graduation (hell, more effort than my thesis, for that matter), the meeting began. I had hoped that, with my limited Japanese, I would be allowed to sit quietly, not follow along, and get in some good, productive thinking about food, but the principal singled me out to have a fluent coworker translate everything for me. It opened with the teachers reciting in unison (but of course) the Five Principles of our school/parent company. No, I can't tell you what they are. Use your imagination.

Next was the simultaneous reading aloud of some kind of story. By virtue of my status as an illiterate, unwashed barbarian, I was exempt from following along, which was fine by me, as the only thing I understood was the title: "Tomodachi ga iranai" (translation: "You Don't Need Friends." Seriously. Unemployment was looking better and better). This was followed, in no particular order, by the Mission Statement, the Future Plan, the Five-Year Plan, and the Principal's Dream, the last of which included such tidbits as paying every teacher 100,000,000 yen annually and taking all the teachers to Disneyworld. One time I had a dream where I fought crime with Rowdy Roddy Piper. True story. My translator whispered to me that the Principal's Dream has been pretty much the same for at least 14 years; with a recurring dream this chronic, I would recommend that our Principal consult a qualified psychotherapist.

Despite all the rehearsal, things went disastrously during the bowing and receipt of certificates. One teacher, a young woman who has probably studied for years for this privilege, had her posture forcefully corrected by the Vice Principal while she was standing on stage in front of all her coworkers. Another had to repeat her bow three times. I was agape; in the States, making an employee do this kind of shit would end up in a fist fight or a lawsuit, surely. Still, I guess this must be how they make such good cars, right?

In short, this meeting was important enough to practice seven or eight times and to publicly deride employees' posture, but not important enough not to interrupt to publicly deride employees' posture or mock their names (incidentally, the Principal looked down at my certificate and saw fit to give me a new Japanese name, "muzukashii..." ("difficult...")). All that was left to do was to let our hair down and party! The welcome party, held at a nearby hotel, was a blast, though considering the posturing, debasement, drink-pouring, and general buttsniffery that went on, I'd say the only thing missing from Japanese office parties is actually using employees as furniture. The school's founder did make friends with one of the bus drivers, though...they both got drunk and yelled a lot, occasionally sharing a Bogart/Raines BFF glance.

In Search of Happy Beach

We lay under the huge electric fan, blinds closed to keep out the tropical sun and the elderly Germans in their tiny shorts. Not thirty feet from the door of our bungalow were the warm, inviting waters of the Pacific and the "inviting, beautiful black sand beaches of Lovina, supremely walkable and ideal for exploring on foot at a leisurely pace."

Walkable, we were promised walkable beaches. Fuckers.
We'd already gone through two rolls of toilet paper in just under 24 hours, expelling from our germ-riddled heads enough mucous to choke a dolphin. Ours was a gonzo adventure of a lesser auspice: our backpacks and bodies were pumped with alphabets of white circles and ovals, the alluringly potent elixirs outlawed in Japan, pseudophedrine, acetominophen.

"Jenn?"

"Yeah? *sniff*"

"Are you feeling kinda ripped off right now?"

"...Yeah."

"Yeah...me too."

The time: 1:45 p.m. We'd left the bungalow twice, once to eat breakfast on the porch, once on an abortive attempt to find a ride into town (assuming there was one) that wasn't 1. more expensive than our hotel room, 2. on a motorcycle, or 3. driven by a crazy person. The day before, on the recommendation of one of the homestay's employees, we'd tried walking down the only road -- we were told it was "not far, maybe 10 minutes" -- only to give up in frustration after the better part of an hour, liters of sweat dappling the road behind us. As far as we could tell, there was no actual Lovina, no shops, no bars, no much-touted dolphin statue. All there was were hawkers, touristy restaurants, hotels, garbage, and hundreds of roving motorcycles. I had no idea where the motorcycles might have been going (there was nothing in either direction, remember), so they just roved, noisily, Mad Max style, endlessly.

We had come for the beaches. The previous few days in our precious vacation time were spent in the town of Ubud, a cultural center that had been fabulous: open-air markets, a palatial homestay at $20 a night, traditional dance, and monkeys. We wanted for nothing. Now the plan was to spend three blissful days lounging about on eminently walkable, black sand beaches. The beach that our homestay was built on was something less than awe-inspiring: narrow as a crosswalk, littered with garbage, hemmed in by fishing boats, populated by uncountable hawkers chanting, imploring, "Free to look, very nice, you want a sarong?, souvenir from Lovina, you want transport?" (It may come as no surprise that I'm not great with hawkers; usually I'm so afraid of being impolite or offending someone's culture that I'll buy anything, even at the chump prices, apologizing all the while). The sand was, in fact, black, though. Woo. Hoo.

I held out one hope, though: whispered rumors, cryptic references on illegible maps, all pointed to the existence of something nearby called Happy Beach. Happy Beach! Xanadu. Shambala. Candyland. And as soon as I finished hacking up another pint of Kindergarten Crud, I was going to find it.

"Jenn? If I'm not back in an hour, assume I've been eaten by crabs."

"Get more snot rags before you go."

--------------

The road to Happy Beach was scattered with portents: dark, angry clouds forming on the mountain, a mustached man holding a rooster with blood dripping down its talons, a roadside stand empty of all but a garish yellow sign, weather-beaten, "DURIAN: THE KING OF FRUITS." The heat baked most of the walk out of my brain...by the time I made it back to the bungalow, all I could remember of Happy Beach was sand, shade, no people, and somewhat less garbage than our local beach (Unhappy Beach? Total Shit Beach?). I marshaled Jenn, gathered another pocketful of snot rags, and packed a backpack for an afternoon at the damn beach where we would have a magical damn time, dammit. Sunscreen, hotel towels, unpronounceable fruits, bottle of water, and a "hand-woven" blanket for which I had been guilted into paying more than a night in our hotel room. Sickness be damned, we were going to the beach. Happy Beach!

We passed a strange procession on our way. A long line of trucks filled to bursting with red-headbanded men, some of whom might have been playing musical instruments (all we could see over the high wooden sides was row upon row of heads, like a carton of eggs wearing fezzes). Men in T-shirts were directing traffic around the trucks, all of which were headed to Happy Beach. Truly, the draw of Happy Beach was irresistible, like iron to a magnet, like Nazul to the Ring of Power.

The entrance to Happy Beach was packed with Balinese people in ceremonial garb. There was music food, ritual, people, and for the first time in our experience, none of it was directed at tourists. The beach itself was disheartening -- ringed with layers of leaves and plastic trash washed up by the tides, though wider than our homestay's. Jenn and I exchanged a look (hers said, "You got me out of bed for this?", mine "I got us out of bed for this?"). Still, the heat was oppressive enough to make us sit down for a rest, at least, so we decided to try and make the best of it until we recovered our strength. We set up in between strata of Fantas wrappers and potato chip bags, closed our eyes, and pretended we were on one of the beaches in the Wikitravel articles.

100% pure lies.

Then, against all odds, the sun began to set. Things changed. The horizon was lit up in colors we had only seen in office supplies, fluorescent highlighters, ringed with dark mountains that melted into clouds and sea the shade of molten peach. I waded into the ocean, gamelan music bubbling, unearthly, over my shoulder. Amid the orbits of trash and vegetable matter, at the instant where water met sand, there was a perfect ring of mirrorlike black volcanic side with a bewitching luster. Finding a coconut half on the floor, I set it afloat with a scavenged pink flower for a captain. A gang of children ran over to us and, delighted, we made conversation for awhile, mostly just "Hello!" back and forth, though one managed "I love you!" and another taught us to count to ten in Balinese. One child only grunted, though he was amazingly good at pantomime, confirming our guesses when he told us where he lived and asked us to return the next day. We realized after 20 minutes or so that he was deaf. Jenn signed her name to everyone's satisfaction amid the dying aura of the golden sun.

Ah, close enough.

We didn't return to Happy Beach. I hope the deaf boy didn't wait for us.. Lovina was disappointing and frustrating, especially for those of us sensitive to issues of exploitation and colonialism; we realized that, through the intervention of the wealthy West, Lovina's residents depended on the patronage of foreign tourists to support their families, though I still didn't want to buy a damn sarong. In three days there, the last long vacation we could get for some time, we spent most of our time dodging hawkers and playing chess on the porch of our bungalow. Still, for a few hours, we had been on Happy Beach. Our cab driver, a self-described holy man, told us that the holy water used in Balinese ceremony was from the sea, that the sacred waters of the Ganges flowed to Bali's shores to bless their homes and workplaces. We hadn't found the beach of our dreams, but still: Happy Beach. We had dipped ourselves in the blessed waters, volcanic sand clinging to our feet on the way back to our overpriced, machine-woven blanket. And no one offered us a taxi.