i think i missed the memo

gym
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

I have now visited every grade school, middle school, juvenile delinquency center, old folks home, technical trade school, seaweed museum, and potato farm in Nanae Cho. I think. And if I've visited it, that means I've endured being placed on stage, given a microphone, and being made to speak in Japanese about myself, my home country, and my interest in Japanese food. To much loud applause, flash photography, and song-singing, of course. Then I'm shuttled off to individual classrooms to be given the rock star treatment -- AKA, everyone asks me whatever they can think of in Japanese (which one of us do you think is the best looking? do you like japanese food? do you have a boyfriend?), then asks for my autograph, then trails me for the rest of my stay (without saying anything, just following and maybe grabbing). Very odd indeed.

Things they should have put on the list of what to bring to Hokkaido: Fluency in Japanese (nothing is ever translated), Desire to Speak in Public (usually as part of a special ceremony. Also: Desire to Give Interviews, Have Picture Taken, and Meet Important People), Shareable Special Talent (singing of national anthem, juggling, or riding a unicycle would be nice), Knowledge of Home Country's Cuisine (and preferably a way to make a dish to serve 50 that doesn't require ovens, as Japanese people don't own any), and last but not least, Willingness to Put Up With Weird Formalities.

Don't even ask how many of these things I thought to bring with me beforehand.

I would also like to add that I have summarily been put on what I like to call the Japanese Schoolchild Diet. Maybe they're trying to tell me I'm fat, but I don't really appreciate the sentiment when it comes by way of a lunch portion the same size as a 7-year old's. Yeah, it's cute when Japanese schoolchildren don white hats and aprons and then serve you one bite of meat, two bites of vegetable, a bowl of soup, and a carton of warm whole milk, but it's also a tad unsatisfying.

One-Track Mind

edamame
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

Does't David look happy with his edamame? Hard to believe that yesterday was one of my most frustrating days in Japan to date.

I could pretend the problem was that they tried to pack too many activities into one day (oh, you don't think that visiting a grade school, picking potatoes and squash at one farm and edamame at another, going to an onsen, bowling with the local rotary club, and attending a speech-filled dinner was to much for one day? well i did), but mostly I'm just tired of Hokkaido.

I do enjoy my host family; they are amazingly interesting people and they seem to like me. Sometimes I even feel like myself around them. But this whole program is just a joke. They speak to us constantly in Japanese that I can't understand, they treat us like children, and they are obsessed with formalities.

In Japan, there is only one appropriate answer to the question, "Dou deshita ka?" (How was it?) No, scratch that, there are three answers. In the case of activities (for example, digging in the dirt) the answer is always "Tanoshikatta!" (it was fun!). In the case of food (smelly fish paste mixed with fermented glue, perhaps), the answer is always "Oishikatta!" (it was delicious!). And if you learn something (a toothless old man explains automobile servicing for two hours), the answer is alway "Omoshirokatta!"

At this point, I'm not even sure why they continue to ask me how I liked everything, because it's obvious what the answer is going to be. Gritting my teeth, barely concealing my sarcasm, I will always give the appropriate response. It's like when they catch me seeming slightly unhappy or tired, and they tell me, "Ganbatte Rori! Ganbatte!" The only meaning concealed in this pet phrase is, "I don't give a FUCK how you feel, SACK UP and act like you're ENJOYING yourself."

And I am, oh how I am. Omoshiroi, ne?

Photo op! Photo op!

nhk
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

While the purpose of this Hokkaido program was described to us in the brochure as "WORLD PEACE" (a commendable goal, no?), I have long since decided that it is instead to have a giant week-long photo op to publicize the wonders of Nanaecho.

Everywhere we go, newspaper reporters, television cameras, and photographers follow us. Majorly obnoxious. I rebel by refusing to smile in any of the photographs. This process is made ten times worse by the fact that all 20 members of our tour group add their own cameras to the pile when we start to take a group picture. Even the most serene moments here are always punctuated by the snap, whir, and flash of countless cameras.

We have also perfected the fine art of the self introduction and the gracious thank you, as we must perform them together at least half a dozen times a day at each various site. After all, we are FOREVER INDEBTED to the people of Hokkaido for GRACIOUSLY sharing their PRECIOUS time to guide our HUMBLE minds with their BOUNTIFUL knowledge.

farm girl i ain't

cowsme
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

On Saturday, I woke up bright and early to accompany my host father to the farm and see what real Japanese cowboys do. Highlights included: feeding a baby calf a bottle of milk and then watching it follow him around like a pet dog. Trying to cut a new path to the pasture, but realizing it was too narrow when the cows jostled into the electric fence and then were too scared (or perhaps too jolted) to take the path any more. Standing as a human wall as the cows were guided by the road into the new pasture. Driving through the pasture to look for new calves; finding one, lassoing it, and piercing an identifying tag onto its ear. Repairing the electric fence. Cutting the greenery around the fence. Repairing the barbed wire.

cows Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

The most interesting/gross activity of the day was surely dehorning the new batch of cows. Wait, cows or bulls? Hmm. Anyway, the process involves shooing one cow at a time into this little metal cage, and then when they stick their head through the end, slamming a metal bar down to catch their head. Then they are relatively unmoveable, and their ears are free to be tagged and their horns are free to be clipped off (as my otoosan demonstrates in this picture). The horns come off with a clean clip, but as soon as they're set free, the blood starts to gush.... Yeah, not so pretty.

being all confined

kimono
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

Today we learned how to put on a kimono -- aka, hold your breath, suck in your stomach, and smile for the camera!

kimono2
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

I have to admit, being corned in folds of heavy cloth, standing in a ladylike fashion, and folding my hands appropriately in my lap are all not really my style. These things are right up there with speaking in a squeakily high voice, bowing to all authority figures, and acting demure and coy...which is to say, maybe I'm being a rude American, but I don't believe in them. It's fun for a little while to play pretend, but then it just gets old. And demeaning.

Realizations in Japan

tsugumi
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

1. The world is a very small place. (also, I have famous friends)
Proof: Tsugumi, my 13 year old host sister, was trying to figure out the theme song to Mario Brothers on the piano. She showed me a video on her computer where this kid is playing the whole song on the piano, and she wants to imitate him. Before I can formulate the Japanese translation of "My friend at home who took lessons from the same teacher as me used to play that song too," the kid in the video turns around to smile at the camera and I realize that it IS my friend...it's Ben Kim! Internet superstar, even in a tiny rural town in Japan.

2. My host father is secretly fluent in English. (also, he is a genius)
Proof: I was showing him the TSL website to prove that I really was a journalist, and he started to read my article about the Scripps wall that was repainted/graffitied during the racial controversies at Pomona.
"Muzukashisugiru," I told him, insisting that the words I used to describe the incident were too difficult for me to translate, when all of the sudden he not only completely understands the article, but whips out an obscure Billie Holiday reference to the song "Strange Fruit" that I allude to in the article (but which he hasn't even gotten to yet), and starts explaining the meaning of her song and its reference to the lynching of slaves in the South. Um, WHAT?

Hokkaido-ing

beds
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

Getting up north to Hokkaido was quite the nightmare...In summary, a large ship and nearly an entire day spent rockin it, sleeping with 40 girls on the floor of aforementioned ship ("refuge camp" or "girl's orphanage," we liked to call it), moving (barely) up to an odd campsite in the mountains to sleep in bunk beds (see, moving up a little) and take gang showers (does no one else call them this?) or perhaps to NOT, singing around a campfire (or NOT, as I conveniently went to bed early instead), and generally avoiding being treated like a five year old at summer camp. Blech. Plus, us eight Pomona kids are the only representatives of America on the whole program, which means that everyone else is Chinese or Korean or Vietnamese, which provides an interesting linguistic challenge.

Today there is a typhoon in Hokkaido, and with the enormous gusts of wind and torrential rainfall, the power went out, which could only mean one thing...yasumi no hi! So my siblings and I are happily indoors playing video games and internetting all day long. My dad still had to go feed the cows and whatnot, and I don't know where my mom is, but I'm happy as a clam here in the house. TOO BAD, no zazen or middle school - visiting.

Time for lunch, I hope. Whee!

slish slosh

Today I celebrated my departure from Global House and the end of Summer Courses in Japanese by finally dipping my fingers into my laundry-smelling gel air freshener. The thing has been tempting me daily for the last six weeks, those little gel-beads all squishy and fragrant, sloshing around. I couldn't take it anymore. Casting aside all fears of rashes and hives (hey man, I have sensitive skin, and fragrance products are not meant to be rubbed onto me), I took the plunge. I grabbed great handfuls of the stuff and let the slippery beads slide through my fingers. It was FANTASTIC. Then I went to the bathroom and flung it all into the toilet. When Emily wasn't looking, I stole her air freshener and scattered the lumpy gel bits all over her sink.

This, my friends, is what Japan is all about.

Disappearing like a blip does

class
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

After tomorrow's final exam, I'm outa here. Off to Hokkaido, where it will be cool (again, if only I understood the fine mechanics of Celsius...) and English-less, I do believe. Which will be a wonderful (read: totally impossible) undertaking for me and my six-weeks-worth of learned Japanese.

I'm doing that thing again where I make friends with people right before I have to say goodbye to them. Congratulations, me. Way to (not) improve your quality of life here. Oh well. When I return to Tokyo in 3 weeks or so, all of the regular Japanese students will have returned as well, and school will start in earnest. Classes in things like literature and international relations and philosophy. Hip hip!

Anyhow, today I am only packing, so if you were hoping to find the interior of my brain splattered across the page (oh interweb, how you do coax brain dripples and spurts), I'm sorry to disappoint. I had to return all of my library books, and now my brain has ceased to function properly. Sad. I was enjoying the literary works of expatriates in Japan, as well as a Susan Sontag reader. Much inspiration to be found there. And now all I can think of is how to properly conjugate causative-passives and the correct stroke order for 6 weeks of crammed kanji.

Alright, time to study. Jaa ne.

A Story in Three Parts

matsuri
Originally uploaded by sillyhapa.

Part I: Reliving Augusts Past

If you didn't know already, I haven't done anything very traditionally Japanese since I've been here. I went to one temple with Flueckiger Sensei and briefly remembered how unenlightening such visits can be. Moreover, well, ok, I don't feel like explaining myself, but the point is that I had been unimpressed and uninterested in such things.

But once upon a time, the Obon Festival used to play a big part in my life. At least, I think it did, but I can't really remember. All I know is, this Saturday as I walked into the lantern-lit matsuri, Japanese tunesters warbling in that traditional fashion, small children in yukata dancing in a big circle around the taiko...it reminded me of my childhood. Odori lessons in the basement where I never really learned anything, dressing up in yukata and eating Japanese food, and always feeling silly but proud.

Part II: Feeling Silly But Proud

Attending those Obon Festivals marks my first memory of wanting to be more Asian. Amidst all of those dancing, singing, sushi-eating Japanese Americans, I always had a feeling that they looked at me and saw a little white girl who somehow knew how to dance japanese dances. I always wanted to shout at them, No! I'm half Japanese! I wished that my eyelids didn't have a crease so that my face would show my ethnicity. I wished that they knew I was one of them.

And now I finally realize that all the wishing in the world won't make it so; I'm simply not Japanese. The feeling hit me like a wall of bricks a couple of days ago when one of my new friends started talking about hapas and I realized he didn't know that I was half-Japanese. Instead of simply filling him in on his missing information, I started asking around the table. "When you first met me, did you think I was white?" The answer was always yes. Always yes.

I went home and started asking other people. Their answers were all the same. You're white. You're white. You're white.

Part III: In Which I Lose Everything

If race is only a social construct, and inside we are all still made of star stuff, what does it mean to not look like your race? What does it mean when you are only half of that race to begin with, and a watered-down half at that? In this case, does your race even matter?

I have always been so proud to be half-Japanese, so empowered by my biraciality. While I have never, ever thought of myself as white, I have often accidentally thought of myself as Asian. Being identified as Asian by the Office of Student Affairs at Pomona College, and being embraced by the AAMP mentors also gave me confidence that my Asian half deserved attention.

But today I feel that I am living a fraud. If everyone, upon first meeting me, assumes that I am white, does that not MAKE me white? I'm like the litle manchild who was raised by wolves, who tries to run with the wolves, but one day realizes that he's all gangly pink flesh and finally needs to move into the village. There's no need for him to run anymore; instead of the hunted, he blends in with the hunters.

I still believe it's a worthy cause to fight for the rights of Asian Americans, as we do with AAMP and my other various race-based organizations, but whose cause am I fighting for? I now believe that it is not my own. There is no cultural understanding, no laughter of recognition, no empathy. I might as well have signed up to be an African American mentor, and simply admitted that I was a person who was concerned with race and social equality, but who has never experienced discrimination or racism, and never will.

I want to send back my scholarship from the Japanese American Citizens League, I want to cancel my membership to the Asian American Journalists Association. I feel guilty that I was a mentor within a group that does not allow white students to become mentors. Perhaps they should change their rules, given that they accidentally accepted me.

What about me is Asian American at all? I did not grow up in an Asian American community, my family is not bilingual, I do not experience the prejudices that come along with being Asian American. What do I have to offer the Asian American community? When my future employers look at my face, will they see someone who is submissive, a lotus blossom, who doesn't understand English, or will they see a white woman? And when I excel in my field, will I be able to say that I am paving the way for other Asian American women?

ouch, this hurts my heart. Why didn't anyone ever tell me this before? So this is my burning question: What part of me is Asian American, and, more importantly, what difference does it make?

no wonder i love spider monkeys...

No one told me that travelling to Japan meant entering the jungle. And no, I don't mean a metaphorical jungle in the way that Robert Sullivan or Stephen Dunn turn steel beams and cigarette buts into images of wildness. I don't even mean a theoretical jungle of confusion and chaos. I really mean the jungle.

Step outside my dorm, and creatures are everywhere. I hack my way to the cafeteria, machete in hand, to the sound of what can best be identified as a curious symphony of howler monkeys, cicadas, rattle snakes, bullfrogs, and parakeets. I'm not sure how the Japanese wildlife manifests itself in such deafening form, but it's true -- I can barely hear myself think above the din of this jungle.

When it rains, it gets louder. They warn us of a typhoon headed in off the eastern coast, and while all of the non-Portlanders are scurrying to procure umbrellas, I'm mostly afraid that the jungle creatures will double in volume when it finally arrives. Then how will I learn to speak Japanese?