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The experiences of a father and son struggling to communicate without a shared tongue. |
| What is it, beyond language, that is tested in the open, strained, by the stresses, the pushes and pulls of love? |
| The form sits on my desk; her signature glaring at me; her words--reasonable, delivered in voice which says we've been through this so many times before--bouncing around my cobwebbed head: "we need to divorce." "I need to think," I said. She is silent. She holds up the empty bento, the lunch box, the one son used at daycare when he was younger, and asks: "Should I throw it away?" "Why?" "It's broken," she says, point to the chipped plastic on the clasp. "It still works, doesn't it?" "Mm." |
| Son's sports festival went very well. I would love to say it went fantastic, but nothing exciting happened and, unfortunately, son didn' win the races he was expected to win. Still, we all had a good time, the weather was great, and the food, despite a lingering smell wife and I were still chuckling over, tasted wonderful. The day started at 6 a.m. I woke up and did my usual: coffee in one hand, checking emails, checking facebook, reading the news. However, this time I got an email that freaked me out: I was fired from my article writing position. "We sent you an email five days ago, saying you had five days in which to respond about these duplicate articles. Five days has passed, so we fire your *ss." Okay, no, it wasn't so lyrical, but the sentiment was there. I had to get out the door in ten minutes to stand in line for our seats at the festival, so I fired off a complaint (a true one) that I hadn't received such an email and the issue about the mistake duplicate had already been resolved by an editor. I sent them the relevant emails, grabbed a thermos of coffee, some big vinyl sheets to sit on, and headed out the door. The line of parents waiting to get into the elementary school grounds stretched around the block. I got in line and proceeded to obsess over the firing. Had I missed something? What was I going to do? I needed that money to pay some bills in the States and rebuild my credit. At 7 a.m., they let us in: two hundreds parents with vinyl sheets, camp chairs and pop-up tents rushing onto the playground, checking maps to find where they are supposed to sit. This year, we got to sit in a perfect spot under one of the school's tents: I am on the PTA, and I did help set up all of this, so maybe that had something to do with it. No idea. Just lucky, probably. Anyway, the sun didn't shine on us all day, and that was good because it turned hot at the start of the festival. The festival began at 9 a.m. and finished at around 4 p.m. Like most parents there, wife and I were really just there to see our son perform and race, so that counted for about 20 minutes of the festival. The rest of the time we sat talking to wife's parents or other parents, eating snacks and drinking, or just walking around. I had the video camera, so it was my job to get the pics. Son did great in the performances. In the races, he was expected by everyone to win. I would be walking around and people would ask me if son was running. "Yes he is," I would say, and tell them the races he was in. "Well, don't worry," they would say, "he's the fastest in the school." I wasn't worried. But he didn't win. I mean, he did great in the relays, but in the individual sprint, he placed third. One of the kids ran out of his own lane into son's and elbowed son in the ribs doing so. Got it all on video tape, especially the part after the finish line where son goes off on the kid. That was funny. Well, wife and I later made sure he knew that we saw what happened and understood. One little thing I have to note: the air was full of dragonflies. A hundred purple, green, and gold bodies glinting in the sunlight, flicking here and there around the field and between the children. We ate lunch together, parents, wife and I and son, and wife told everyone about the strange-smelling rice dish. No one complained, though. By the time the festival was over, we were all hot and tired. Still, as a member of the PTA, I had to stay and clean up: taking down tents, moving decorations, etc. It didn't take long, though, because, as it turned out, practically every parent stayed to help. Very tired at this point, wife and I got home and immediately crashed on the living room floor to take naps. Meanwhile, son played with the neighborhood kids for two more hours. When did I last have such energy? Oh, yes: when I was a kid. Checked my email: they made a mistake. I wasn't fired after all. We had a special dinner: just the foods son likes. Later we watched a movie, "Ge Ge Ge no Kitaro and the Millennium Curse". I fell asleep during the movie. Son was happy, though, and I was happy about that. |
| The other night, I was working late at the computer. The wife was also up, working in the kitchen, preparing lunch for the following day's sports festival at son's school. I was working on a cover letter and essay for a job application in Japan but, as is my usual lately, spending a lot of time on YouTube listening to and watching music videos, indulging in a bit of nostalgia for bands I used to love at university (Jane's Addiction and Red Hot Chili Peppers, for example). When I type, I sometimes chew on my fingernails to think. It's a bad habit. That's when I noticed the smell. I couldn't place it, but it was something between old compost and dog crap. I sniffed closer. Yes, it was there, but I couldn't be sure it was on my fingers. I couldn't remember having handled anything remotely strange during the day, and I hadn't sat on the pot either, so there was no chance I had slipped with the toilet paper. I ignored it, and went back to writing about harmony-preserving strategies of Japanese conversationalists while "Three Days" played. The smell returned. I knew it couldn't be my fingers. Maybe it was something the wife was cooking? I went to the kitchen. It was about midnight at this point, and she was standing at the counter, cutting vegetables. A couple of pots simmered on the stove. I checked how she was doing, surreptiously peering into the pots to see if they were the source of the odd odor. Nothing there except some quails eggs and daikon; nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was time to take out the food garbage. Maybe something was rotting in the sink trap. I decided to ignore it and get back to work. The smell was pervasive, though. There used to be a small take-away shop in the building below us, and in the summer, the smell of oil grease would sometimes rise to the apartment. But this smell wasn't that, and it only seemed to be noticeable when my hand came near my face. It worried me. Maybe some sick, stray dog had let one go outside below the window? Completely distracted by this point, and worried that I had, without my knowledge, somehow gotten garbage or human waste on my fingers, I was my hands twice. Sitting down at the computer afterward, the wife comes into the room, a bowl and spoon in one hand, a worried look on her face, asking me to try the new dish she's been working on all day, a dish involving bamboo shoots, walnuts, rice, potatoes, and pork. "Sure, no problem," I said, reaching for the spoon. As soon as the food neared my nose, I knew the source of that stink. Now, I don't know where you were born or how you were raised, but I grew up poor in America, and I was raised to never, ever criticize someone's cooking, no matter how bad it is. I pushed my wife's dish past my uncooperative lips and began to chew. Initially, there was no taste. Then it rose, from the back of my taste buds, subtle but oh-so-there: a taste to match the smell, not rancid, not disgusting, but unpleasant all the same. I chewed thoughtfully, my wife's anxious face watching me. I thought I could get the lie out, and said, "It tastes good," but as I did so, my own face betrayed me and I started chuckle out of nervousness. The wife's face broke into a smile. "I thought so," she said. "No, it's not that bad." "It smells terrible." I paused before admitting: "I was wondering where that smell came from. It's...interesting." At that, we both broke out in laughter. It was like we both had been smoking pot--something she has never done--and had launched into a giggle-fit: we couldn't stop, we couldn't breathe at times, we sat there, tears in our eyes, that smell pervading our nostrils. It took us about five minutes to calm down enough to talk again. She was, of course, distraught. "I worked so hard on this. I have to throw it away." "No," I said, "don't. Just put some lemon juice or seasoning in it. The taste really isn't so bad. It's just the smell." Just uttering the word "smell," though, sent us both back into the grips of giggle-fits. For the rest of the night and the next morning, anytime we would mention that "smell," we would start laughing again. It was, we knew, our private joke, and I urged her not to warn her parents or son about the smell; just let them eat it and decide for themselves. It was a time, we knew, that we would remember, a private memory between the two of us, a reason to be happy about being married, sharing a life, sharing memories, a time of silliness and release amidst all the stress and bad times we've been having. It was a smell to remember. |
| "When I am working and you have a steady job, there'll be no one to do the housework." My response, unsaid to wife and just come to me now: "I would rather live in a messy house with you using your talents and mind than live in a neat and tidy house with someone extremely boring." The busy days are on us again. Wife is off to work. Son is off to school. I have ten more minutes to get out the door and drive half an hour to teach at an elementary school. Couple hours off after that, and then my own private student. Pick up son from daycare after that. And then dinner. And then Japanese lessons. Finish at 9 p.m. It is 7:44 a.m. now. I am so unproductive. I need to send off an application package to a couple of universities here in Japan, but every time I sit down to write out the letters, I get distracted. This is annoying. I also haven't written any stories recently, though I have all the elements for several in my head, sharing space with what I am currently reading: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, The City of God, and the Letters of Cicero. Quite a juggling feat, if I say so myself. Works sucks, as usual. However, a bit of bright news: I got another part-time teaching position on Monday nights. That'll bring in another much-needed $400 a month. Not much time with son now, so the tense situations have abated. We will see. This weekend is the sports festival at his school: big event, much preparation. He is really looking forward to it. So am I. |
| After the horrible morning of which I wrote yesterday, the evening turned out rather nicely. I wasn't sure it would. At 3:00 p.m., I walked up the street to son's school, to wait for him in front of the school so we could go to our English lesson together. I teach a 40 minute English lesson to any kids in the first, second, or third grade super cheap. So far, only four kids have taken joined, including son, who is the only boy in the class. Well, as I am standing there waiting for the kids to be let out, son appears in one of the upper story walkway windows. We have a bit of fun pulling faces at one another for a minute, passerby's be damned, and then he rushes off to pack up his school things. The first kid to come out of the school mistakes me for the elementary school's regular visiting English teacher, David. "David sensee!" You know, all us white guys look alike. "No. That's not me." "What? Why?" The teacher accompanying him out of the building apologized to me. I said, "Don't worry," though I am a little annoyed. I've lived here for ten years and I stand in front of the school every Monday. Son's been attending school here for two years. And, still, I get confused with another white guy. Only then did I notice his eyes and face. A bit of a mental handicap there. I instantly feel s***ty for giving the kid the cold shoulder. When the teacher returns from passing the boy off to his waiting grandmother, I apologize to her. She smiles, shakes her head, and says, "Don't worry about it." After half an hour of standing there (there is no set time for students to get out the doors; it depends on how organized the teachers and kids are cleaning up their room) the kids start pouring out. Son comes bouncing up to me. "Big news," he says in English, and then, switching to Japanese, adds, "another student is joining the class." This is good news. We need more kids. We need more money. We walk up to the lesson room and are joined by the other students, including the new girl. She looks sweet. Never trust little girls who look sweet. There are four girls in this class now, and the worst behaving are the cutest. Three girls, now, who talk in Japanese all the time, wrestle each other, run around the room ignoring my calls for them to stop and sit down. Finally, I just got tired of it and told everyone class is over. That surprised them. And class really was over for me. Never seen a group of such misbehaving kids. Oh, well. It's only for $5.00 a pop, and very casual. But I do need them to calm down. Son gave me some advice after everyone left the room, because he could see I was depressed. "Why don't you leave the room when they do that? Just for a minute?" "Good advice," I said, meaning it. After class, as usual, we rushed home so he could change out of his uniform and then go to the park to play with his friends. When we got to the park, however, there was no one there waiting for him. This made him sad, and he asked me to stay and play with him. I told him I couldn't. I had work to do. I had a cover letter and an essay on teaching English in Japan I needed to finish. I said I was sorry, but I returned home. He chose to stay in the park by himself. In the middle of the essay, son comes storming back into the house. "What? What's wrong?" "You left me there by myself! No one came." He was crying. And thus begins a huge fight, with me accusing him of being spoiled and him saying he wants to run away. "Go ahead," I told him. "There's the door." At this time, mom returns from work. "What's going on?" I explain. She talks to son. She, too, gets angry at him. Then, a knock at the door. It is son's friends come looking for him. Everyone--son, wife, and me--smile. Son rushes out the door to play. Wife and I talk about the potential university positions and my essay. We have a good talk; it's a subject we are both interested in. Dinner goes well: hamburger patties, chicken, pasta salad and rice, followed by ice cream. I washed dishes, as usual, and got the bath ready. Son did his homework. Wife worked on her essay. After bath, son and I played three games of chess. He is only seven, but he has taken an interest in chess. I used to be a decent player, now terrible, but just good enough to teach the kid the basics. He is good about losing, now. I will not let him win, though I will play carelessly from time to time. When we finish, he gives me a big hug and thanks me for playing. We go to bed, a good evening ended. |
| I don't know what to do anymore. I am ready to run. I am ready to cry. My insides churn with tension, making my head slow and me worried about my health. Friends and readers give advice. They make it sound so easy. How much more complicated is the world than the flimsy words we must use to express it. Son is rebellious towards me. When I speak, he doesn't acknowledge. When he does hear an order, he ignores or argues. Tempers run high. This morning was a good example. Before breakfast, before going to school, just after he wakes up, he asks if there will be time to play this morning. I ask him what kind of play. He says with the computer. I tell him he can't play games; there's no time. He says he doesn't want to play, he wants to watch his favorite tv show on YouTube. I say no, there's no time. He gets angry. He is slow to eat breakfast because he is angry. His mother sees this and gets frustrated with him. Tempers rise. But he does, eventually, eat his breakfast. I wash the dishes while wife prepares her face for work. Son slowly finishes his breakfast. He goes to brush his teeth, but I stop him on the way to the bathroom. "What are you going to do next?" "Brush my teeth." "That's good," I say with a smile. "And then?" "Huh?" "What are you going to do after that?" Wife pipes up from the other room: "That's too many orders. He can't follow. That's not what I asked you to do," she says, in a sentence which conveys so much to us but little to an outsider. Let me explain. Two days ago she asked me to make a visual checklist for our son, so that he could see what he has to do every morning. She wants me to do this because "Asberger's patients can't remember what to do next. We need to find a way for him to do this on his own. I am tired of telling him what to do every day." I was, and am, tired of fighting about this issue. I do not think son has Asberger's. The doctors only diagnosed him as being borderline; furthermore, he was six at the time of the diagnosis, and from everything I have read, it is extremely difficult to diagnose someone accurately with Asberger's at such a young age. I have pointed this out to her, but she is convinced he has Asberger's. We argue about this quite often. I am tired of arguing, so I agreed to make the checklist, but haven't done it yet. Not sure if I will. "Please don't interfere," I said to her as son looks up at me, nervous recognition of an impending fight in his eyes. "He can't follow too many orders." "Just let me do this." Fight ensues, briefly, between wife and I. Son goes off and brushes his teeth. Angry silence fills the apartment. Only ten minutes to go before son leaves for school. When he returns to the room, I tell him to get into his school uniform. He asks if there is time to play; I suppose it is his way of diffusing a tense situation. I make him look at the clock. "What time is it now?" "7:25." "What time do you go to school?" "7:30." "Well, 7:34, actually. So, do we have time?" "No," he says. "We have a little time. Let me wash my face and then we can play." When I return, he's ready for our pretend sword fight. "Okay," I say, taking my sword, "We have two minutes." "WHAT?" he shouts. "I don't understand! You said 7:34." "Listen--" "You said 7:34, not two minutes!" "You need to listen to me--" "Don't go to school!" his mother shouts from the other room. "Stay out of this," I say, trying to keep calm, but feeling my nerves sing with stress and my stomach harden like a stone. "No! He doesn't have to go to school. Spoiled!" I rush to the bathroom where she is brushing her hair. "You are not helping," I said. She ignores me. Son is crying in the living room. I seriously feel as if my lower intestine is going to push it's way out into my shorts. "Now there's no time to play," son said. "Yep. You should've listened to me." My wife, angry and silent, storms through the room, to get dressed. I get son out the door. He was nervous about his mother's anger. I smiled at him and waved goodbye. I start hanging laundry, trying to calm myself. Wife storms out without a word. So, this is my life, and I am so very tired of it. Wife and I almost signed the divorce paperwork just four days ago. I want to walk away some days, but I love my son. I want to be with him. Is that selfish? But I also fear what will happen if I leave him alone with her and her obsession with his supposed mental disorder. I do not see Asberger's: I see a normal eight-year-old, a spoiled only-child, coping with a stressful family life and one parent who can't communicate clearly (me: I can't speak Japanese so well). Am I being foolish, staying? Am I being selfish? Would it be better for everyone if I left? We have no money. That doesn't help at all. I am going to apply for university positions in Japan. I have to send the applications in the next couple of weeks. There are some good positions, and I have all the qualifications necessary. I also will apply for some positions back in the States, my home. My friends there are very happy to hear that I might be coming back. An old professor and friend is reviewing my resume now to give me some feedback on my chances. I honestly want to move back there, to move to Portland, but I can't tell if it is the right thing to do. Wife said I should move back and then, when I found these good positions available in Japan, she is eager for me to get the positions here. Argh! What do I want? I wish I knew. I am too aware of the positives and negatives of either option, and I can't decide. All I know is that I have to get out of this situation. I will apply to the positions in Japan. And if I get one, what will I do? Take it? That would mean staying in Japan, and I am not happy here; but the money would be good, and I could be with my son. Move to the States and try to rebuild my life there? Sounds fun...and selfish. I know that you, reading this, can't tell me what to do. I know that millions, probably billions, of others face similar or tougher decisions, sometimes on a daily basis. But I am a writer, and I write in order to think and to share my thinking with others, so there you are. This is my life today, Monday the 13th of September. I have to work on my application packages now. |
| This week, most nights I've been able to pick up son from his after-school daycare. I love doing that. We walk home and talk about the day. Invariably he asks me if we can play when we get home, and I have to tell him that 1) we have to check with mama, and 2) he has to do his homework first. Two nights ago, it worked out that after dinner, we could go to the park. It was dark by the time we go there, but we were able to kick the soccer ball around by the lamp light. His school's sports festival is coming up and, though the fastest kid in his year, son is a little nervous about running on the relay team, because one kid is faster than him running around the corners. On the straightaway, no one can beat son. So, he asked if we could practice running. Luckily, I lettered in track and field in high school, so I know the fundamentals of running, but there is no trick I know of for running faster on the curve. Instead, we sprinted a couple of times around the park. I am getting older, definitely. After one sprint of 45 seconds, I was winded and needed to sit down. Son was ready to go again! He ran the circuit twice more before calling it quits and heading home. It's a bit trippy (if I can still use that word) getting older while watching my own kid getting bigger and stronger. Every morning he wakes up, he looks taller, and our play fights are getting just a bit rougher each time. And it's not that I am slovenly and unfit; and he's only seven, going on eight. It's just that I remember as if it was yesterday this little ankle-biter who only stood as high as my hip, now with the top of his head reaching my chest. I want him to stop growing. Pointless hope, but he's getting older too fast. That's why I play with him any chance I can get, because there will be no more chances in the future, or those chances will become fewer and farther between as he gets older, gets his own friends, and moves away from his parents. Sometimes I wish he had brothers and sisters to play with, and I know that would have been better (shoganai), but in a way I am glad I can monopolize his play time. I just wish I was more energetic and had more free time to do so. Luckily, my scattered work schedule over the years has provided a lot of opportunities to take him to the park and to play. Other parents in the community have noted that, and they have said they think it was a great decision. For instance, I used to take son to the park every morning before going to daycare. I must've been the only parent to do so, and now those parents who saw us there express regret that they just did what was "normal" and took there kids straight to daycare instead of to the park. We are poor, and have little security. Hopefully that will change soon, but I don't know. I could have worked a lot more, could have sought out a steadier job, studied Japanese more and (possibly) gotten a 9-to-5 job at some company, providing my family a steady income stream and some security. Instead, I traded that for spending time with the only child I will likely ever have. Should I regret these choices? No, probably not. But I do regret that time moves so fast and that I am not as young as I once was. Guess it's time to start exercising more, so I will have more energy to play. Well, I have started studying Japanese more. Creative writing has slowed way down, unfortunately. Priorities is the problem, and a finite amount of time. I am sorry. |
| This morning was a bit tense, recalling the bad ol' days when wife was working and it was just son and I getting ready for school in the morning. Well, this morning was just like that: wife going off to work, and son dragging his heels, not listening to me, taking his time to do everything, reading comic books, playing in the water...you name it, he did it, and ignored my orders to. Getting older, that kid. It really bothered me, and I lost my temper and shouted at him, which caused him to lose his temper and shout at me. Fun morning. Now I am sitting here being unproductive. Must get a lot done. My part-time job was canceled tonight on account of not enough students signing up for lessons--not a good sign, I think. I need to write two or three articles today just to be close to being behind schedule. An old professor of mine agreed to review my resume and ask around about possible teaching positions for me in the U.S. Keeping my fingers crossed, actually. A lot of my old friends have said they want to see me back in the states, and Portland is looking awfully appealing. |
| Finished watching "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs" last night with the family. Great fun. I was amazed by the imagination. Now I want to read the book. Son loved it, even though we forced him to watch in English. We'll we time, in Japanese, so that he can understand it better and I can get some extra listening practice. My Japanese studies have been going well, and they have been helping make my life a little less stressful. Today, the wife starts her part-time job. Three days this week, four days next week. She's nervous. I don't know why. It's not like we haven't done this before. Oh, and she got her end-of-semester grades yesterday: all A's, plus one "double A," which I've never before heard of. Congratulations. That's the second semester in a row she's pulled off that feat. I received a comment on this blog yesterday, and it blew me away: this blog is a well-written "story" about an American who just can't understand another culture. Was I angry? Yes, a little. This is certainly not a story, not in the sense that I am imagining these events. No, this is all real. Am I an American who just can't understand another culture? I hope not! After ten years living in Japan and raising a family here, I hope that, at some level, I understand this culture, because, quite frankly, I have imbibed some of this culture and mixed it with my American upbringing so that now I don't really feel at home anywhere. If I am coming off as "incapable" of understanding another culture, that worries me. Today we are expecting a small typhoon to hit. Bad timing: have to get the kid to school, have to get wife to work, have to commute to another city for my job, plus come back to this town and teach a group of kids tonight way out in the countryside. Need good weather to make sure all of this transpires without serious problems. |
| Son and I went to the park the other day (well, we go to the park nearly every day). There are some boys about his age already there, all around eight or ten years old, which made me hopeful that he could go play with them, given that he seemed to recognize them and had raced off to talk to them. But as I watched, he stopped about 20 meters from them as they called out to him, and then he turned around and walked back towards me. Once, he turned around, stuck his tongue out at them, and then kept going until he was with me again. "Let's play soccer," he said. "OK," I said, taking our dusty soccer ball from the duffel bag I use to carry our gear to the park whenever we go. "Do you know those kids?" "No." "What happened?" "They called me American." For those of you who don't already know, son is of half-Asian, half-Caucasian decent; mom's Japanese, I'm American. He looks mostly Caucasian, but he talks, eats, and acts like a Japanese, and that is good and understandable given that he was born and raised right here in Japan. He considers himself Japanese, and he's quite proud of that. He loves Japanese things, and all the family and friends he has (excepting me) are Japanese. The kid is Japanese. So, he takes it pretty hard when someone he doesn't know just assumes he isn't Japanese based on his looks. He also gets teased at school sometimes by kids calling him "foreigner" even though they know he isn't. Unfortunately, he has my low tolerance for getting teased, and instead of ignoring it, he allows it to make him sad or angry. These kids at the park, for whatever reason, called him American without even talking to him (and, by the way, the majority of people in Japan will call someone who looks non-Japanese "American," because that is the default nationality of foreign-looking peoples). I could sense his anger at the kids in the park, so I tried to distract him by playing soccer with him. Pretty soon we were joined by one of our neighbors, a five-year-old boy named Toshi who loves to play with son. We had a great time, but as we played, I could see those boys checking us out, and sometimes talking among themselves and laughing. I wished son hadn't stuck his tongue out at them. I wanted them to see that we were just normal people, like them, and I really wanted son to have the chance to make more friends. But as they continued to (I assumed) make jokes about us and laugh, I realized that chance was gone--gone because they'd rushed to judgment about son's nationality based on his looks, and gone because of son being quick-to-anger. It didn't take long before I wanted to go over to them and make some pithy comment in Japanese, just to shock them--kids that age never expect non-Japanese-looking people to speak Japanese...well, to be fair, this comment applies to my experiences in this rural part of Japan. I wanted to knock them down a notch, and to somehow let them know they shouldn't judge people based on their looks. I wanted to protect son by having revenge on his attackers, but at the same time realized he needed to fight his own battles. If I handled this for him, son would never learn to take such people in stride (and the world is full of such ignorance); but if I didn't help him, then he suffers from feeling like an outsider (a feeling that carries a lot of grief in Japan) and, I suspect, the sense that "papa doesn't understand." I want him to grow up strong; I chose to not help him this time, though I I really, really wanted to jump in, show him how important he is to me. Probably every father feels like this, right? |
| Wife called me over to look at a book she was reading about Asberger's. It explained how children with Asberger's can't recognize danger. The illustration showed a mother and child walking down the street. "This is me," she said, pointing to the woman. "And you are always telling me not to tell him to dangerous things. You are making the situation worse. Please understand." I looked again at the illustration: the child is walking along the top of a low wall (about waist high), and the mother was telling the child it was dangerous. Yep, that's my wife, alright, I thought. "What we have here is a major culture difference," I said. "The problem is our definition of the word 'dangerous'. What you think is dangerous in Japan, we do not think is dangerous in America. That kid is not in a dangerous situation; he's just doing something his mother doesn't like." "That's not what I mean." "In Japan, you are always telling kids not to do things, because they are dangerous, you think. So most of these kids grow up to be unadventurous, timid, and unwilling to make mistakes. I don't like it, and I don't want it for our son. You know that." Yes, she did. She stopped the conversation then...not because I had won, but because she saw, as I did, the conversation would go no where. Without a common sense of what is "dangerous," there's no way of agreeing that a child can or cannot recognize what is dangerous. This, of course, makes me suspicious of claims in a Japanese book that children with Asberger's can't recognize dangerous situations. More likely, in my thinking, is that children who don't conform to Japanese society's "common sense" are viewed as mentally abnormal. At worst, it gives (the already nervous) parents of Japan a "reason" to submit their children to treatment for Asberger's. Parents always seem to search for a reason why their children don't automatically obey, or act strange, or just plain don't respect their parents' authority, and if that reason has a medical/scientific backing, so much the better. Not that I discount the existence of Asberger's, I am just cautious about evaluating someone as having Asberger's, especially if, as in our son's case, it is a "borderline" situation. A lot of culture goes into what is considered "normal" behavior. And "common sense" is all but common, I've learned--a truth not readily apparent to anyone who has not spent considerable time in a culture radically different from their own. Besides, can you imagine a world in which children are never allowed to do anything "dangerous," in which they are never allowed to explore; to make mistakes; get hurt, pick themselves up and try again? What kind of people would they grow up to be? Last weekend, 1500 Japanese men met a resort catering to them and their virtual girlfriends: a computer game in which players romance a virtual girl. |
| Teaching one of my more quiet students last night, it really struck me (unsurprisingly, however) how boring some people really are. This is not always the fault of the person, but the life they find themselves in. No, that's bulls***. Some people just make no effort to change the cards they've been dealt. Take Hosoi, my student, for example. I've nicknamed her "osoi," which means "slow" in Japanese, and describes perfectly her approach to English. To be fair, I am not sure if she suffers some sort of mental or social dysfunction, and she certainly is shy, but, frankly, she is studying another language and as such is expected to speak during class. It can take her a couple of minutes to form a response. Last night, we practiced giving opinions and giving a reason. "I think we should smoking," she said. "Why?" Three minutes of silence ensued as she visibly struggled to think of a reason. She already had had two minutes to prepare her statement, but it seemed she'd used those two minutes to think of the opinion. Honestly, I was surprised she'd come up with an opinion. This, however, is not the part that disturbs me about her (and many others like her). It's what we talked about during the warm-up at the start of class that bothers me. "How are you today?" I asked. "Good," she said. "How was work today?" (she works at a pharmacy) "Good." Seeing I would have to do all the work in this conversation, I pressed forward: "And what are you going to do tonight after this lesson?" "Go home." "And?" "Eat dinner. Watch TV." "So, the usual?" "Yes." "Anything new with you?" I asked, hoping against hope she wouldn't just smile and shrug as usual. "Yes," she brightened up, not smiling, because she rarely smiles, but sitting up straighter at least. "My parents bought a beetle for their grandchildren." For those who don't know, beetles are common "pets" for children in Japan, primarily because many kids live in houses and situations which simply do not allow a larger, mammalian pet. "And," she continued, "the children couldn't remember the name of the beetles." She smiled. She loves her nieces. "How long ago was this?" "Two weeks ago," she said. Two weeks, and children not remembering the name of a beetle species is the most interesting thing that has happened to this person. Oh, dear god. How long have I been here? When is something interesting going to happen in my life? I live a parasitic existence with these people, because I, too, work all the friggin' time, and have no social life. I, too, do the same things day after day, trying to eek out a living. For some of these people, coming and talking to a "foreigner" is the most interesting experience they will have all week. There are no more words to describe this vicious cycle. I must go. Need to get outside, away from this computer. Need a life. Need to publish something soon. |
| Just finished talking to an elderly student about the tattoo issue, and she provided a viewpoint that I hadn't considered. When public facilities bar patrons with tattoos, they do so in order to prevent yakuza from entering. By denying all people with tattoos access, they avoid the problem of having to single out the yakuza for barring, an act, she said, which owners are loathe to do because of possible repercussions and attacks. |
| Recent events have pushed me to write about the status of the tattooed in Japan. If you are not already aware, tattoos are taboo in Japan. A deeply Buddhist culture, Japanese traditionally frown upon the alteration of the body in any way, including piercings, cosmetic surgery and tattoos. Also, tattoos were long the symbol of the yakuza, and any public display of a tattoo signaled one's declaration of criminality. Well, all that has changed. In 21st century Japan, many young people get piercings, color their hair and, yes, get tattoos. I had a chance to confirm this the other day while teaching English at a local factory. One of the workers, a young many in his early twenties, spotted my shoulder tattoo and asked to see it. This got us all into a discussion of tattoos, and the fact that almost all of their friends have them. Of course the question "Did it hurt?" popped up. Mostly, they expressed interest, even admiration. All agreed that the association of tattoos with yakuza was a thing of the past--some were not even aware of the image. Fast forward a couple of days to find me and son at the public swimming pool. Been there plenty of times before, but this day one of the lifeguards steps up and says, "You're going to have to cover your tattoo." "Why?" I said, looking over at son, making sure he hears this. "Everyone with tattoos has to cover them." This is my fourth time at this pool. No one has ever told me this before." "I am sorry." "And is this a rule?" "What do you mean?" "Is it a rule? Is it written down somewhere? Show me." "No, it isn't written down." "Is there a sign somewhere in the building warning people to cover their tattoos?" "No." "Then it's not a rule, is it?" "What? Please, just cover your tattoo," he says, this muscle-bound little boy attempting, with his pained expression, to make me feel sorry for him so I will conform. Tough titties there. I've never been able to fit in, and feel no desire to do so now. By this time, son has jumped into the water to play. We have come here to play, to have a good time. This is his last day of summer vacation. This is not a time for grand gestures or to foster papa's ego. "Okay," I conceded, "I'll cover it with athletic tape. But put up a sign, will you?" I know they won't, however, because it's illegal to discriminate against people in this fashion, though the government and police often turn a blind eye to it. "Thank you," he says. Later, standing there with my arm taped, soaking wet so the tattoo shows through clearly, I tell son: "Remember this. It's not a rule. It's just what they want. It's what makes older people and people with kids comfortable. Idiots. Small-minded, "kawai soo," grazers. But what's to stop them saying foreigners in the pool makes them uncomfortable?" In the privacy of my mind, and because my Japanese is not good enough to convey this to son, I add Maybe they don't like your looks, because you don't look Japanese, even though you are. Maybe, as the economy worsens and people get more desperate for jobs, anti-foreigner sentiment will soar, and they'll bar us for all but a few public places, just so Japanese people don't have to feel uncomfortable. "This is the last time I do this for them. Remember that." |
| I realize that I have been very slack keeping up with the blog entries of late. I'd like to apologize by saying that the paucity of entries reflected my otherwise busy summertime schedule, and that it was a successful summer, too. The family is doing well, and the wife and I are (for the time) further from divorce than ever before, the kid had a great time swimming and camping, and we got all the summer projects done. Not much in the way of writing, but I can live with that, just so long as from now on I am productive. Son and I are doing well. As he gets older, his ability to remain calm and patient in the face of miscommunications is increasing. He will now take time to explain things to me, and he will ask from time to time if I understand certain words. This may be good training for him in the future, but for now it is a welcome change from the instant anger that used to follow a lack of understanding. Still, though, there are times when I wonder if the doctor is right about son's borderline Asberger's. For instance, the other night after I came home from work, son asked me (in Japanese) if I unlocked the door. I said, "Of course, I came in the house, didn't I?" "What do you mean?" he asked, confused. "Wait. Do you mean now?" "Now? What do you mean 'now'? I asked you if you unlocked the door." "Yes, I did. I came into the house. Now the door is unlocked." "What?? Why did you say you unlocked the door? I don't understand." Anger is rising in both of us at this point. "Do you mean is the door unlocking now?" (for those of you who do not understand the Japanese language, the difference between past and present perfect tense is not always maintained in conversation) "WHAT??" he shouted. He went and checked the door. "Why did you lie?" he shouted, returning. "Sit down," I said, patting the floor next to me. He did so. "Now, I didn't lie. But I didn't understand what you said. The door is locked now, yes? I didn't understand that you meant 'is the door unlocked now," because Japanese and English is very different. Understand? I didn't lie to you. Okay?" He calmed down, and we got on with our evening. Of course, incidents such as this happen on an almost daily basis when we spend much time together, but at least the severity of his reactions is decreasing. My disgust with Japan, however, is increasing. No hope in the economy, population steadily aging, and the men seem to be getting more and more feminine. I swear, even the Japanese media is getting on their case, calling them "grass eaters" (as opposed to the more aggressive carnivores, I guess), citing numerous examples of men staying at home with their parents and not scrambling for (the few) jobs out there, searching for lifetime employment instead of being entrepreneurs, and worst of all (apparently) waiting for women to ask them to get married instead of the other way. All of this coincides with a noticeable rise in the amount of Japanese porn portraying submissive men and dominant women or, disturbingly, men being seduced by their pampering mothers. Now, for me, I begin to wonder, how much of this image reflects reality, or how much are the men being groomed into thinking they are this way so that they will put up with the bullying from their mothers to go out and work themselves to death. It's an interesting, albeit pointless, chicken-and-egg question. Wife and I are deep in discussions of what to do once she graduates in March. We view this as our last chance to get out of the situation we are in. So, we have agreed, for now, to get the hell out of Dodge, move out of this small city and get into a larger city somewhere in Japan where there might be better job opportunities for me and better life opportunities for all of us. Frankly, I am sick and tired of feeling like my life has been on hold for the last ten years, and I shudder when I realize I have wasted so much time doing this bullsh*t work of teaching ESL for these mercenary companies. I am happy to think the end is near, though. Concerning my writing: I haven't heard back from any publishers recently, even though I sent out a bunch of my best work recently. I hate waiting to hear back on submissions. It's all a bit depressing. However, the textbook publisher I turned down previously is back in communication with me about writing a high school reader. The money is not good, but maybe it would open up more possibilities for my writing career. In terms of creative writing, my mind is a fireworks display, but I haven't been able to translate that mental energy into the drive to sit down and slave away at these pieces time and again until I have something I am moderately happy with, then tear it apart and start again. Argh. I hate the writing process because I am so slow! It's frustrating. But the bliss I feel when I am deep inside a piece (nothing sexual there) is unmatched by anything in my experience except playing music live or discussing literature in a classroom. Anyway, have to get on to other things. Son is going to daycare today, wife is off to university, and I have six hours of teaching today. In the other times, I will try to crank out an article on how to import Japanese cars, draft an ESL lesson for my students, finish a report for one school I teach at, edit some old ESL lessons, clean up my computer room, take out the trash, make lunch, and go to work. Just another Tuesday in Japan. Thank you for reading, and thank you for your patience. I hope to keep your interest in the future. Dis-Ease |
| Sometimes my mouth gets away from me. Sometimes I pay a steep price for that. Sometimes, just sometimes, I gotta run because of it. This one, last night, surprised even me. Wife was explaining to son how to properly eat dinner. First this food, then this one, then this one. Chew. Don't talk. On and on. We've done this so many times, and he's just not that interested. But she kept going on. Finally, my temper got the better of me. "Are you going to tell him how to make love to a woman? I mean, if he doesn't do it properly, it's no good, right?" Silence. Wife stares at me. Son looks between us, confused, not understanding what I had said (thank god for the language barrier). I sit there, thinking: "Where the hell did that come from??" Eventually, slowly, and with restraint in her voice, wife says, "You're right." She leaves the room. |
| Camping went great! No problems, perfect whether (except for clouds at night which kept us from star gazing). Lots of ants but, thankfully, no mosquitoes. Camp fire and roasting marshmallows went well, and the night hike had it's desired effect: scaring the kid. The tent was a bit big, and it was hot for sleeping, but we managed alright. We over-prepared but that was okay: at least we didn't forget anything. Since returning, we've been working hard on finishing up the summer homework for son, and I've been trying to crank out the articles to make a little extra money to pay for my Japanese online lesson membership: yep, yours truly, despite his resolution, is going to study Japanese more, in an attempt to make his life a little easier. Found a good online source and shelled over some money to join. Zero energy to write stories, though. Great ideas, but no drive. Too busy working on other things, I guess. Maybe next month, when son returns to school, I'll find the energy again. Hope. |
| Yep, long time, no hear. Sorry. Been busy. Summer vacation in Japan, means lots of homework and projects. So, on top of taking son to the beach whenever I can, going to festivals and fireworks displays, haunted houses and restaurants, I've been spending most of my free time building a robot out of recycled goods. I am not good at making things, so this has been a real chore. But it's nearing completion, and it moves, powered by a rubber band engine. I've had to fudge the design here and there, especially when I couldn't make things per design, but so far everything seems to be holding together. Wife is working with him on a big art project, and it looks good, too. We are hurrying to get these things done before Sunday because we are taking our first family over-night camp trip. Been busy preparing for that as well. Nothing on the writing front. Have lots of ideas, but no enthusiasm to get them out. Many things are under submission, so I am waiting to hear back from them. Maybe I just need to take this vacation. We have decided to move out of this town just as soon as wife finished university. After that, we'll wait a year or two, probably, and then I will move back to the U.S. (probably) to set us up. We want son to live in America for some time before he has to decide which nationality he will choose (Japanese or American), and we'd like him to improve his English if he has the chance. Things are much the same here, then: little money, busy, but lots of family time, which is nice. We danced on the edge of divorce again, but pulled ourselves back by resolving to move somewhere with better opportunities for us. We are so tired of this place, and I am so done with this bad job. Next entry will probably be after the camping trip, so we'll see then how it went. I am excited. Former Eagle Scout takes his son out for the first time camping: should be interesting. Cheers. |
| Son couldn't understand why everyone all over Japan closed their eyes in silence as sirens wailed in unison all over the country, so I showed him a video, a re-enactment of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. "Will this happen when I grow up?" he asked. "No," I said and then, because I want to be honest with him, I added: "I hope not." |
| The bad old days returned for a brief spell. Now the misses and I are having a stand off--she is acting nice after all her insults and threats, and I am acting the same as always. Son is on summer holidays, and I am working with him on building a robot. We will all go camping for one night in two weeks; not sure how that is going to pan out. Wife and I will have a big, serious talk either tonight after she finishes her final paper, or tomorrow. Not sure how that will go. I've given up caring. Son is my only priority now, and I am sick of my life here. If you want someone's help in your life, try to be nice to them. Don't get mad at the little things they do that you don't like, and don't insult them in front of their children. Pretty much common sense, I feel. |
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