Reassembled in Japan

This is my entry for the 2009 JET essay competition. It's okay, I guess.

Starting something from nothing ain't easy. Just writing the first sentence of an essay others will read is surprisingly daunting, like being thrust into a room full of strangers and told to introduce myself in six short words. As nerve-racking as performing a strict and unfamiliar martial arts routine alone in front of a stone-still hall of black-belted masters. As onerous as attempting to control, lead, and teach a classroom of rebellious adolescents without any formal experience behind me. As formidable as the prospect of starting a new life in an alien country and living alone, cooking and cleaning and caring for myself, paying bills covered in indecipherable pictographs, ultimately relying on myself for survival.

Of course when I take a deep breath and get started, things only get easier from there. Obstacles and anxieties fade, replaced by experience and confidence. Eventually I realize how much stronger I've become, how glad I am to have made that choice to throw myself into the unknown, into an entirely new world; to have strapped myself into a catapult set to launch over the horizon, far past my line of sight with only a vague idea where I might land. That's what it's been like coming to Japan.

Throughout life my surroundings have tended to change frequently. I moved a lot growing up, from house to house, apartment to condo, condo to college. The last four years I changed rooms every semester out of habit more than necessity. When the reality of life after Whitman College reared its head, offering a seat in the same cubicle with no window view for an indeterminate number of future hours, I decided to apply to the JET program instead. Completely new surroundings, new people, new food, new culture. A wonderful prospect. A certain hunger for the unfamiliar flows deeply through me and (I believe) the rest of the JET community. Something impelled us to move across the world, after all.

My expectations were admittedly high coming in. An older friend from Whitman working near Shizuoka would enthusiastically relate stories about the kindness and generosity of the Japanese people, how the rich culture and well-balanced society was evident throughout the country. It was clear the JET program offered an incredibly wide variety of opportunities to experience a new reality. I expected things to be different, of course. But I failed to guess how much seven months in Japan would change me after twenty-two years in America.

Japan is renowned for its ability to import rough, unfinished materials from abroad and meticulously combine them with other elements, replacing the superfluous with the practical. The result is a compound product whose functionality and overall value to society is greater than the sum of its original parts. It's how a small island nation with few natural resources developed into the world's second largest economy. A year ago I marveled at the 'economic miracle' of Japanese growth from behind textbooks and lecture notes. Now I'm physically becoming a part of that process- I'm being reassembled in Japan. My body and mind are composed of the same raw stuff, and yet I am constantly being reformed into a new, more productive, more punctual, more thoughtful member of society as I make efforts to adapt to this environment.

The best advice I got before coming here (from a Tarot-card reader at my college's annual medieval fair), was to "keep an open mind" toward the multitude of new experiences headed my way. Simple advice, humorously received and cynically disregarded. Simple advice that has since become a personal mantra. On the very first evening in my home town of Ueki (なつかしい / it takes me back), my supervisor took me to the renowned local Izakaya restaurant I would come to know and love after a dozen more えんかい parties. It took an open mind to try the Kumamoto prefectural specialty- ばさし, or raw horse meat. It was crazy delicious.

It took an open mind to rationalize why everything is written in the complex 3,000+ character set of kanji, when two other syllabaries capable of depicting any word or phrase already exist. Now, as I continue to study, the ubiquitous literary puzzles around me slowly unravel and reveal unique forms of expression. The kanji themselves become strikingly beautiful works of art, rich in meaning and steeped in cultural significance.

It took an open mind, when autumn faded to winter, to accept that despite Japan's status as a world leader in both standard of living and per-capita GDP, my apartment had no insulation and my schools weren't heated. I was going to have to steel myself and spend the next few months wearing sweaters and long underwear beneath my slacks and dress shirts, while my fingers grew accustomed to operating without the sense of touch. Now I appreciate how this practice engenders a basic hardiness and respect for nature in all of those forced to endure it, as well as the sheer amount of energy a cold building saves over the long course of a winter. At night I learned to sleep with a hot water bottle clutched to my chest and another between my feet, like a cold-blooded lizard warming its bones on rocks still warm from the day's heat. It's all about adaptation.

The JET program challenges us, essentially forces us to fit into a foreign environment. The key to the program's success is that it also provides us with relative freedom and opportunities to explore our surroundings, to expand our abilities and lifestyles in a brand-new context. Every time we encounter one new person, two introductions are made. Two exchanges are invested in, and two social bridges are better paved for future interactions. A lucrative potential for cultural profit exists in that formula. So in the enduring spirit of maintaining an open mind, I resolved to get out there and try something new, to fulfill an enduring dream. I decided to start training in a martial art. One hot September day, as we sat fanning ourselves at our desks, I asked my ALT sempai if there were any options in the immediate area. “You want to study karate in Japan, huh?” He smiled knowingly, made a few phone calls, and then led me to Kimura dojo.

I still remember my first meeting with Kimura Sensei. The quiet strength and dignity with which he carried himself, the way his presence effortlessly dominated the room. His wife Keiko, whom I now fondly call Oba-chan (Auntie), poured us tea as we discussed a training schedule. Monday and Wednesday evenings starting the following day, and Sensei refused to accept more than 2,000 yen each month. I consume at least that much in tea, coffee, and snacks in a four-week period. With my ALT sempai generously translating, Sensei proceeded to explain that we would be studying traditional Okinawan karate, not modernized tournament-style karate. His teachings would be deeply infused with Japanese-Buddhist philosophy, progressing strictly and slowly. Requiring patience and sustained effort from both master and pupil. I honestly didn't know if I was up to the task. Taking a deep breath, I agreed to give it a shot.

Six months later I still don a white belt every Monday and Wednesday night. I'm only just beginning to verbally communicate with Sensei in basic Japanese, and any one of the three children studying at the dojo could easily whip me blindfolded with both hands tied behind their back. Probably with a swift kick to the crotch- I've seen them demonstrate the technique. But I have learned more about discipline, respect, patience, and the true nature of strength and power from karate than I could have imagined in my pre-pubescent dreams of street fighting and kung-fu movies. Thanks, of course, to my teacher.

A proud warmth extends from Kimura Sensei's eyes if I correctly demonstrate a difficult kata or employ a new Japanese phrase after training. Meanwhile, the stern and intimidating master always observes me from beneath that white crown of hair and those thick, expressive black eyebrows. When that master instructs me to place my shoes neatly pointing toward the door in proper Japanese-style; to remove my coat and fold it with precision in the corner; to keep my hands by my side unconditionally when bowing; to continue pushing my body until my limbs no longer cooperate; when that master gives me a command, I have no choice but to listen and obey.

Outwardly, Japan can be a rigid and formal society. But the hard exterior hides a core glowing with warmth and vitality. Warmth which emanates from Kimura Sensei and Oba-chan as we chat around the kotatsu table after training, vitality which they have imbued in their son Nari. Nari is one of the four black belts still practicing at Kimura dojo, who presides as Sempai over our recent Sunday morning trainings and is becoming a good friend of mine. He spent eighteen months studying karate in Canada and has been yearning to speak English since returning home, helping generate the kind of mutually beneficial relationship common between JETs and Japanese friends. 'Mutual' being the operative word. The people who selflessly help us are often people we help in return. Through reciprocated generosity in the future, by providing an opportunity to learn something new, or from generating the simple satisfaction of guiding a lost stranger. The more we give each other the more we weave ourselves together, and into the greater social fabric that constitutes our environment.

Strange as it may seem, I have yet to feel a deep sense of homesickness since coming to Japan. I miss my parents, my brother, my best friends. I miss them deeply and consistently. But more than a desire to hurry and get back to them in the States, I'd rather try to help them climb into their own catapult. Fly across the ocean and be introduced to this world. Mid-winter nabe parties, mid-summer fireworks festivals, late autumn こうよう viewing (when the trees burst into brilliant red and orange), the legendary glory of cherry blossom season. I want to hand my Mom the giant mikans (Japanese oranges) Oba-chan makes me take home if I'm catching a cold, show my Dad how I set up my apartment to make it my own, describe to friends what it's been like to gradually feel welcome in a society where I began as an outsider. Such things make Japan, and my little town of Ueki, comfortable and familiar.

Summer, fall, and winter have now passed, and my process of cultural adaption is developing into cultural evolution. Actions now complement reactions. I find myself contributing to the small world around me, endlessly sharing stories and games with the local えいかいわ (adult conversation class), or organizing community Easter egg hunts and Fourth of July celebrations. Creating sports-themed English lessons capable of engaging teenage students. Finally, I am beginning to fulfill my role as a member of society by giving back. Finally, I’ve settled in a place where I’m thinking about how much I can change, not how soon I can move on. Finally, Japan is starting to feel like home.