Will You Sign My Yearbook?

The gymnasium is decked out in red and white striped banners covering all exits and endowing the building with a big-tent, circus feel. It is impossible to escape. The chairs are filled with waves of black – black hair, black jackets, black suits, black expressions. A prominent Japanese flag hangs in the middle of the stage awaiting numerous deep bows from its servants. A large vase overflowing with an eclectic mixture of twigs and carnations sits next to the empty podium. The faces of the students are turned towards the stage, stolid and almost dour in their lack of expression.

It’s graduation day.

Graduations have always had a bit of a narcotizing effect on me. I tried to avoid going to my college graduation as it appeared to be, essentially, an excruciatingly long wait for a rare opportunity shake hands with an old bearded man in a druid’s robe, as a seemingly endless stream of names melded together, mostly of people I had never met and would never see again. But my parents could not be prevailed upon to let their youngest daughter escape seventeen years of schooling without one last prolonged bit of torture. The supposed electrifying and inspirational speeches made by the PTA presidents and the figures of authority failed to stimulate me and often turned out to be trite, redundant soliloquies with phrases compiled after googling “quick! I need a clever opening joke, a grand motivational speech, and the ability to provoke tears with words” on the Internet. But this is different. This is my first graduation in Japan. My first graduation in March. My first graduation since kindergarten in a gymnasium. My first graduation not wearing shoes in a building without heat.

So I go.

The third year students march into the gymnasium wearing the same old school uniform they have worn for the past three years to a tune I don’t recognize supplied by the brass band. Their years of running in sync have paid off. Their legs move at exactly the same pace and cover precisely the same distance with each step. The harmony of their white socks is almost alarming. The ceremony proceeds with several unfamiliar songs I absently nod along to. Preceding the song we are told to stand. The song finishes. We are told to sit. Upon sitting we are told to stand. Repeat. This happens several times leaving me to fondly reminisce about the classic American graduation phrase, “please remain standing.” There’s something economically pleasing about it.

A new tune begins blaring from the black loudspeakers mounted on either side of the stage. My ears tingle in recognition and my brain is suddenly confused. The teachers around me heartily belt out a modified version of Robert Burns’ Auld Lang Syne complete with fitted Japanese words bursting with vowels. Out of habit the words “Should old acquaintance be forgotten…” float around in my brain but remain locked inside my mouth.

It is time for the graduates to be recognized. Homeroom teachers take turns calling out the names of their students. Each one stands when called with a prompt “hai.” Yes. The gym resonates with a mixture of voices – some loud and imposing “YES I’M HERE LET ME GRADUATE, DAMNIT,” others feminine, cloyingly sweet and others barely more than a whisper. One representative from the class is called and presented with a large certificate from the principal who reads it in its entirety every time. A series of long, serious, shoe-inspective bows are exchanged accompanied by dramatic silence. The certificate is tucked safely and primly under the left arm by every representative in what I can assume are heavily practiced, timed, perfected and regimented motions.

The principal who is dapperly decked out in a tuxedo complete with long stately tails, the PTA head and several representatives from the local government make a series of speeches. I take in what I can but my attention remains mostly reliant on my eyesight. The guests are comprised for the most part of women – mothers, grandmothers, aunts and sisters. The attire of choice is a black suit and a string of white pearls, although some have come in colorful kimonos. They sit looking moderately bored, no real expressions of elation or sadness on their faces… yet.

Two more speeches are made. Japanese high schools do not select a valedictorian and salutatorian as this would contradict the group work ethic and the world would implode. Instead, members of the student council tend to step up to the plate.

I have no idea what they are saying. They could be relating touching, stately, orational masterpieces that would leave Cicero’s eyes glistening in awe, but I highly suspect they are largely edited by their homeroom teachers and include many standard, set phrases. One reminisces about the past three years – speaks of the sports festival, culture day and many a long class. During one class I had with this girl I asked her in English, “What do you think about school?” as a practice question. She was unable to answer and declared the question “impossible.” Her prolix speech would indicate otherwise.

The student speaker grows emotional but maintains her countenance throughout her speech. The next student finally makes it up to the platform after a five-minute journey of fathomless bows to those on her left, those on her right and the inanimate flag that looms over the stage. She gets about half way through her speech but then it happens. “Sleepless in Seattle-esque” music begins to drift from the loudspeakers. “My Sassy Girl’s” ending theme song seeps through the crowd. Music found at the end of every sappy Asian melodrama after the girl discovers a note written from the beyond by her tragically-perished-in-a-hot-air-balloon-accident-while-she-alone-survived-boyfriend tugs at the heartstrings of every sappy audience member. Her stoic façade cracks. Her voice wavers and the tears begin to flow. All of a sudden the auditorium, which before had housed the occasional cold-induced sniff, becomes an infirmary of sniffles and snuffles. It’s like a Pavlovian response. She finally makes it through her speech, attempts to suppress the rapidly escaping blubbers and heads back down to her designated folding chair. The schmaltzy music comes to a halt now that it has successfully completed its job of turning a large group of people into sobbing pools of jello.

The ceremony wraps up with a few more bows for good measure and thus ends another graduation ceremony in Japan – right on time, as always.

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Published:
3.1.07 / 6pm
Category:
classroom antics, what i call life, culture