Ten year-old Genchiro
sprinted across the dirt field of the Yusato Urban Development Centre with one
goal in mind: to catch me.
It was a Saturday
evening, One World Shimane – a yearly JET-organised event for students across
the region – was nearing its end, and Genchiro, his friends and I were playing
onigoko out on the dirt field adjacent the parking lot. Onigoko is Japanese for
‘pretend devil’, or, in simpler terms, tag. And at the present moment, Genchiro
was the devil. He did his best to own the part, too, eyes daring and clever, and a big smile on his face that made him look rather like a cartoon shark, equal parts frightening and ridiculous.
Taiko drums thundered
from inside the hall as we darted across the field and back in the dimming
twilight, sweat plastered to our skin. We stopped to catch our breaths, darted,
stopped, and darted again in a bid to elude the devil, our footprints in the
dirt showing a timeline of our successes and failures. When the kids realised
that Genchiro had chosen me as his sole target, they stopped to bear witness, eyes wider than ever to compensate for the waning light. I imagine
it was like watching a very young cheetah take on an adult gazelle – the size
difference was quite apparent. But Genchiro was determined.
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| The long bridge ('big bridge' in Japanese) connecting mainland Japan to the small island of Tsunoshima. It bears no direct relation to the blog post you're currently reading, but maybe some indirect relation is working its way in there. No? |
A part of me worried
we were being too noisy for the cluster of houses surrounding the park. It was
like a little village, if you can picture it: houses on two sides, the big
development centre on the third, a driveway, a parking lot, and in the middle a
clearing where eight little runts and a big foreign guy from New Zealand were
running away from pretend devils. I’m glad I wore my trainers that day.
Moments earlier I had
been a devil, but a combination of cunning and ridiculously long legs had
enabled me to catch Hajime; Hajime had tagged Bunta, and Bunta, Genchiro. But
Genchiro was different than his compatriots. He wasn’t satisfied with catching
someone of like stature. Me, however – he’d only met
me for the first time that day, and I’d already proven that I could outrun
them. With a hunter’s determination, he’d said to his friends, “I could catch
any of you, or…” and he’d turned to me, “I could catch Matthew-san, and level
up.”
If you’ve been to
Japan, you’ll know that one of their favourite words is “ganbatte!” You’ll hear
teachers say it to their students, students say it to each other, and just
about everyone yelling it at sports events. It literally translates to
“Fight!”, but rather means something like “Do your best” or “You’ve got this”,
depending on the situation. It’s as commonplace as “How are you?” in English,
and so is the response: “hai!” (Yes!) or “ganbarimasu!” (I’ll do my best!).
The idea of
challenging oneself is so ingrained in Japanese culture that it’s used just as
often in jest, such as last week when I brought Marmite to school and asked
everyone to sample it. “Challenge!” said Sasaki Sensei as she picked up a piece
of bread smeared with the stuff and shoved it into her mouth. That lady’s a soldier.
And it’s ingrained in
Japanese people, too. It’s why Ueda Sensei could stay at work until 10:30pm the
Thursday before. After PTA volleyball, which finished at 10, I saw the
staffroom lights still on. I peered through the windows and there he was,
typing away. “Ganbaru-hi” he’d called it. “Hi” (hee) means day and “ganbaru”
means the aforementioned, to hang in there. It was a day of pure perseverence.
It’s why Mr Hori, the
principal, said one of the most rewarding experiences in his life was milking
cows in New Plymouth as a middle schooler before the sun rose each morning – before
going to school each day.
And it’s why people
don’t complain about extra work, difficult colleagues, cheeky students, heavy
rain, or Mondays. They accept reality; they take ownership; they say
“ganbaranakereba narimasen” (I simply have to do my best; I simply have to hang
in there), and they press on.
Perhaps I’m blessed to
work at schools where vocal complaints are few and far between, and perhaps I
surround myself with the right people. Still, in almost three years, I’ve never
heard a single complaint about Mondays. People press on no matter the day.
Or the night, as was in
Genchiro’s case.
He was a smart little
cheetah. He knew the telltale signs of a tiring gazelle. I
made light humour through my short breaths as I tried to keep the distance
between us. “Hey, Genchiro, it’s fine, seriously. I’ll be OK if you just go for
one of the others.” This did halt him momentarily, if only to laugh at my silly
Japanese. But then he resumed. I heaved a sigh and pressed on, but I was all
out of sprinting power, and Genchiro had thrown off his cheetah disguise to
reveal himself as a human bullet. I glimpsed over my shoulder with the dread
that a hunted gazelle must experience. I was done for.
I never got a chance
to say goodbye to him, but his words about “levelling up” stayed with me. They come to mind whenever
a “ganbatte” is given and received, whenever a friend insists on speaking
English around me despite knowing that every sentence has at least ten things
wrong with it, and whenever a colleague wants to try something new rather than
sticking with what’s familiar.
Japanese people take the Marmite and eat it.
Japanese people take the Marmite and eat it.
I don’t know if
Genchiro levelled up by catching me. I’m not exactly a sprinting legend, after
all. One thing’s certain: in a game all about pretending, he was the real
thing.
