Bringing Knives to School Tomorrow’s forest Day,・they said. “Oh, ok,” I thought, “Whatever that means.” I was told we would be “cutting grass.” “Wear your rubber boots,” they said. Never mind the fact that I didn’t own any rubber boots, or never have for the entire expanse of my 23 years, for that matter. So I purchased some periwinkle slickers, \1050 at Funehiki Park. I was prepared for mud. I was prepared for rough terrain. I was prepared for bugs. I was even prepared for snakes…well, if you consider knowing that I would shriek like a dying cat if I saw one, being “prepared.” In spite of it all, though, as usual, I was not truly prepared for, well, today. I’ve heard stories about forest day. Well, just one, to be exact. I heard that last year’s ALT, Mike, borrowed a machete for the occasion. This I found quite humorous. From what I’ve heard about him, he was quite a jovial person, ready to cheer and make merry through whatever means necessary. So, the thought of him carrying a sizable blade to the rural, family-like junior high school evoked from me a smile and a chuckle. Last week I tried to share my amusement with my co-teacher, but when I told her I’d caught wind of the tale, she merely smiled and nodded her head. “Oh well,” I thought. “She’s probably just tired or busy.” This morning Kyoto sensei (vice principle) asked me with a goofy grin if I was ready for our adventure. I smiled back, communicating in my usual non-verbal way, “You betcha!” “ "So you brought your rubber boots?” Tamaki sensei asked me. Proud of my purchase, I confidently answered that I had acquired the appropriate footwear the night before. “And your knife? Did you bring that?” The smile faded. “Knife? I need a knife?” “Yes, of course. How do you think we cut the grass? I told you last week…” Well, I hardly thought not laughing at what I thought was a humorous story about last year to be “telling me that I needed a knife,” but she was visibly upset with me for not “heeding her warning.” My whole body turned a deep shade of crimson, and I could feel the top of my head start to tingle as I caught stares from all corners of the teachers lounge. I couldn’t contradict her. “No you didn’t tell me!” was not the appropriate response. But the appropriate response, try as I might, I could not find. So I just stared blankly like a publicly chided three-year-old and tried to hold back the rapidly developing tears. “Well, ok. I have two knives. I can lend one of mine.” It seemed the only solution to the “problem of my irresponsibility,” so it was solved. I would borrow the blade. And no more would be said about my apparent error. That was that. We continued planning for our 8th grade class. Later on, just before the start of our class, Tamaki sensei turned to me. “We’ll have to change our clothes quickly,” she warned. Whenever a Japanese person says “move quickly,” my nose starts to twitch for alarm. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a “quick” kind of person. I belong in Africa, or some other tropicsish-paced area of the world, this I have begun to grasp, but here I am, among people who, every day rush around like ants at a picnic, the final day before winter. When someone tells me we will have to move faster than “normal,” I know for sure I will be panting for air by the time whatever action I have to do is completed. Today was no exception. When the 2nd period “chime” rang (it might be irreverent to call the thirty-second-long-class-marker simply a bell), I altered my attire, took a tinkle, and slipped into my slickers in about 2 minutes flat. I ran outside, just as 100 pink, green, yellow, white, and multi-colored rubber boots began scurrying in the direction of our charter buses. The colorful boots all donned their most skin-concealing apparel—including long pants and sleeves, hats, towels around necks, and gloves. Might I remind you it is JUNE 27th? (or was, rather, when I wrote this 3 days ago…) But, we were, after all, trekking into the woods. We wouldn’t want to leave any part of our bodies unprotected. Too dangerous. Far too dangerous. Then, off we were. Into the wild blue yonder. Through rice fields and over bridges that I thought only capable of withstanding the breadth of a bicycle. I’m always amazed at the skill of some of these drivers. These buses seriously had about 1 inch between the rails and the tires on either side. Truly astounding. We stopped at the bottom of a dirt path, the end of which was hidden by a thick blanket of emerald undergrowth, and exited the air conditioning. From there on it was ji bun de, sanpo de, for all of us (well, except for our fearless leader, Kyoto sensei, who bravely suffered through the journey in his SUV.) So, up we went. Unfortunately “up” was not a direction I had derived from “forest day.” A better term for the excursion, I have decided, would be “mountain day.” Or, alternatively, “really high mountain day.” We trekked on and on—in our very supportive, good for the ankle…slickers. My feet stayed dry, that’s for sure. They were good to go. I can’t necessarily say the same for the joints connecting those feet to my legs… After what seemed about 45 minutes, our guide finally stopped. “Mizu! Mizu!” I heard students wheeze in all directions. “Sorry, we brought water last year, but not this year. Yeah, sorry about that,” I overheard a teacher explain. “Well, it’s a good thing we prepared for this adventure by wearing every piece of clothing we own!” I wanted to “explain” back. But I didn’t. So, dehydrated we stood. Through the long-winded explanation of the forest ranger. About how much we would learn on this adventure. What we were supposed to do. How it would help the environment. Yeah, whatever. We just wanted to chop things down. After the guy finally ran out of breath, we dispersed in all directions, ready to fell the bothersome scrub from the woods…and swing our blades in every which direction. I tried to stay with the 7th graders for the beginning, trusting the slightly shorter expanse of their arm swoops more than the rowdy 9th graders’. After a while, though, I got bored, and headed toward a more adventurous crowd. I ended up by two ninth graders, Hiroshi and Asami, and watched as they effortlessly cut through 1/2 inch-thick tree sprouts with their freshly sharpened blades. Seeing as my blade was a slightly older “borrowed” version, I had a little more trouble. I was hacking away at a particularly frustrating shrub when I heard Hiroshi complain about some “hari” on his plant. “Ha, I know that word,” I thought. Since it was an option for how my name would be translated, I had researched it before coming to Japan. “If it means ‘needle,’ then in this case, it must mean ‘thorn.’ “ Proud of myself, I went back to slashing. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I looked down at my bare hand. (Gloves were also something emitted from the “things to bring list”). Apparently, unbeknownst to me, the plant I had been futilely chopping at also possessed a considerable amount of “hari,” for, my right index and ring finger were covered with blood. Woops. “What should I do?!” thought I, not wanting to again draw attention to the fact that I had neglected to bring the gloves that “I was told to.” So, I turned to those students around me and beseeched them for tissues. None were to be found. “Well,” I thought, “I guess I’ll just wipe it on something.” I had managed to find ONE glove in my desk that morning, which was, at the time, guarding my left hand, so with that hand I grabbed my right and, slightly unsanitarily soaked up the sticky red liquid. Sometimes you just gotta make-do. (I did throw the glove out, by the way, when I got back…) After my unfortunate injury, we had only a few minutes to fell the remains of the forest (or whatever the heck we were supposed to be doing…I still haven’t figured it out), so I lingered hidden from other teachers eyes behind large trees, until the ranger “ikimashou”ed us out of the wild. Again I heard desperate gasps of “mizu” on our way back down, but I think we were so grateful to be heading back to air conditioning, that many of us forgot about how thirsty we were. On the downward journey, I ended up coming alongside a sweet 7th grader named Madoka. Every time she sees me in the hall, she always bats her eyelashes, gives a cute little wave, and in her most swoony voice, calls out, “Hiiii!” She never fails to bring a smile. But today was the first time I actually talked to her. We chatted away in Japanese about cookies and birthdays, the heat of summer and the craziness of boys…covering about every topic my limited Japanese would allow. The best part of it was: she was, in a way, apprehended. She had no classes to scurry off to, the lunch break chime wasn’t about to go off, and no teachers could really interrupt us to elicit some sort of homework from her. She was mine. For a full 20 minutes she was mine. I got back on the bus feeling quite full. After all, I had climbed a mountain fully-clad in the middle of summer without passing out, “worked” alongside my favorite kids, and had a delightful conversation—in Japanese with a beautifully-spirited 7th grader. I looked at the gashes on my hand, and my blood stained glove wrapped around the blade of my borrowed hatchet, rolled my eyes, and grinned. “Oh well,” I thought. “So, I forgot to bring my knife to school. I’ll remember next time.”

Just one question...does anybody ever read this? = )

I got an email from the French Riviera this morning. And then another one from the Amazon. My first thought (and Jeni's too when I told of my internet messages) was, "Man, it would be SO COOL to got to a foreign country!" I also find it cruelly ironic that both of my brothers now reside in countries with languages fairly close to the one that they a). speak b). each studied for four years. I don't know, do you think Japanese fits into the "Romantic/Latin-based" language category?

Just in case you were wondering, as of today my 5-person family is officially occupying 4 different continents. The breakdown: Me (if you haven't figured this one out yet...) My parents (again, not rocket science) Chris: Europe, specifically France Nathan: South America, specifically Brazil This makes for a very interesting world cup season. I told my parents that's what they get for taking us traveling when we were young. = )

Attack of the Killer Baby Ducks! It rained today. Ha. Big surprise. But, it didn't keep the kids from going out and breaking in the pool with their first swim of the season. The pool isn't heated; before they put in the chemicals, in fact, it's more like a pond. The ducks seem to think so, too. There they were. A cute little family of ducks in a row. Minding their own cute little business. Going on their cute little circles in the middle of the pool. Till the 9th graders broke the surface of the still waters. At first nobody bothered them (a difference, I noted to Tammy, from this situation set in an American context). They just swam a few laps and left them alone. Until the basketball team came up to watch. There's something about the presence of extra testosterone that sparks boys to do things... Ok, so they were still kind to the poor things...as they chased them around the pool...cheered on by two female teachers looking on. Those ducks swam like jet skis across the surface until they reached the edge. Mother popped out for fear of her life and babies tried to follow behind. But in vain. We realized while watching them struggle (and the boys cheering "gambare! gambare!") that they had probably followed their mom down the 1-foot jump into the pool, but were entirely unable to jump back out. The poor things were terrorized. They squealed and chirped, but to no avail. The mother was too scared to do anything. Then all of a sudden, as if they had counted to three in duck language, they all charged at Yuki. All together. A team of charging baby ducks. He swam for his life...through wave and rain to escape the killer ducks. Ok, so not really. But watching him splash away from the charge was pretty humorous. Eventually the battle for the occupation of the pool was given up by the humans. They got out, grateful to get out of the frigid waters.And the ducks won the day. They now have full possession of the pool. For how long? Nobody knows.

And then there's "just because" It’s been pointed out recently that I often write when I’m feeling rather "pit of dispairish", and therefore my posts are, on occasion, a smidge below cheerful. Today, however, I’m feeling pretty good. Besides the fact that I discovered a student had scribbled “baka” (stupid) over the “Holidays Around the World” board that I so painstakingly arranged, I’ve had a pretty good day. I saw the chalk “inscription” right in the middle of class, though, and rather than concentrating on my lesson, I kept trying to convince myself it had another meaning. (note: what else can “stupid” really mean when it’s directly written on something…?) Eventually I failed and resigned myself to my fate. Maybe next month I’ll do something on the world cup, not on boring ol’ holidays. Sheesh. But anyway, as I was saying, it’s been a GOOD day. The rainy season gave us a “yasumi” today and the sun peaked out in the afternoon, bringing with it some much pined-for heat. Let’s just say even I don’t normally wear sweaters halfway through June. But alas, the weather here has demanded it, lest I freeze my tootsies off. I guess I’m starting to realize that I really do feel some connection here. The relationships and bonds come so gradually sometimes that if you were to track them, it would be something like watching your hair grow. Not much progress from day-to-day, but one day you look in the mirror, and compare it to former days, you realize somewhere in the last 9 months, a lot has changed. Kawaai sensei remarked just yesterday on how long my hair’s getting (at least I think that’s what she said because she kinda pulled on it and said something in Japanese…). Unfortunately there’s nobody to randomly remark, “Wow, Holly, you’re really growing in relationships with your teachers and students.” Gee, wouldn’t that be nice? If it were actually tangible? But I have other indicators. Such as: Ryo (1 nen sei), with wide, eager eyes, as I was passing out stickers, yelling, “Sensei!! * Me mou** three!” as he held out both of his hands. *Teacher! **too Finding on my camera, after lending it to the basketball and table tennis teams to take some shots of the last 9th grade practice, random shots that were, hmmm, slightly different than what I'd asked for...but a lot of fun. More on that later (perhaps an example...) Kasumi yelling "L - O - V - E" whenever I see her after school. = ) Hiroyaki working with me and joking around to help get Ryo (3 nen sei) to participate in class (Hiroaki was so shy when I first got here that he wouldn't even look at me.) Ryo participating in class. I think he's actually starting to trust me. Teachers who are very embarassed about their English pulling it out for the sake of fun conversation. However...one that didn't say a lot about how well we know each other: 2 of the teachers with whom I've worked for the last 9 months being shocked out of their pants that my real name is not actually pronounced "Hoh-ree". At least I got a kick out of their reactions!

Feasting on Foreign Fare What does the term “foreign” really mean? Does it mean you weren’t born in the country in which you now reside? Does it mean something or someone that seems strange to you? Does it mean something with which you are not familiar, but you are willing to associate with, immerse yourself in, bring into your group anyway (or entirely exclude)? What does it mean to be labeled a “foreigner” (or in my case, “gaijin”?) Does it mean you come from a different country? If that’s the case, do you ever cease to be a foreigner? What if you were born in a country, but your parents are from a different country; does that still make you a foreigner?…such as being born in Japan to Caucasian parents…and possessing a full head of bleach blonde hair. Would you ever be considered Japanese? I feel for those living in a country not their own – especially when choice played little or no part in their current circumstances. To be a refugee, to long for home and yet not be able to return, to not fit in anywhere. Aaa, the heartache some people must experience. I’ve heard it said that once one lives in a country other than “his own” for more than one year, he will never feel truly “at home” again. Truly this world is not our permanent dwelling place, anyway. I guess sometimes we’re more aware of it than others. That brings me to my topic of this week, albeit slightly less philosophical than my intro: Foreign Food. As I look back on the last nine months of my life, I realize I have dined on many things I never thought possible while maintaining a relatively peaceful smile (what was going on in my head – such as frantic prayer – is another thing). Just a few are: octopus (raw and cooked), squid (raw and cooked), fish eggs, many varieties of raw fish, whole fish – including eyeballs and brains, raw egg…and those are just the “normal” things! This past Saturday though (as in May 27th), I had the opportunity to learn to cook some of this “foreign” food with some women in my new adult English conversation class. Some of the ingredients that were used: miso (a paste made from fermented soybeans), salmon and pumpkin…together, tofu, seaweed, pickled plums, “mountain vegetables” (I still don’t know what these actually were), humungous radishes, and, of course, rice. I guess I reflect on it now because the funny thing is, well, it didn’t seem all that “foreign” to me anymore. Did I like all of it? No. But, everything we made seemed normal. A snack food here, a popular lunch over there, and the treat that everyone loves to munch on sitting in front of me. We made onigiri (rice balls filled with pickled plums or other tasty treats and wrapped in seaweed), tempura (fried vegetables…mmmm….), miso soup (yeah, this was no more appealing this week than in ever was to me….), fried tofu with miso paste baked in, Japanese potato salad (which totally leaves the American stuff in the dust), and other tasty treats. It was a lot of fun to cook alongside my “students” (they’re all older than me, so it’s weird to call them “students.”), and let me tell you, those women are deft with a knife. Sheesh, they were like the Swedish chef from the Muppets! (though what they were chopping actually landed in the correct bowl). What I find interesting is that I actually enjoyed most of the cuisine that entered my mouth. I can’t say salmon and pumpkin will ever reach my list of favorite foods, but I’m actually starting to not mind seaweed wrapped around rice balls filled with pickled plums. What has become of me?! So, that leads me to the other “foreign food”…the American stuff. Colored eggs to be exact. On Sunday the ALTs and members of the church put together an Easter program for people in the community. Hours of arduous labor and prayers from all corners of the world came together in God blessing us with a huge success. We sang several Easterish songs (parts of which were translated to Japanese in the program bulletin), performed a play (The Ragman – narration in Japanese), gave testimonies about what Easter means to us, and had an egg dying extravaganza at the end. Everything went well, and believe it or not, none of the dye-filled paper cups were even slightly spilled. Some of the creations, too, were ingenious. Among my favorites were two eggs painted and crayoned to look like Japanese cartoon characters. That’s definitely a first in my egg-dying career. So, anyway, Monday I decided a good food to bring for my lunch would be…you guessed it…boiled eggs. Colored boiled eggs. Apparently a very “foreign” food in the eyes of Japanese people. I showed them to my 2 nen sei class (8th grade) – they ooed an aaahed, then I showed them to my 1 nen sei class – they were a bit frightened, slightly curious, but the best reaction was from my 3 nen sei class. They were all gathered in the kitchen, making yet another “foreign food” (hot cakes with carrots, sweet potatoes, and other various ingredients I thought somewhat peculiar) when I came in with my show and tell. Most of the kids looked at me strangely and leaked out a noise something like “EH?!” Hiroaki was a little different. When I came to his station, he didn’t make a noise. He just stared at the egg. And made a face I only wish I had a camera for – a video camera. His eyes looked like they were going to bulge out of his head, then his mouth contorted into a sort of shocked-looking line – slightly open, slightly frowned, slightly stifling a gag – and then the expression morphed…and morphed…and morphed…for thirty seconds his face declared, in various, ever-changing forms, “Did THAT come out of a CHICKEN?!!!” I just kept holding my turquoise, sticker-clad egg, relishing the reactions to what I’ve always thought a normal holiday food. Apparently not. Apparently “foreign” is in the eye - and mouth – of the beholder.

On a lighter note, there's the not-quite-so melancholy side of our stay here... From yesterday's run: As we were turning a corner, we saw a man drive by, blasting some sort of speech from a loud speaker attached to the top of his vehicle. "What was that all about? I thought elections were over." I remarked. Perfectly serious and entirely matter of fact, Jeni answered me, "Well, I heard something about the peace of the world..."