On Family Expansion

Diversity

My concept of family has always been very loose.  Yes there are blood relations, but there are also those who have no ties to you through genetics that are sometimes more family than the person who have you chunks of genetic code.  A few of my friends in America I even considered close enough to be true family status.  I care about all of my friends, please don't get me wrong, but some just mean a little more than others. 

Here in Japan I have a whole gaggle of lovely new nieces and a nephew.  These little people, I can’t even truly explain them in such a way that covers all that they mean to me at the moment.

  

I like that my Japanese kids sneak into my room and sometimes cuddle with me.  I like that they creep through my door when I’m studying to watch me or enjoy my American music.  I like that they want to be around me because I personally don’t mind being alone, but I like company.

They are cute, can be quiet, and help me with my Japanese a lot.  They get that I don’t understand and they don’t mind repeating themselves over and over.  They think it’s a game whereas adults get frustrated with my inability to hear hidden sounds.

This extends to my American children and my Japanese ones.

Some weekend mornings my usual quartet may be waiting for me to get up to play.  They let me eat, sometimes crawling into my lap to get a bite, but they wait nonetheless.  Then we play.  Sometimes I’m the Oni and chase them.  Sometimes I’m chased.  Now that the kotatsu (I’ll talk about it more in another post soon, for now it’s just a heated table with a blanket that goes over your legs) is out, we have a new hiding and playing zone.

I chase them around and let them hide, then I come barreling around the corner and dive under the table to get at my Pet’s feet.  They giggle and squeal and then run out and away.  Repeat as many times as you desire and there is the game right there.

I was told to call them Pet-chan when I first came.  Japanese doesn’t have plurals, so it stands for all of them.  I have my main four that I usually help out with and play with.

I don’t think I could have adjusted as quickly and easily if I didn’t have them.  They make everything a little bit easier to deal with.

I’m not having to miss having a big family, because I have a huge one here.  I’m not missing on our gathers, because although my family is large, they don’t ‘gather’ much.  I have my foreigner family for that.

My host family is great, don’t get me wrong.  They are very kind, offer me help, tell me their secrets, and entertain me.  In return I teach them, learn from them, and show every bit of kindness I can in return.  I am a part of their family, much like the shop assistants are.  You become an honorary member, and I like that feeling.

The one thing I’m missing from my family here in Japan in an understanding.  They don’t really get what is going on with me.  They don’t understand that my mind is currently in a transition between Japanese and English, constantly flip flopping and trying to grasp at words and sentences to make sense of them.  It gives you headaches that’s for sure.  I’m beginning to make sense of the mess of language in my mind, it’s slow, but I’m getting there.

My host family doesn’t give me the understanding I need, the reassurance that this is normal.  That it’s okay to get snappish every now and then because nothing comes out of your mouth right in either language.  That’s what your foreigner friends are for.  They sort of become a part of your extended family as well.

I can say personally, that I care deeply for my fellow Rotarian students.  I have an idea of what is going on with them, as they do with me.  We get it, there is no need for explanations.  They understand that you would rather talk in English at the moment to give yourself a break.  They understand that you want to try out Japanese with them as to spread your wings and test the waters again.  They get that, and most don’t mind.

I really appreciate what my foreigner friends have done and are doing for me currently.  I feel like a burden to the older ones, the ones that are no longer Rotarians and are now JET teachers.  JET is a program where you teach English abroad in Japan.  I don’t want to go too far into it right now, but that’s the step for me after college.

My extended family, of JET and Rotary, they are a support net.  They are just a phone call away.  They are just a Skype away.  My American family is the same, but as much as I love and adore them, they don’t get that sometimes my head hurts so bad I don’t want to go to school and deal with the onslaught of language on my really bad days.  (Rest assured, my very good days always outweigh my bad ones, but I am human and am allowed to be distressed every now and then.)

Gatherings with any of these people, even just one on one, never fails to boost my confidence and give that little push I need to move on.  Coffee with a friend is therapeutic to me, I hope I keep this habit.  It’s nice to just talk in English for a while with someone who knows what they are doing, what you are going through, and have a view point to compare your own against.  A barbeque with these same people has almost the same effect, but with a more of a family atmosphere.

Some of my very best memories I have made here revolve around shared food and talk with these people.  Both Rotarians and Jet and my Host Family.  Nothing draws people together like food.  Late night cookouts with people you may have just met the day before, the hour before, or may have never met before.  They still smile and hand you a plate, telling you to help yourself to anything, to get comfortable, to enjoy yourself.  Jokes and stories are told, sometimes in two tongues.  Drinks are exchanged between adults and kids run around playing their games.  It’s nice to just sit back and watch it for a minute, to enjoy everything going on around you.  My best memories here are centered on such times, I love every moment and everything seems perfect for a little while.  Watching the moon rise with new friends who you consider family in a sense, listening to them sing, listening to their stories, and just being around them.  For me, there is nothing truly better than such a gathering. 

I loved them in America too.  My family threw the best parties.  I remember one Christmas, I was asked what I wanted.  My reply was that I wanted us to all be together for it.  I love hanging out with my family, playing Mexican train, bocce ball in the dark, bonfires, hay rides, sitting with all of crammed into one living room, and spending vacations together.  It’s nice that although I am not able to do this all with my American family right now, I can still do it with my extended one!

On another note, I was considered a physical person back in America.  My friends could always count on me for a hug, a hand to hold, and a physical presence if they needed it.  Just support through friendly touches whenever they needed some support themselves.

I’m always grateful for a hug from any of them.  Sometimes all you need is a hug from a friend you may not remember the name of.  A hug from a new friend is reassuring in ways that are hard to explain.  I like hugs from any and all of them.

Sometimes that’s all you need to have a sense of normalcy in the world you chose to throw yourself in.

Many of these people, I can tell you right now, I will try and keep contact with them as best as I can.  I will make an effort to upkeep our friendship and comradely.  No one understand better than someone who has done it themselves.

I find myself drawn to them, to their conversation.  I find them truly interesting, my fellow Rotarians and the JETs as well.  We have common ground to converse about, support in almost every sense, help where you may need it, and a sense of that normalcy again.  These are my friends I will keep for years, even after we no longer talk I will still remember them for what they meant to me during the times we did.  Just because the talks end doesn’t mean friendship does as well.  I will always be stretched over the ocean in this way, between my homeland and the home I am making for myself where ever I go.  I will be stretched to the places where my friends reside and are also making homes for themselves.  It’s a giant web of connections, of family that shares no blood but is sometimes stronger than real blood families.

Rotary is also very good about giving care when care is needed most.  People I don’t know, I wouldn’t have known if they weren’t a part of my club, give me kindness in small gestures.  A gift here, a kind word there, encouragements all around, and sense of belonging even when you ask for none.  They genuinely care if I am doing okay, not saying that my family doesn’t, but it’s a surreal feeling when it comes from near complete strangers.  I appreciate there actions, I have stated so before in this blog’s other posts, I will never be able to repay them fully.  I can only prove their efforts by doing my hardest, by doing what I have set out to do, what I left everything familiar behind for.

I have many mothers, fathers, siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles in the sense.

So this is my new family.  My extended family.  It’s a bit strange, not at all normal.  It spans many continents, countries, and cultures.  It’s a jumbled mess of names that I can’t always pronounce correctly, but it’s okay.  Name a country and I can almost guarantee you I can name a friend or acquaintance that lives there or has in the past.  Name a language and I almost give you a contact to help you learn it, or speak it with.  My family encompasses so much and so little when you think hard about it.  We are just specks, but united specks.  There is always a friend awake to talk to, to ask questions, and maybe just talk to for a bit.  My strange family indeed, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t love every minute of it.

This is the home I am creating, and I’m filling it with all these wonderful people and memories.  This is what I left for, what I spread myself out willingly for.  This is exactly what I wanted and needed, and just think.  I’m only two months and nearly two weeks into my exchange. 

So much more is yet to come.

See You Soon

Mata chikaiuchini

また近いうちに

On Fitting Your Life into Suitcases

Space

I came with three suitcases and one backpack.  I don’t have an exact count on everything I had, but I have a general idea.

I brought comfort food, supplies for my smash book (I’ll talk more about that a little lower), clothing for all seasons and most occasions that I could think of (it’s changed around a lot, had to buy some really light shirts for the insanely hot weather in August and September), my computer and a few other electronics, trinkets to give to my families, and a few personal belongings.

That had expanded, adding books to study from, random gifts from family members and classmates, magazines that I wasn’t able to walk out of the store with.  You’d understand if you ever saw a Japanese fashion magazine, the things are wicked man.

Doesn’t sound like a lot, and it really isn’t a lot.  But when piled together, it takes up three suitcases and one large backpack.  When you think about it, this is my life support from one year.

I can’t go back and grab that book I should have brought, I can’t shift through my belongings in my room like I used to, I can’t add that one other shirt I thought didn’t look cute but now I want really badly, there is so much I can’t do that I feel like I need to do because the things to do it are in my room back home.

My life is convenient to move around.  I can easily pack up everything I need in under thirty minutes and be on my way.  I can cram everything I need into those three suitcases and backpack.  That’s not a lot of space when you really think about it.

We exchange students live a minimal life, or at least most of the ones I personally know do.  Anything you honestly don’t need can be thrown away to make room for something you do need.  Any extra clothing can be tossed into the next second hand shop so you can add that new shirt or pair of pants.  Those books can be passed onto others as well.

I don’t have much room for extras, but the extras I carry have a meaning.

Here’s just a few of the extra things I don’t need but keep with me anyway.

I keep a pink and white panda made from felt, with writing on it.  It was made by my cousin for me.

I keep a blue and white crochet afghan corner.  It was made for me by a dear friend.

I keep a stuffed cat toy.  I’ve had it for a long time and I personally felt bad leaving it behind as I went on my adventure.

I keep my baby blankies with me.  They are my baby blankies and will go everywhere with me in life.  I’m a Linus and am okay with this.

I keep my extra books.  I don’t know if I’ll need them again and will keep them until they are proven useless.

I keep a few plastic toys.  They were given to me by my host nieces and I would feel horrible throwing them out.

I keep a set of posters given to me by my host sister because I’m living in her room while she is away.  They are cool and I like them, so why not keep them?

I keep my smashbook.  It is a messy diary of sorts.  Everywhere I go, various receipts  pictures, and brochures are slapped, tapped, or glued into the poor thing.  I scribble down important notes, good thoughts, and many other things into.  It wasn't really a need at first but it's become a good way to remember the details of my exchange.  It had been officially placed up on my scale of important things to reside beside my Rotary Blazer.  You exchange students know the importance of such and item, you now understand what my abused smashbook is to me!

Everything else is needed in some form, worn in some form, can be eaten, or used for personal life in some form.

It was a shock to me, a semi-hoarder in my life in America, that I could live on minimal money and items.  That I could be content without my multitudes of trinkets I’m known to keep.  I can be content with a computer, Ipod, Wi-Fi, a small stash of food, and clothing.  I don’t honestly need much to survive and thrive, and I’m glad I learned this.

I now know I can make anywhere feel like home, as long as I have a suitcase, backpack, and Wi-Fi.

I like this feeling of being free.  Of not really owning much in my life here.  It’s a relief that I have so little to worry about, that I know if I have to I can easily move and go on with my life.

It’s not a lot of space, but it’s the only space I need.

Yes my small collection of items has surely grown, but I know I can thin it out easily.  Clothing can be replaced, hygiene products are easy to buy, and you can always find new books.  It’s the special ones you keep and the normal ones you get rid of.  Even then the decision is hard, but choices have to be made after all.

So to all of you packing out there for your own adventure, or thinking about it, take a minute would you?  Think, do I honestly need this?  Do I need it because it’s useful or because I want it?  Would I honestly wear this is a few months?  Could I save my money and buy something else with it?

I have a few pieces of clothing I wish I had saved money on and bought here in Japan instead.  Maybe my mind will change in the upcoming months.  Apart from that, I’m quite content with my living style.  It makes my life easier, less stressful, and a heck of a lot less cluttered.

I like being less cluttered.  It’s one thing I’ve noticed I’ve gained while being here for two months already.

See You Soon

Mata chikaiuchiniまた近いうちに

On Japanese Graves

 DEAD

Japan is very eerie in the sense that everything is left as is.  No one really messes with anything.  That building is rotting, better not touch it.  That stone has crumbled, let’s only move the bits that hinder our daily lives and let the rest fall to bits.  I can walk through my town and see both ancient history for the area and a bit of the future all at once.

Japan is a fine balance between both.  It’s an odd mix but it works well for these people.  Japanese people themselves are a mix between then, now, and the future. 

Their language is a relic with no true history, no one know the true origin of spoken Japanese.  Their written form of language has roots in Chinese, but other than that, it is unknown.  Their actions are the exact same their ancestors did.  They bowed, they sat on their knees in the Seiza position, their schools are run the exact same way they were in the past with only a few variations, their homes are styled traditionally with the commodities of modern day living installed into the already existing frame usually, and their physical features really have not changed much over the past thousand years.

Mixed in with these ancient traits, there are peeks into the future as well.

They have made incredible leaps and bounds in trading, manufacturing, and trading since opening their borders back to the world.

Here’s a little lesson in history before we move back into the topic;

From the years 1633-1853, Japan was in a Sakoku state.  Sakoku means chained country.  They may have begun trading with countries that sailed to them, mainly the Dutch, but they didn’t allow people to be able to leave japan until 1868 though.

They were not completely isolation, just very strict regulations on trading, who could and could not leave the country, and extremely strict rules on foreigners.  The only place that was truly ‘allowed’ to trade in was Dejima, Nagasaki at the Dutch Factory.  (I’ve personally seen this place, was pretty cool)  Trade with China was also allowed in Nagasaki.  Korea could trade in Tsushima Domain, which a part of modern day Nagasaki.  The only other trading posts were further up north, in Hokkaido.  Almost everywhere else it was barred and seen as treason to trade with foreigners.

This policy over trading was put in place by the Tokugawa Shogunate (that’s another story).  They were afraid of Japan losing its ‘Japan-ness’.

Lesson END

There’s a lot more to the story, I’m only sharing the basics because there are books out there that could teach you more and better than what I can explain.  But the point has been made, Japan was cut off, they had nearly three hundred years of nearly total isolation so they missed the big economy and technology booms of the world.

This just adds to the fact that they truly are people rooted in their own traditions and rules.  They are not a melting pot like Europe and America.  That is slowly changing, but they are still very much their own people.

The new is beginning to take root around the old, and the old crumbles yet still remains.

I went on a bike ride as I usually do when I don’t want to study and have little else to do.  This time I went to an area of town I didn’t know quite well, figured I’d make an adventure out of it.  I nearly missed it as I flew by.  There were steps going up, that usually means something interesting here in Japan.

I came to a squealing stop, my bike not appreciating my reckless breakage.  I turned around and parked beyond the three metal posts meant to keep cars from running into the stairs.

These stairs were old and worn, their edges rounded and breaking a part.  And yet a hand rail had been put in rather recently from the look of the white concrete that stuck out like a sore thumb in the dark stone.  I climbed up, not sure what would greet me.

I came to the first landing, one path led to what looked like an overgrown patch of farm land.  The other path led to a very, very, old grave stone.  So old it was green and blue with growths and nearly rounded all the way around.  I kept going up, Japanese stairs are extremely steep and very narrow width wise.

A quiet came over the area.  Japan has two noise settings.  Extremely and unbearably loud, or so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat.  Sometimes there is a balance between the two, but it is rare and hard to find.  It was quiet, a nearly dead quiet.

It’s eerie to hear the sounds of cars and life fade away as you come out of the various levels of chaos.  This mini mountain was apparently above them all, or at least a strange bubble of peace between two of them.

I kept on climbing, getting a decent idea of what was to come thanks to the tombstone and field.

I was greeted with another landing, this I walked along the path.  This one was stone, crumbled and fading, but still stone.  The earth was reclaiming it as it does here in Japan.  It’s a creeping process that can be avoided, but people just allow it to happen out what I only can call respect for the old.

The entire walkway was lined, in single file, with various sized headstones.

A mini lesson in Japan again;

You are not buried, ever.  You are burned, turned into ashes, have your bones picked from the ashes in a whole process that it taboo to copy outside of the funeral procession, and your bones are placed in your ancestral grave-headstone-vault-thing.  I haven’t seen this process and it’s not wildly popular to talk about over dinner, so I don’t know much beyond the basis.

A woman who marries a man is drafted into his family if she takes on his name and is placed under his family’s stone, as will her all her male, unmarried female, or married but didn’t take on the man’s name female, child.

Lesson END

These headstones are not very ornate in most cases.  They usually are just a long, skinny, block of granite with the families name embossed into it and maybe some message.  I can’t read kanji well enough yet to really say what was written on the ones I have personally seen.  They are a timeless beauty that I appreciate.  They are art.

Families wash these stone with water and brushes, they offer sake and rice to the ancestors, they visit the stones to consult with their ancestors in a time of need, and they teach their children the names of their past family members.

These stones are a big deal.

Until a family forgets where theirs is, or when the last member of a family dies.  These stones are left to crumble peacefully.  No one daring to touch them, least they piss of a slew of ghosts.  It is beyond rude to touch another family’s stone, since it is an embodiment of their family.

These ‘dead’ stones are mixed in among the ones that you can tell were either recently replaced or are well taken care of.

It’s these ‘dead’ stones that are my favorite.  They are old, they seem unloved, and they seem to emit a sense of calm.  Like the stone itself has come to realize that the family is no longer coming back, that it is alone in this world, and that it will crumble and die.  It’s a peace of accepting ones fate and not fighting it.

I could sit under a stone, a forgotten stone, and just be for a while.  I did that and I enjoyed it wholly.  There is just a Zen that can be found in these quiet places of reverence.  I’m not personally very religious, but I enjoy the peace that comes with holy places.

The ones that are well taken care of, I appreciate their beauty and the work the family has put into keeping it all clean.  They don’t have this peaceful feel though, these stones don’t know abandonment and so they are just a stone to me.  Beautiful and expensive, but unfeeling and unanimated.

The tragic ones, I always seem to love them more. The moss growing thicker, the smell of light mold and a slight hit of rotting stone, the dirt around them piling up and beginning to eat away at the base, the overturned areas to place incense sticks, and the missing bottles of sake and tea cups; these all add a sense of solitude and peace.

There was barely any sound besides that of my shoes crunching the gravel and sand.  It was a good time to just not think, to just appreciate the beauty and peace around me.

I then continued on my down the path lined with stones, still not having reached the top.

I stepped on something that didn’t crunch, but shattered in a sound I’m familiar with.  The sound of breaking china.  It sounded just like that time my sister threw one of mum’s fiesta ware plates.  It was an eerie flashback to have in an eerie place.

I looked down to see that I had wondered into a small corner patch, thick with weeds and dead grass.  A small piece of blue and white china of what could have only been the remains of a tea cup under my foot.  This prompted me to look for whole cups or bottles, a little forgotten tragic from a patch of forsaken and forgotten land.  With all my efforts I found two beautifully designed cups, elegant and certainly expensive, left there to rot and break with the rest of them.  I also found an old sake bottle.  It was brown, which is rare to find.  They are all clear glass now.  So I knew it was old.

I have a habit of ‘rescuing things’.

I kept my treasures in hand and went back to the main path, going back up the stairs. There was more to see, I was certain of that.

I reached the top layer of stones, and that was all I could see.  Tombstones, row after row.  All in various states of repair or disintegration.  It was a sight to see.  I wandered around these stones, peering at the ones still wet or a stick still burning.  I watched those whose mold was blossoming and saw a few pieces actually fall from their bodies.

It was a sight to see.  A quiet, peaceful, and sad sight.  I found a basin to wash my cups and bottles in, I also found a huge marble in an unruly pile of grass in a corner I found.

The rows were not endless, but I spend the better part of two hours exploring and offering my thanks to having stopped and turned around.

I found another stone, all alone in a corner.  There was no true path to it, the grass around it was gray and brown, the stone itself was broken in half, and it looked so sad.  It was clearly ancient, even the kanji on it old and worn down, I almost couldn’t tell there was any kanji until I peeled back a section of moss, I don’t care if it went against tradition.  I grabbed a bucket and brush and washed the poor thing, there was no way I could clean off the moss and grime. 

I did my best, washing it for the first time in who knows how long.  I couldn’t find a lighter so I couldn’t burn any incense.  I found an abandoned can of ceremonial sake and placed it next to the shattered alter.  I gave it maybe its first prayer in a long time, I don’t think I did it right though.  I did the same thing I do for Kyudo.  Bow three times, clap twice, and bow twice more.  It may not have been right, but I put my heart into it so I hope that counts for something.

I felt bad leaving it behind.  The poor, forgotten, stone. 

I had to return to my home though, there was dinner to help make, and children to watch.  I couldn’t spend the rest of the day meditating in front of it after all….

The very old graves

The newer ones!

Some more old ones.

My little abandoned one I washed.

See You Soon
Mata chikaiuchini
また近いうちに

On Being a Child

 Young

No one in this world is born knowing a language.  Yes, we are predisposed to it through our mothers talking.  We can hear them before we are born and thus pick up the language ‘habits’ of language our mother speaks.  It is scientifically proven that baby’s cries are specific to the language their mother spoke while they were in the womb, they were listening and picked up on the tendencies of their mother tongue.

Everything else is learned by watching and listening, by having everything repeated endlessly until we finally grasp that these sounds mean this or that this sound makes this happen, this gets this kind of reaction and that doesn't get a reaction at all.

Language is a bunch of noises strung together that make an idea out of the language itself.  The brain basically made the noises for language, what we will call it, and what each noise stands for.  This varies from country to country, but language all has the same root of being a noise that stands for an idea within the noise.

For us on exchange, we are babies.  We don’t typically know our host language and are a little lost at first.

Have you ever wondered why children have such short fuses?  So quick to temper when they don’t get what they want even when you assure them it will happen soon?  It’s because they don’t know what you are saying and there is no way to tell them what it is you are saying to them.  There are no translations they could possibly understand.  There is no way for YOU to understand what it is that they are saying to you as well.  They could be explaining why they are so angry for all we know, and yet we don’t even known that we don’t know.  Just like they don’t understand you at all.  So they get mad, throw a tantrum, get over it, and learn what the noises stand for eventually.  Until then they will stay angry.

We exchangers are very similar, but we have a huge flaw that children don't have.  We already know one language.  We are already fluent.  We already think, dream, and speak in a language probably vastly different from the one we are trying to learn.  That screws us up and over.  We can’t absorb quickly any more, our age making it harder and harder to become fluent in another language easily.

We can’t just replace our thoughts with another languages, that’s far too hard for any normal human to do!  We struggle to learn, and we are lucky we have translator in some cases.  In others we have none and so we get angry, our emotions get jumbled, and we grasp at straws.  A theoretical tantrum if you’ll humor the idea.

We start to grow up though.  Sentences begin to flow easier.  We get our tenses right.  It may not look like it, but on the inside I’m sure some of us celebrate and do a little dance.  I know I do when my language skills sharpen slightly, when I can talk to someone without having to translate every other word.

The growing pains are there for sure as well.  The frustration and hurt when you have to give up because nothing makes sense and you are only confusing the person you are talking to.  The bone deep tiredness that comes with studying and practicing so you can say it right the first time and make a good impression.  The mental drain from thinking in one language and speaking another and the mix up between the two.  It all hurts, but so worth it in my opinion.

I’m nowhere near fluent, I’m just getting down the basics and able to answer what they are asking.  I know more when it is spoken to me than actually speaking it myself.

After speaking comes reading.  Children spend years in school learning how to read their own language.  Most of us exchange students have people expecting us to be good at in a few months’ time.  Some of the languages we are thrown into don’t use a roman alphabet or anything similar to one.  These are the Asian countries mainly.

Maybe I’m just special, but I can read Hiragana in most cases (as long as it is neat handwriting), it took about a month to fully memorize and link joint sounds to varied symbols.  Then there were the ‘dirty’ sounds of Japanese where what is read as ‘ha’ is said as ‘wa’ and ‘tsu’ marks that a work ends sharply and a ‘-‘means is a long vowel.  It took some work, some studying, and some blistered fingers, but I did it.  I’ve got a good grasp on it.

Kanji is a whole other story though.  Most Japanese don’t know how to read more than a handful of them even.  They spend years and years in school memorizing and picking them apart to understand them.  Here I am, with Rotarians saying I should have them all memorized in a few months.  Hate to say it, but nope.  I’m going to try and get the basic ones, but I don’t think I can accomplish what the Japanese can’t even do in a lifetime in a few months.  As good at studying as I am…. That’s like asking someone to learn astrophysics overnight.

Back to language and such.

I took it for granted that I think in fluent American English.  That I write fluently in American English.  That I can do just about anything in American English fluently.

It’s hard to wrap ones head around the idea that the person sitting next to you might not even think in the same language as you.  Their dreams are in a different language.  Everything they know is a different language.

Before you are quick to judge that person next to you, struggling with English or the language you personally speak, think about this; their brains weren’t wired to it, their thoughts might not be in your language, and yet they are still trying to talk to you in your own tongue.

Be a good person and stay with them while they work it through, let them stumble before you correct them (be sure to be kind when doing so), and just listen to their words.  They are the words coming from the brain of another language to yours.

To me, these words are like a gift from the person to myself.  I appreciate their actions and I try to help them the best I can.  Someone is pushing their mind into overdrive as they struggle, caught between two worlds in their own mind.

To the people who are fluent in more than one language, all I have to say is, “GO YOU”.  You did something most of my peers will probably never do willingly.  You accomplished something some people could ever imagine or hope to accomplish.  So go you!

Being a small child, at least mentally, is not a lot of fun.  There are moments where you feel ecstatic because of some similarity or another, but usually it’s frustration at not being understood, of not understanding, and over switching between two languages so fast it gives you a headache.

Every pain is worth the steps.  Every headache is worth the small bits of fluency.  It’s all worth it in the end, because that moment you open your mouth and something wonderful comes out, something that no one else but those who have gone through what you have to get to where you are can appreciate, something you worked so hard to get, you feel a moment of normalcy.  

Everything in you is balanced again.  Of talking, of being understood, of knowing exactly what you are saying and the exact reason why.  There is normalcy, something you haven’t felt since leaving behind your language of fluency.  Sure there are talks back home, talks on video with friends, and talks with fellows who know your language; but it’s not truly the same.

Pandora’s Box opened for you, and you get jumbled with two worlds, two processes of thoughts, and two languages.  Reaching a level of normalcy, even if only a slight bit, in both of them something no one can truly explain to those who haven’t felt it.  It’s so much and so little at the same time.  It’s just hard, not being high and mighty, it’s just what it is.

So we exchangers, we grow, we hurt, we learn, we connect, we enjoy, and we expand with our new languages.  Our new world that we are an alien in thinks in this new language and we are teaching ourselves to do the same.  It’s hard work, but we have each other and those who came before us to help us.  Some of the people I talk to the most are my fellow exchangees. 

The rebounds are good sources for dealing with language pains.  Sometimes you just need someone to complain to, to vent the frustrations of transition to, and your fellow inbounds are the perfect ‘ahem’ victims.  Nothing makes you feel better on an angry day than sharing with someone who knows exactly what is going on, who is going through the same pains and can share their own stories.

These people are my support net, they catch me just as I slip and throw a fit.  They got my back and remind me that it’s normal to be like I am, that it’s perfectly okay to be moody and upset sometimes because of sheer frustration.  They give me the good times to look back at and foreword to as I push myself through the times of language stagnation.

Being a child is no fun.  Growing up hurts.  I look forward to the day I can read the books given to me by my friends in Japanese.  I look towards the day that I can talk freely with them.  I look for the light in the shadows of my self-doubt that I will ever be able to do such things.  I can only push forward and enjoy the moments of pure satisfaction as I succeed and win little battles.

See You Soon

Mata chikaiuchini

また近いうちに

On the Japanese Onsen

Bathing

There are many things in Japan that are vastly different from America.  None more so than bathing, in my opinion.

As an American, I was raised with the notion that nakedness is private.  Our bodies are our own to see and no one else really should.  Family is fine, but outsiders are not allowed.  This unwritten rule is lifted for children.  They are innocent and do not realize what this act could signify to others.  As we grow older our nakedness becomes more and more of a private affair.  Until one day you don’t realize it, but you are uncomfortable changing in front of others.

Middle school and high school students realize this in the changing rooms.  You don’t feel right when you strip down to change your clothes.  Those with self-confidence overcome this, they don’t hide in the corners or the stalls.  Those who have less confidence hide their nakedness from view.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t care if others saw me or not.  Just as long as they didn’t stare I didn’t have a problem.

Even I am wary in the changing rooms for the Onsen.

Before we get to that, let’s clear up what an Onsen is.  It is a traditional Japanese bath.  You wash yourself with a mix of the use of a bucket and a spray nozzle.  You wash your hair, face, and body before you even think about getting in the large singular or series of pools of water.

I have had three experiences with true Japanese Onsens, and all have varied.  This is just a really simple guide on how to use them, don’t be surprised if you ever visit and Onsen and the setup is nothing like I have described.  The process is still the same you see.

The latest Onsen I have been to was a completely indoor one.  The women and men were separated by a floor.  I, of course, followed my host mom and the three other Rotarian women.  We had changed into the traditional yukata and hakama set provided for us by the hotel.  They also provide a single towel to use to dry off when you are done bathing.  TAKE THIS WITH YOU!

A really simply guide to wearing a yukata.  You fold it with YOUR right side tucked under the left side.  Never, ever, set the left right over the left side when you close it.  It means you are dead, going to be, or have been dead for a while.  Once crossed correctly, you tie the long strip of fabric around your waist in any way you feel comfortable.  I personally liked tying it on my hip and them moving it so the bow rested on my back.  The hakama is super simple.  Slip it on and tie the two string on the front to keep them closed.

We entered through a door with a red half curtain hanging over the front, the symbol for women written in white on it.  Beyond this was the second door to keep the steam and heat in the room.  Past the door was the main changing room.

This is where you strip down.  I stored my clothing, undergarments and all, in a wicker basket.  You do not wrap the big towel around you no matter how badly you want to.  Even I feel bare under the bright lights of the changing room, nothing separating you from the view of others.  You are very much naked, as naked as they are.  They can see every inch just as you can.  This wasn't the quick change of main outer clothing like in school, no this was very, very, different.

It is perfectly acceptable to use the smaller washcloth/towel to cover your front side.  I found mine on a self just across from the small changing section in front of the shelving units.

I walked, quickly mind you, through the sliding doors and found the closest corner to hide in.  I can’t see a thing without my glasses, but just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can’t see me.  My Rotarians had changed before me so they had a basic area staked out.  The Onsen was pretty empty too.

I sat down on a small stool.  The shampoo was provided, as was the conditioner, and body soap.  I used the spray head, adjusting the water temperature with it facing away from me just to make sure I didn’t burn or freeze myself, to wet myself down.  My shampoo was a push pump kind.  I lathered myself up, soaped up my body, rinsed, conditioned, and then washed my face.  All with products provided by the Onsen.  These are usually really nice, expensive, and good for your body.  Every Onsen I have been to had these.

Once all cleaned and feeling pretty good, I got up and tied my hair back and slipped into the big main pool that was the center of the room.  There was a fountain in the very center of the pool.  I sat under that to massage my shoulders after finally getting used to the scalding water.  It’s hot.

Hot enough to make the air steamy enough that it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see.

I used the small towel to cover my top, the water went to just about my collarbone level, and that’s with me sitting on the bottom of the pool away from the edges. 

It’s hot.  It’s soothing.  It’s quiet.  It’s cleansing.  It’s peace bottled in steam and unfamiliar company.

I actually enjoyed it.  I let myself float away from the others a lot, just thinking and letting my body do its own thing in the hot water.

I listened to my blood pulse in my ears, just the sound of splashing water from the fountain the only thing really making any noise.  There’s a tangible peace in the air.  It’s like you are waiting for something beautiful to happen.  It’s just in your reach but the quiet, the utter soothing heat of the water, and the scrubbed pores of your skin all keep you content with the now.

I think as I float, as I sink, as I sit on the edge and in the deep.  I think of how I've gotten here, of where I will go.  Of what I will eat in the next five minutes and my last meal at home.  I think of everything and nothing, eventually my mind empties till all I think about is the expansion and contraction of my chest and how the water ripples around my toes and fingers.

There is peace in being bare around others who don’t honestly know you and you have no idea who they really are.  Everyone thinks, quiet and serene.  Everyone minds their own business and leaves you to yours.  Sure if you have friends with you, you can talk, you can gossip, you can really do whatever you want.  I personally like the quiet of it all.

The steam that fills my lungs till all I breathe is cleansed air.  The water that surrounds me until I can’t tell where I end and it begins.  The gentle rush of water that replaced the sound of my own heartbeat.

I thought about my “On Bits and Pieces” blog update while floating in the water.  That’s a whole other update, too long and on a too different of a topic for me to even stick a toe into it here.  Let’s just say it’s interesting to say the least.

Once I was thoroughly pieced back to mentally and physically, filtering back into my body from the inner placed of my mind, I got out of the water, went back through those sliding doors, and scurried into my corner so I could slip my yukata back on properly and towel off.

You are now able to use that bigger towel to wipe yourself off.

Now that you are dry you go over to the counter system to explore the goodies there.

Mine have had moisture creams, face cleansers, and collagen supplements.  Expensive stuff all for your free use!  It’s a pretty sweet deal.  I like the face creams, so expensive (they had the prices written on them) but they made my skin feel so fresh.  Like someone had rubbed mint over it.

You can brush your hair, get something to drink, sit in a massage chair, stand on a foot press, take your wait, and so much more.  All of these were options at the last one.

I personally cleaned my face, dried out my hair, and sat sipping tea while the Rotarians gossiped.  From what I picked up my host mom was telling the others what it is like to have an American in the house.  I caught what she said she was feeding me, my dislike of spicy food, and my love of miso and matcha.  Anything beyond that was still too hard for me to understand.  She talks very formal Japanese with a strong accent.  I’m lucky I got as much as I did.

After all this we go back to the room.  The rest of the night passed in a heat hazed blur.  A full stomach, warm body, and a soft futon were all it took to send me off to a heavy rest.

See You Soon

Mata chikaiuchini

また近いうちに