An American Hippopotamus Relocates To Japan

Well, the Annual JET Contest Essay Results are back!! And no, sadly I didn’t win despite like 150 essays being submitted and 10 being selected. Ouch. But because I am lord and tyrant of my own domain here, I can publish whatever I so fancy. In case you’re interested– this is a prime example of what NOT to write if you want to win a thousand bucks from JET. Don’t write about girth, don’t write about hippos - play it straight and utilize the phrase “Internationalization on a grassroots level” in every sentence. Next year I’ll just have to make it more mushy-gushy, smear it in honey, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll bring out the kittens. Everybody likes kittens.

*

A girl towards the back of the room raises her hand a bit timidly; her school uniform jacket bunches under her arm. Her eyes twinkle from under her school regulation length bangs and I can tell she is one of the ‘leaders’ in the class; one of the few students who is willing to take a chance and engage the strange, continuously smiling foreign teacher who has just finished rambling in a Germanic sounding language dominated by S’s and impossible L’s from the front of the class about her family back home, her ardent love of New York and her stint in Rome studying Latin.

She peers at me curiously, gathers her composure, looks around at her friends for support and then bravely queries, “Why… your hair… black?” All the chairs in the classroom creak as each student leans forward to hear my response. They, too, have been wondering how this American, this native speaker of English, has come to have straight, dark hair rather similar to their own. Similar but different. Comparable but contrasting. They are confused.

My hair is not an interesting hue of purple. It’s not tinted with fuchsia or a luminescent shade of smurf blue. The question catches me slightly off guard; I’ve never had my commonplace hair color questioned before. My freshman high school biology begins to creep out of my long-term memory where it has been napping, dormant and unused. I could teach them a bit about dominant and recessive genes, scrawl a few pundit squares with my parents’ genome types on the chalkboard. But I can tell that’s not what she’s truly asking. Before responding I counter her question with one of my own, “Well, why is your hair black?”

Her comprehension is quick, her answer swift and unwavering: “I am Japanese.” She states it staunchly as if my inquiry was a rather silly question with a glaringly obvious answer.

“Right. Well, I am Japanese too,” I tell her. “Half Japanese. My mother is Japanese-American. My father is Irish-American.”

A resounding “EEEEEH!?!?!” of surprise echoes through the class. Some eyes go wide, while others squint perplexed. They look at me disbelievingly, the idea of multiculturalism still being something of a novelty.

Nowadays foreigners remain decidedly rare throughout some parts of Japan. While I blend in somewhat from the back with my dark hair and vertically challenged stature, once I turn around and open my mouth the jig is up. The students all gasp as they realize I am a legitimate foreigner with the laughable Japanese language ability of a fetus. They cock their heads to the side and their dark eyes become round when I tell them that culture-wise we have a teeny bit in common. I am familiar with Hinamatsuri (March’s doll festival for girls) not because I read about it in a textbook, but because my two older sisters and I would set out the dolls and feast on kamaboko and soba every year at home in New York. Childish phrases in Japanese for, “I’m hungry” and “I’m tired” were part of my daily vocabulary as a child. The mukashibanashi Japanese folktales were part of my childhood literature along with “Matilda,” “Sherlock Holmes” and “Alice In Wonderland.” Back in elementary school I brought in sushi for my third grade culture fair. Being the only student with any Japanese ancestry in that class, I was able to contribute something, unique, exotic, not to mention delicious. Now I am in the happy position of being able to offer knowledge on the habits and culture of the country I know best: America. In a lovely symbiotic relationship my students share with me their limitless knowledge of Japan whilst I reciprocate in teaching them about both my Irish heritage and my American nationality. I am the hippo and they the little birds that flock on my back.

“Even today Japanese people never fully get over the surprise of seeing a foreigner.” One of my Japanese teachers of English is translating another teacher’s remark for me. I am sitting in the teacher’s room at one of my three high schools having a chat with a young math teacher and another young English teacher. They both look as though they could be no older than me. My JTE even reminds me slightly of my eldest sister.

I am curious to learn exactly what runs through the mind of a native Japanese when they meet an expatriate living in Japan. Why do they ask some of the questions and make the statements that they do? Whether it is commenting on one’s big nose, peering quizzically at one’s gargantuan eyes, tugging on one’s great, fuzzy beard, or questioning one’s hair color, I have heard numerous stories about the genuine curiosity of Japanese locals. The three of us sit there for over an hour discussing such things. My JTE translates the comments from the math teacher that I cannot fully grasp in my lacking Japanese.

“Would a Japanese person ever make such an observation to another Japanese be it in a classroom, on the street or in an onsen: ‘My, what a big nose you have!’ ‘My, what a lot of hair covers your face!’ ‘My, what girth!’”

My hypothetical scenarios are met with laughter and the math teacher proclaims such an exchange completely and utterly impossible. “No, that would definitely never happen.” Her reasoning for the questions is simple— a foreigner is a mystery, a novelty to many locals. In a country that is around 98% ethnically Japanese, it’s understandable. When presented with someone who looks different from the vast majority of the people one sees on a daily basis, the human eye can’t help but halt, linger and analyze. One eyebrow can’t help but jump up in analytic intrigue and interest. The world suddenly becomes a Spot The Difference Puzzle in a Highlights Magazine. The “other” becomes the main focus – the different, the engaging, the thing you have to find and circle. But Japan is not alone in focusing on the ‘other.’ In America growing up in a predominately Caucasian neighborhood, my Japanese-American half was viewed as the “other” while the Irish-American side often passed over. But now, on the other side of the planet the tables have suddenly turned.

In New York I have been extraordinarily spoiled in regards to the varying cultures available at my beck and call just outside my very door. I grew up surrounded by a wide array of ethnicities, nationalities and beliefs. I could take a trip to the Metropolitan Museum to learn about virtually any civilization. I could ride the F train for just a few stops to hear firsthand a myriad of different languages spoken by native speakers. My high school students in the countryside of Shikoku do not have the same opportunities so near at hand. But they should. They are eager and curious about cultures foreign to their own. Their enthusiasm and intelligence would thrive in such a multicultural environment.

A chorus of “Ta me go maith! Ta me go maith!” resonates from the girl’s bathroom on the fourth floor at my local high school. It has been a while but my students still remember the bit of conversational Irish that I taught them. The class is dubbed “Foreign Affairs,” which tolerantly leaves the door wide open for possible topics. From our little classroom on the fourth floor, we have traveled to various parts of the world: Italy, New York, Hong Kong, Macau, and England. We have studied the ancient Greek gods and goddesses, learned of Midas’s infamous mercenary blunder, acted out scenes from England’s favored “Harry Potter,” compared New York City’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to Niihama’s renowned ‘Taiko Drum Festival,’ awoken a slumbering groundhog in February, read about St. Nick’s Night Before Christmas and sung along with the Alvin and the Chipmunks who pine away for hula-hoops and planes.

Recently I introduced them to Ireland – hoping that the next time they went shopping they would realize the significance of the crosses that are sold ubiquitously as fashion accessories and the clovers and shamrocks that hang off their cell phones, cute and trendy as can be. After warming them up to the Emerald Isle with some traditional tunes, beautiful photos of the Cliffs of Mohr, and picturesque rolling hills of green, I tell them we are going to learn some simple Irish phrases.

A worried voice immediately sounds out in Japanese, “Will this be on the exam?”

In high schools this is a question that is asked repeatedly in the classroom. Grades are the main focus and learning something for the joy of learning, especially in English, at times is something of a nebulous concept. My purpose of introducing these girls to various cultures and languages is not to later drill them on it and make ample use of my red pen. A tiny spark is all I hope for. A spark that will ignite an honest desire to know more about the contemporaneously existing world around them, whether it be a quirky holiday that makes them scratch their heads, an intriguing sounding language or a beautiful castle that they suddenly fancy to see in person. I simply want to expose them to the limitless amount of opportunities and the wealth of art, literature, history and lifestyles that lie out there patiently waiting for them should they ever decide to explore lands outside of Japan.

I pop my head into the girls’ bathroom and cheerfully ask them in Irish how they are doing, “Conas ata tu?” They hear a familiar phrase and pause primping in front of the mirror. “I am good! I am good! Ta me go maith! Ta me go maith!” they chirp back to me— not in English, not in Japanese but in a language foreign to both parties. It’s communication. It’s a connection. I am speaking Irish with a group of my favorite Japanese students. In a way I feel oddly complete.

Details:

You’re currently reading “An American Hippopotamus Relocates To Japan,”

Published:
6.12.07 / 8pm
Category:
amusing incidents, what i call life, culture