FRAGMENT #2: The Ex-Student

While in Japan, I wrote more than I posted--and I posted a lot--but here are some of the fragments that didn't make the cut.


Fortunate Son

First Meeting

It is the end of the day and I turn the corner into a classroom and he is standing there. He is about six feet tall, which is tall for a Japanese man, and he is dressed in a business suit and he is standing alone in the room in such a way that he is not uncomfortable to be alone in a room, standing, waiting. I held out my hand. “Hi,” I said, “My name is Brenda. What’s your name?” He shook my hand with a grip I don’t remember, and said, “My name is _____.” We echoed “Nice to meet you”s at each other.

I began a conversation with him and he was just fluent enough that it took me a minute to figure out that he was a student. I asked him the standard questions, “What do you do?” and he answered with what I’ve come to recognize as his standard answer: “I’m a trainee with a company in Tokyo.” That’s a non-answer, so I pressed, and he did a very Japanese yielding without yielding move, telling me about the company without telling me anything at all. I asked him whether he liked his work and suddenly, dizzyingly, he did yield, telling me that, no, he did not like the work. I asked what he would do if he could do anything. He told me what he’d rather be doing and I asked why he was doing the work he was doing now. To my mind, to my American mind, his being in a business he hated is only so much wasting time. That’s my American Independent Brain talking. He answered my question in English, but the answer was pure Japanese: “It’s my father’s company,” he said. “I am the oldest son.” Then he switched back to English, saying, “That stupid Japanese way of thinking.”

His cell phone rang and I nodded and stepped away. I had come into the room in the first place to look in a storage closet that happened to be in the room and my conversation with him had interrupted my errand. While I rooted around in the closet, he spoke to someone in Japanese on the phone. When I came back out of the closet, he was off the phone and standing again, waiting. Before I could ask him another question, the other teacher, the Japanese teacher, came back into the room. She was somewhat distressingly deferring to him. But this was the observation of my Brain, my American Independent Brain.

My Student

He signed up for my lessons. “He will be your student,” my manager explained to me. I asked questions about his level, his age, his experience.

I honestly don’t remember the answers.

Another Kind Of Meeting

The next time I saw him, he was dressed casually, like a kid, in jeans and a t-shirt. He had a pendant around his neck. The pendant was made of some kind of material that looked like bone and it had a design carved into it. It was hung around his neck by a leather cord. “I like your pendant,” I said. He didn’t know the word, so I indicated my neck and he understood. “Where is it from?” He explained that it was Okinawan. He had gotten it in Okinawa. “It’s Ainu,” he said. “Do you know?” I said, “I know Ainu.”

On the way back to Shibuya, I notice that he still has hold of a spent Tokyo Metro card. He is loathe to let go of it and has let his hands worry it, the way a dog might worry a bone.

The card is one of a series done by The Children’s Television Workshop. The famous puppets illustrate common courtesy rules for riding the subway. On this card, Elmo sits between two other Sesame Street characters. The card reminds us to keep the volume down because loud music from our headphones disturbs others.

He asks me the names of the two other characters but I don’t know.

He has creased the card by folding it in half and part the photo on the plastic card has chipped off. Elmo is half gone. He looks at the card and says, “Elmo has been getting disappeared.” I say, “Elmo is disappearing.” He says, “Elmo is been getting disappeared?” I correct him, “No,” I say. “Elmos is disappearing.” He asks, “Getting disappeared?” I say, “Just, ‘Elmo is disappearing.’” “Elmo is disappearing,” he repeats. He points to the characters on either side of Elmo. They are whole. He says of them, “They do not want to disappear.”

I didn’t think my heart was going to be as shredded as it has been by some of my Tokyo experiences.

Fortunate Son

On Sunday, I went for coffee in Ginza, then to Shinjuku to hang out, then to Sakurashimachi for Osaka okonomiyaki with a student. We met the student’s friend in Sakurashimachi. “What did you do in Shinjuku?” the friend asked. “Just dating,” the student replied.

Huh?

He knows the words and meaning of “hanging out.”

I am not yet ready to write about it. I will tell you that we spent thirteen and a half hours together that day, and I came home on the last train in tears.

I know my heart can stand the breaking.

On the way back to Ginza, we sit together. A couple gets on the train and they take the seat opposite us. The tall, blond Western woman holds hands with her Japanese boyfriend. Holding hands is very unusual here. I know he sees because he sees everything, notices everything.

I’ll give you an example:

On the night we went for okonomiyaki with his friend, he and his friend had looked over the menu. They spoke in Japanese, but I heard my name and the name of a noodle. Huh? I inserted myself into the conversation, saying, “I heard my name. What were you saying?” He said, “I was telling him that you didn’t like noodles.”

I said, “No, that’s not true. Why do you think that?”

He thinks that because one night when we had been out drinking, he asked if I had ever tried a certain noodle dish. I had and said to him that he should order it anyway. He did. When it came, I made a joke about the noodles looking like worms. He reminded me of this. I explained that it had been a joke, that I had been trying to be funny. Then he said, “But you didn’t eat any of it.” I laughed and said, “You remember that?” (I hadn’t eaten any of it for a couple of reasons One reason was because I was feeling fat that day. Another reason was because he and I were with another person and neither of them had eaten dinner. We had ordered a small amount of food and I hadn’t wanted to eat too much of what we had ordered so that they might have enough. I said to him of that time, “Well, I had been drinking and I ate most of the salad we ordered.” He said, “Is that enough? A salad?” I laughed. “Maybe not. How do you remember?” I asked again. “I remember,” he said, simply.

He does. He remembers.

He’s also very Japanese in that he expressed the very simple and very straightforward requirement that any and all of his children be raised in Japan. They will, as he has, join the family business.

His discipline is far beyond anything that I have ever seen or experienced. I was incredibly impressed by him in a way that I am rarely impressed by anyone. Though I don’t agree with the extent to which he seems (to my limited point of view) to be sacrificing his life, I do agree that the overwhelming amount of discipline that this requires is impressive and rarely seen in my home country. Here, it is expected of him and he does it.

When I ask him to introduce himself, he always says he’s in training. I finally figure out over the course of many, many conversations that he’s the oldest son in his family. The family business is a multinational company that nets billions of yen each year.

I sit opposite the two young men at dinner. My own expectations of seating arrangements are American. I think: If he really likes me, then he’ll sit next to me. His own expectations of seating arrangements are Japanese. If he really likes me, he’ll sit opposite me. The tradition is the guest is seated opposite the host in some position of honor, and the view of the guest is...wow. How I say this without sounding conceited? There may be no way. So: Traditionally, the guest of honor is seated opposite the hosts and other guests, normally against the tokonomo (?) or alcove that also houses art. In other words, the seating arrangement is so that the guest can be admired as one would admire a piece of art. I don’t mind this. It’s as close as I’ll ever come to being put on a pedestal--and as close as I ever want to come to being put on a pedestal.

At dinner, his friend reminds him of their friendship, tells me about their history (they roomed together at college), reminds him that, one day, he would like a job. I ask his friend, “Where did you meet your girlfriend?” He says, “Good question.” The friend tells me that they were coworkers in a ramen shop. I say, after He tells me that he met his girlfriend in Australia, “Please ask me a question.” He asks, “What do you look for in a man?”

I say, “Intelligence and a good sense of humor.” He asks, “Is that all?” I think later: And a good heart.

For our first meeting, he suggests Roppongi. For our second meeting, he suggests Odaiba. Later, I find out from a student that these are traditional “date spots.” I suggest Ginza as an alternative. So we meet for coffee in Ginza.

His sister is six years younger, his brother two years younger. His birthday is Oct. 22, 1981. I am ten years older.

He does an impression of Sponge Bob Squarepants’ best friend.

After class, I walk out to the lobby to give him a thank you card that I’ve written out. I’ve enjoyed having you as a student, it says. Your life is going to be a great adventure, it says. Keep me posted, I’ve suggested.

He is standing with my manager, the boy wonder, and I break in on their conversation to hand him the card. As he takes it from me, he says, “What is this? A love letter?” His affect is still Japanese, still nearly flat to my American ears and eyes, so I can go either way with my response. I can be insulted or I can take it as a joke. I decide on the the joke one. I burst out laughing and say, “No! It’s a thank you note!” I go to grab it back from him, but instead of handing it back, he bows.

Later, I tease him. He’s brought photographs of his trip to England and New York. Of a series of photos of Dover, I begin to ask Fortunate Son

First Meeting

It is the end of the day and I turn the corner into a classroom and he is standing there. He is about six feet tall, which is tall for a Japanese man, and he is dressed in a business suit and he is standing alone in the room in such a way that he is not uncomfortable to be alone in a room, standing, waiting. I held out my hand. “Hi,” I said, “My name is Brenda. What’s your name?” He shook my hand with a grip I don’t remember, and said, “My name is _____.” We echoed “Nice to meet you”s at each other.

I began a conversation with him and he was just fluent enough that it took me a minute to figure out that he was a student. I asked him the standard questions, “What do you do?” and he answered with what I’ve come to recognize as his standard answer: “I’m a trainee with a company in Tokyo.” That’s a non-answer, so I pressed, and he did a very Japanese yielding without yielding move, telling me about the company without telling me anything at all. I asked him whether he liked his work and suddenly, dizzyingly, he did yield, telling me that, no, he did not like the work. I asked what he would do if he could do anything. He told me what he’d rather be doing and I asked why he was doing the work he was doing now. To my mind, to my American mind, his being in a business he hated is only so much wasting time. That’s my American Independent Brain talking. He answered my question in English, but the answer was pure Japanese: “It’s my father’s company,” he said. “I am the oldest son.” Then he switched back to English, saying, “That stupid Japanese way of thinking.”

His cell phone rang and I nodded and stepped away. I had come into the room in the first place to look in a storage closet that happened to be in the room and my conversation with him had interrupted my errand. While I rooted around in the closet, he spoke to someone in Japanese on the phone. When I came back out of the closet, he was off the phone and standing again, waiting. Before I could ask him another question, the other teacher, the Japanese teacher, came back into the room. She was somewhat distressingly deferring to him. But this was the observation of my Brain, my American Independent Brain.

My Student

He signed up for my lessons. “He will be your student,” my manager explained to me. I asked questions about his level, his age, his experience.

I honestly don’t remember the answers.

Another Kind Of Meeting

The next time I saw him, he was dressed casually, like a kid, in jeans and a t-shirt. He had a pendant around his neck. The pendant was made of some kind of material that looked like bone and it had a design carved into it. It was hung around his neck by a leather cord. “I like your pendant,” I said. He didn’t know the word, so I indicated my neck and he understood. “Where is it from?” He explained that it was Okinawan. He had gotten it in Okinawa. “It’s Ainu,” he said. “Do you know?” I said, “I know Ainu.”

On the way back to Shibuya, I notice that he still has hold of a spent Tokyo Metro card. He is loathe to let go of it and has let his hands worry it, the way a dog might worry a bone.

The card is one of a series done by The Children’s Television Workshop. The famous puppets illustrate common courtesy rules for riding the subway. On this card, Elmo sits between two other Sesame Street characters. The card reminds us to keep the volume down because loud music from our headphones disturbs others.

He asks me the names of the two other characters but I don’t know.

He has creased the card by folding it in half and part the photo on the plastic card has chipped off. Elmo is half gone. He looks at the card and says, “Elmo has been getting disappeared.” I say, “Elmo is disappearing.” He says, “Elmo is been getting disappeared?” I correct him, “No,” I say. “Elmos is disappearing.” He asks, “Getting disappeared?” I say, “Just, ‘Elmo is disappearing.’” “Elmo is disappearing,” he repeats. He points to the characters on either side of Elmo. They are whole. He says of them, “They do not want to disappear.”

I didn’t think my heart was going to be as shredded as it has been by some of my Tokyo experiences.

Fortunate Son

On Sunday, I went for coffee in Ginza, then to Shinjuku to hang out, then to Sakurashimachi for Osaka okonomiyaki with a student. We met the student’s friend in Sakurashimachi. “What did you do in Shinjuku?” the friend asked. “Just dating,” the student replied.

Huh?

He knows the words and meaning of “hanging out.”

I am not yet ready to write about it. I will tell you that we spent thirteen and a half hours together that day, and I came home on the last train in tears.

I know my heart can stand the breaking.

On the way back to Ginza, we sit together. A couple gets on the train and they take the seat opposite us. The tall, blond Western woman holds hands with her Japanese boyfriend. Holding hands is very unusual here. I know he sees because he sees everything, notices everything.

I’ll give you an example:

On the night we went for okonomiyaki with his friend, he and his friend had looked over the menu. They spoke in Japanese, but I heard my name and the name of a noodle. Huh? I inserted myself into the conversation, saying, “I heard my name. What were you saying?” He said, “I was telling him that you didn’t like noodles.”

I said, “No, that’s not true. Why do you think that?”

He thinks that because one night when we had been out drinking, he asked if I had ever tried a certain noodle dish. I had and said to him that he should order it anyway. He did. When it came, I made a joke about the noodles looking like worms. He reminded me of this. I explained that it had been a joke, that I had been trying to be funny. Then he said, “But you didn’t eat any of it.” I laughed and said, “You remember that?” (I hadn’t eaten any of it for a couple of reasons One reason was because I was feeling fat that day. Another reason was because he and I were with another person and neither of them had eaten dinner. We had ordered a small amount of food and I hadn’t wanted to eat too much of what we had ordered so that they might have enough. I said to him of that time, “Well, I had been drinking and I ate most of the salad we ordered.” He said, “Is that enough? A salad?” I laughed. “Maybe not. How do you remember?” I asked again. “I remember,” he said, simply.

He does. He remembers.

He’s also very Japanese in that he expressed the very simple and very straightforward requirement that any and all of his children be raised in Japan. They will, as he has, join the family business.

His discipline is far beyond anything that I have ever seen or experienced. I was incredibly impressed by him in a way that I am rarely impressed by anyone. Though I don’t agree with the extent to which he seems (to my limited point of view) to be sacrificing his life, I do agree that the overwhelming amount of discipline that this requires is impressive and rarely seen in my home country. Here, it is expected of him and he does it.

When I ask him to introduce himself, he always says he’s in training. I finally figure out over the course of many, many conversations that he’s the oldest son in his family. The family business is a multinational company that nets billions of yen each year.

I sit opposite the two young men at dinner. My own expectations of seating arrangements are American. I think: If he really likes me, then he’ll sit next to me. His own expectations of seating arrangements are Japanese. If he really likes me, he’ll sit opposite me. The tradition is the guest is seated opposite the host in some position of honor, and the view of the guest is...wow. How I say this without sounding conceited? There may be no way. So: Traditionally, the guest of honor is seated opposite the hosts and other guests, normally against the tokonomo (?) or alcove that also houses art. In other words, the seating arrangement is so that the guest can be admired as one would admire a piece of art. I don’t mind this. It’s as close as I’ll ever come to being put on a pedestal--and as close as I ever want to come to being put on a pedestal.

At dinner, his friend reminds him of their friendship, tells me about their history (they roomed together at college), reminds him that, one day, he would like a job. I ask his friend, “Where did you meet your girlfriend?” He says, “Good question.” The friend tells me that they were coworkers in a ramen shop. I say, after He tells me that he met his girlfriend in Australia, “Please ask me a question.” He asks, “What do you look for in a man?”

I say, “Intelligence and a good sense of humor.” He asks, “Is that all?” I think later: And a good heart.

For our first meeting, he suggests Roppongi. For our second meeting, he suggests Odaiba. Later, I find out from a student that these are traditional “date spots.” I suggest Ginza as an alternative. So we meet for coffee in Ginza.

His sister is six years younger, his brother two years younger. His birthday is Oct. 22, 1981. I am ten years older.

He does an impression of Sponge Bob Squarepants’ best friend.silly questions: “Is this near Yokohama?” I say of the famous white cliffs. He shakes his head, unsure if he should go with the joke option. Of another, I ask, “Is this Tokyo Bay?” Finally, he does decide to go with the joke option. I hold out a photo of a building. In one corner of the photo, there happens to be a couple of middle-aged Western tourists. They are not posed. The white-haired woman is digging in her bag for something. The man is looking off at nothing. I hold out the photo and ask, “Are these your parents?” He goggles at me for a moment. He nods, “Yes,” he says solemly. “That is my mother.” I say, “She’s cute.”