The residence that
I visited on Sunday for karaoke and tremendous amounts of food (including a
blueberry chocolate tart, which everyone in the world must try), is not new.
The floors are tatami-laid, the corridors struggle to fit two abreast, and the
rails on which shōji
(Japanese-style doors) stand have seen smoother times.
In spite of these,
the house felt newer than most. This is because of the family that inhabit it.
It’s a family of
six, and a family whose hospitality comes free of any need to impress. They
possess a palpable sense of humour, yet no need to be funny when the silence is
doing just fine. Children and parents who are conscious of others but not
self-conscious, lively but not noisy. A family whose members share their
belongings without thinking twice.
Others joined us. A
total of two sizeable families, plus me. We sang, ate, talked, ate again, and sang
some more. My stomach and I had a fulfilling time.
 |
| Bit of a cake. Context further down. |
What I learn in
every interaction of this kind is that true enjoyment is found in the act of
bringing people together. The intimacy of community in a single space. Nothing
too indulgent, nothing visually remarkable. What’s remarkable is that a rich
experience comes without any need to be rich.
There was one
visual treat. Beyond the windows, upon a backdrop of rice fields, roads, and a
river that crept close to the hills, snow that petalled the landscape as if endless
flower beds sit atop the clouds. There was intimacy in this, too. The
realisation that this place wasn’t somewhere I’d come for sightseeing. I hadn’t
paid money to enter through a gate, see nice things, and leave again. Rather, I
live here. I work here. And these people who live here too are my friends. Two
of them are my students. Students whose graciousness I wish I’d had even an
ounce of when I was their age.
The value of
community is not lost on them, and in my time with them I learned it to be more
valuable than almost anything else.
The karaoke and
food were good, but so is a movie, so is a video game. An experience of
community involves far more than just the five senses. It’s an
experience that I’ll treasure and not soon forget.
One thing I
certainly won’t forget was the opportunity I had to help Ayami with her English
homework. She’s usually too shy to talk to me, but today that shyness fell away
like autumn leaves. She even admitted that she’s often shy, but that, in truth,
she likes English. As if to assure me, she said most of the students in her
class enjoy English and want to use it, but find it difficult.
Ironically, in that
one conversation, she spoke a lot more English than I thought her capable of,
including grammar she’d learnt only recently. I was encouraged by this, and I
like to think that she was encouraged, too. Excluding all else, this short exchange
of words was the most important. The most cherished.
This experience of
community isn’t isolated. The day before this I went to a “Kids’ English
theatre group’s” Christmas party. (I put that heading in quote marks because
I’m really not sure what this group does. Basically, whatever they do, there’s
always English involved.) There I dressed up as Santa to be the ‘final boss’ in
a rock, paper, scissors ‘competition’ in which kids could earn presents. This
part of the event took longer than the organisers expected, so, towards the end,
Santa became a bit absent-minded and forgot how to form scissors and paper. The
kids were OK with this, because it meant they could all receive a present.
We indulged in a
potluck, decorated a giant cake and then ate it, sang Christmas songs in English
(though next to no one knew the meaning of the words), and played games. The
games were designed for the youngest of the crowd, though the older kids had
the essential roles of coordinating their younger peers, leading their teams, or
ensuring that I, the foreign guy, understood what was going on at every
juncture. The parents and I participated in this or that, watched from a
distance, or became an opponent in the aforementioned rock, paper, scissors
competition.
I should mention
that eighty percent of these kids were kids I teach at some point in my
schedule, and that among the parents were at least four teachers I work with.
After the event while
people collected their belongings, a number of the JHS and high school kids,
along with some parents, were lounging around, waiting for rides or just not
yet bothering to leave. We taught each other interesting English and Japanese,
and found that the two languages have a lot in common in spite of their
differences.
I’d seen two of
these kids – Naoki and Chihiro – the previous day at school. At different
times, they each approached me to ensure I knew when the party started, where
to go, and what to bring. Naoki is an impossible combination of cool and
hard-working, popular yet respectful. And so is his mum, whom I work with at
another school. She told me that I’ve inspired him to want to become an English
teacher, but specifically one who goes abroad to teach.
Chihiro’s spoken
and written English is beyond excellent for her age, and oftentimes I turn to
her in class when I don’t know the answer to another student’s question. We
teach each other.
That day at school
was one of the busiest days this year for me, but so memorable due to how
intentional those kids were in ensuring that I was informed about the Christmas
party. It cemented the truth of what their parents had said about them ‘really
wanting’ me to come. Not to beat a dead horse, but just the privilege of
knowing them makes me feel very rich indeed.
In spite of all the
events I might go to, and the many people I spend time with, I never seem to
grow weary. This wasn’t the case in New Zealand. I currently pin this on the
difference in culture and people. It’s not a bad difference, but perhaps the
average social setting in New Zealand isn’t quite so compatible with my
temperament. Combined with western culture and expectations, the atmosphere of
a group environment, for instance, puts pressure on me to stand out, and, in
small ways, compete for attention. When you don’t – when you’re quiet or appear
tired – people often comment, or question you. They ensure that the spotlight
gets to you because you didn’t voluntarily call for it.
In Japan this has
never happened. You don’t have to talk, and no one’s going to force you to. Yet
people are ready to listen when you have something to say. Two friends – Hayato
and Ryohei – are easy to spend time with because the calmess of their
dispositions is such that I don’t feel any pressure to say anything I don’t
want to say.
It’s somewhat rare
in New Zealand for me to meet someone and feel any measureable desire to get to
know them more. But in Japan the opposite is the exception. The difference
between grazing gazelles and boisterous monkeys. Sort of.
| Not a gazelle, but nonetheless very friendly. |
There is one caveat
to all this pleasantry. I’m currently inbound to New Zealand, and
there’s a tradition in Japan where if you go away on holiday, you bring back a
small gift (usually edible) for everyone to indulge in upon your return. The more
people you know or spend time with, the longer your list of recipients becomes.
So, it’s important to tell only your closest friends.
But, of course,
work colleagues also need to know.
Yesterday morning
at school, Chikashige Sensei, whom I sit beside in the staff room, just 'happened' to be looking up New Zealand products online. He seemed to remember that I was
leaving that day.
“Take care,” he
said. “Enjoy spending time with your family.”
I’d already taken
note of the images on his monitor, along with the cheeky expression on his face. So, in a whisper that only he could hear, I
said, “I’ll bring you something. Please wait.”
“Of course!” he exclaimed, only he didn't whisper. He turned his head so that he faced the bulk of the staff
room and yelled, “Everyone, Matt’s bringing us presents!”
I guess it’s a
good thing that I’m rich.
